Suzette took the blanket from her mouth again. “Helena. How come you so mad at me?”
I whirled in alarm. “What?”
“You don’t never talk to me or play with me anymore. Is it ‘cuz I went on the hunt and made Papa die?”
I coaxed Crimson to sidestep to the wagon, standing beside them as Mama gasped and drew Suzette close. I took her little hand. “Suzette, no. I could never be mad at you.”
She stared out at nothing, her lip quivering. “But I made Papa die. Actually.”
Mama squeezed her tighter. “No, you didn’t, dear. You did nothing wrong.”
I glanced over my shoulder, conscious again of the dark forest, then looked back in my sister’s sorrowful eyes. “Suzette, Papa died because – something bad out there attacked him.”
Suzette nodded, sucking on her blanket. “The wolf. Like the one that scratched you.”
I forced down the rage rising inside me. I didn’t want to frighten either of them any further. Either with the horror of those monsters, or with my plans to hunt them down and tear them limb from limb. “It’s not a wolf,” I seethed.
Father Vestille still waited outside, watching us with concern. “Turn,” I said, tugging the reins slightly to pull Crimson about. “I’ll see you later tonight. Make sure he sees you home safe.”
I rode back into the forest to search for game. For signs of the wolves. I had to know what they were, where they had come from and how they could be stopped. Before another innocent was killed. Before another father was taken.
As usual, I found nothing. A few times before, I had found a wolf’s paw prints – clearly larger than the normal size. But rain showers had always washed away the evidence before I could follow it or show the prints to anyone else, had I ever wished to do so. At first, Mama urged me to take someone with me on my hunts, even if it was only Pierre. But I insisted that Crimson gave me all the protection I needed. Eventually she stopped pressing me about it.
I didn’t want anyone else with me. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.
Not one more person.
5.
I entered L’atelier de Forgeron de Leóne – Monsieur Leóne’s blacksmith shop – carrying a string of dead birds and a rabbit. After seeing Mama and Suzette off to Father Vestille’s and searching for the wolves, I had gotten lucky with a quick hunt. Luckier than I had been with finding any sign of the wolves. “Hello, Pierre.”
Pierre grinned from beneath his mess of blond hair. “Afternoon, Red. Need that crossbow oiled?”
“Just some new bolts.”
He held out his hand for my weapon. “I’ll oil it for you, anyway. No charge. How many bolts?”
“Two dozen.”
His eyebrows rose. “I’m not sure I have that many.”
I shrugged. “As many as you have, then. I need to prepare myself better. The more bolts I have on hand, the fewer trips I need to make to your shop.”
His face fell. He moved to the rear shelf quietly. “You can come as often as you want. What do you need to be so prepared for?”
I said nothing.
He turned back, concerned. “You still hunting for those wolves? You need to be careful, Red.”
“I am. I haven’t found anything, anyway. It’s like they’re holding back for a while, waiting for things to settle down before they strike again.”
Pierre laughed. “You think they’re planning everything out like soldiers?” He frowned when he saw my expression.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “But if I’m going to kill those things, I need to start thinking like them.”
He knit his brows together. “Just watch yourself. You were lucky to survive the way you did, both times. You might be able to think like a wolf, but you can’t fight like one. They’ve got teeth and claws, and you’ve got a crossbow that loads one bolt at a time.”
I swallowed, having considered the same thing. “That’s why I have to be better prepared.”
He sighed, sounding annoyed. He turned to dig through the raised bin and produced a pile of iron crossbow bolts. “I might have some things to help you with that. A couple projects I’ve been working on. I’ll show you later. These are all the bolts I have ready. Eighteen. I can make the rest for you, if you want to collect them tomorrow.”
“Can you have them today?”
“It’ll take a couple of hours.”
I gathered the bolts from his palm. “All right. This will do for now. I’ll be back for the rest later. Will you take these for them?” I held up the fat rabbit and the three fowl I had shot. A small turkey, a pigeon and a hawk.
Pierre took the string of carcasses and whistled. “This is incredible, Red. How did you manage to bag a hawk?”
“I caught a field mouse in the forest with my cloak, then set it loose in an open field. The hawk came after it, right into my view.”
“Still. Impressive shot,” Pierre said.
I tugged at my burlap cloak, missing the scarlet one I wore as a child. The one that Papa always said would draw too much attention.
“What’s all this?” Monsieur Leóne entered and stepped up to the counter from behind Pierre. “Afternoon, Helena.”
“Monsieur Leóne.”
“Red shot three birds this morning, one of them a hawk,” Pierre boasted.
Monsieur Leóne took the string from his son and admired them. “Look at that. Well done, Helena. Ought to make for some fine dinner. What do you want for them?”
“As many bolts as you can spare.”
“We’ve eighteen now, I believe. Will you take that?”
“She needs more,” Pierre said. “I told her I could make another six today, if that’s all right.”
Monsieur Leóne nodded decisively. “Done. Anything we can do for this mighty hunter. How are your mother and sister doing?”
“They’re well,” I said. In truth, I had no idea. Escorting them through the woods to Father Vestille’s hovel today was the longest I had seen them in weeks. I rose early every morning to hunt, brought food to Mama at the break of dawn, then mended fences and washed clothes and groomed the horses or whatever else I found to do until nightfall. My family was provided for, so they were well, as far as I knew. I didn’t want to know anything more. I didn’t want to be drawn into further conversations about Papa or Father Vestille or the wolves.
Monsieur Leóne held the string of kills higher, beaming at them again. “Let us know if you need anything else. Though if you can keep bringing in spoils such as these, you should want for nothing.”
“She’s hoping to bag a wolf next,” Pierre said.
Monsieur Leóne paled. “… What do you mean by that?”
Pierre and I stiffened.
Monsieur Leóne’s expression hardened. “You’re hunting wolves?” he demanded. “Like the one that attacked your father?”
I stared up at him, unable to speak as his eyes cut into me.
“Stay away from them, do you understand? Just stay away. Isn’t it enough they killed your Grand’Mere and Francois and your father? You want them to kill you, too?”
The room turned cold and hollow.
He glanced away, his face reddening. The veneer of gentility finally returned to his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be harsh. Your father was a good man. And a good friend. I don’t want to see anything happen to you. Just keep away from those things. Care for your mother and your sister and keep them safe. That’s the best way to honor your father.”
Pierre and I held our place, saying nothing. Monsieur Leóne raised the string of dead animals again. “I’ll set to cleaning these. Pierre can make record of the transaction, to finish up later when the other bolts are ready. You take care, Helena. Take care.”
He retreated through the rear door into their house. Pierre and I stared at one another.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know. He doesn’t like talking about the wolves. Any time we mention them at dinner, he s
ays it’s not our business. He figures we should focus on our chores for home and the shop, instead of bothering with things out there that don’t affect us. He says it’s foolish to go looking for trouble because it only brings trouble to our doorstep.” He gave me a sheepish glance. “Sorry, Red.”
I twisted my lip, ignoring it. “I’ve been called worse things than ‘foolish’.”
“I could help you on one of your hunts some morning. Just let me know where you’ll be and I’ll find you.”
I gave a weak smile. “I never know where I’ll be next. I find different parts of the forest to start in, to vary my routine.”
“Well, where do you expect to start tomorrow?”
I had an idea, but I didn’t want to tell him. I knew he would meet me if I let him. “Pierre, you’re a good friend. And a nice boy. Why would you want to hunt with me when there are plenty of pretty girls in the village to spend your day with?”
He shrugged. “No girl’s prettier than you.”
I pressed my lips tight, holding in my anger. “I know full well that I’m ugly. You don’t need to pretend.”
He squinted at me and smiled as if I had told a joke. “You’re beautiful, Red.”
He seemed so sure, so intense, he almost made me believe it. “Look at my face, Pierre. I’m scarred.”
He shook his head, still grinning, and turned to the metal figurines on his own small shelf, above the rows of pots and iron tools. “See this statue?” He brought down a silver statuette of a woman holding a bow and arrow. “This is Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. It’s my favorite, of all the ones I’ve made. Her head is dented in a little. I couldn’t form it quite right. But it’s unique, nothing like the others I’ve made. It stands out.”
He handed it to me. I turned it over, admiring the delicate curves of the face and body, the sweep of the tunic’s folds, the sharp points of the arrow and the shafts inside the quiver. I also noted the marred feature that Pierre had mentioned – an obvious dent on the left side of the head. The one imperfection that made it clear this was a statuette and not a human person made of silver. It marked Pierre as an amateur, while the rest of the figure could have been sculpted by Michelangelo.
Yet the obvious flaw only drew attention to the immaculate beauty of the rest of the piece, and made any criticism of the flaw seem petty and foolish. In a sense, the imperfection made its sculptor seem more human. Made even the invincible goddess Diana appear more human, more fallible. More like one of us. And yes, more attractive.
“See, some scars make us more beautiful.”
He stood before me and reached for my face, his fingers poised to brush my ravaged cheek. I seized his wrist in a panic. He held it there, waiting for me to let him continue.
My anger cooled, and I released him. His calloused fingers traced each of my scars, as gently as if he were stroking my hair. From the top of my forehead, then over the one that crossed my nose, and finally the lower one that stretched across my left cheek to below my lower lip. I trembled, enjoying his touch but feeling awkward. I didn’t know whether I feared he would touch me more or that he would suddenly withdraw his hand in revulsion.
He held my gaze. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”
I gathered in my breath. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to stay in this moment, enjoying his warm touch forever. Wanted to become the girl Mama had hoped I could be, before Papa died. Before the wolves stole everything. “You’re a good friend, Pierre. You always have been.” I set the figurine back on his shelf, gathered my belongings and moved to the door. “But you deserve far better than me. I’ll return later for the other bolts.”
“… I’ll have them ready,” he said.
I didn’t look back but I had seen his pained reflection against one of the metal pans hanging by the door. I hung my head as I stepped outside onto the front stoop. I hated to hurt him. But I knew we could never be together. He would have outgrown his interest in me once he realized how attractive he would be to other girls in the village.
Still, I had felt my cheek, where Pierre had touched me – touched my scars – and I couldn’t help smiling.
6.
Not everyone in La Rue Sauvage had agreed with Pierre. Especially after I became a sort of pariah.
That same day that Pierre tried to convince me I was beautiful, I had been accosted by a local bully, Jacque Denue, and finally beaten him into the ground. I knew from that moment that I would never have to back down to anyone again.
But I had no time to relish that victory. I had driven Crimson back to my parents’ cottage, only to discover the wolves had destroyed it, along with our dog and our sheep farm.
They had also ripped Mama and Suzette apart.
The wolves had taken everything.
Pierre had let me rest in their upper loft, where I discovered his first mother’s red hooded cloak. It looked exactly like the one I had worn as a child, but fitted for an adult. I had worn it to Mama and Suzette’s funeral that afternoon, where I stormed out of the chapel with a plan to hunt down the wolves, using the tools Pierre had constructed for me. My repeating crossbow armed with ten silver-tipped bolts, the retractable grappling hook and rope, and the blades that shot out of the top pockets of my gloves with a flick of my wrists. Wearing trousers that allowed me to better move and fight, I soon began my own war against the wolves, after deducing that traces of silver would kill them within seconds. The wolves soon feared me and the red cloak that signaled my approach, dubbing me “The Red Rider”.
Two months later, I had caused significant damage to the Lycanthru, for which some villagers had come to admire me.
But only some.
“Did you hear about Helena Basque?” a meek young man had asked on the street below.
I had turned to peer down from the rooftop edge at the two men on the street corner directly beneath me. I had not recognized them from that angle, but I recognized the two young girls they spoke with. The raven-haired Celia Verdante and her redheaded friend, Marie Beauchamp. The four of them had huddled together to ward off the late night chill, and to keep from being overheard by others standing outside La Maison.
From my secret perch, I merely shrugged off the cold. I had spent many nights spying from rooftops like this one over the last two months. The frigid air no longer bothered me
“I’ve heard of her,” Celia Verdante said with a charming lilt. “But I haven’t had the misfortune of seeing her for quite some time.”
Her friend and the other man laughed. His was hearty and rough. If only Mama were alive to hear the superficial girl that she had asked me to befriend.
The meek-sounding man turned his head to each of them, but did not laugh. “Yes, that’s most unfortunate, what happened to her. And to lose her entire family afterward. But have you heard, they say she’s the one killing all those wolves for the last two months. She’s the Red Rider!”
Celia grunted with disgust. “I suppose if I were that scarred and hideous, I might also wish to hide myself under a hood and sleep in the forest. Or I might become so desperate to attract a man that I would shamefully expose my legs to everyone. But I would hope not.”
“Perhaps some wild animal will find her attractive,” Marie chimed in beside her. “Since no man ever will.”
They laughed again. All but the first man. “I think you’re being too harsh,” he said. “That girl has suffered a great deal. All due to those wolf attacks. If she can now stop them, I’ll be glad to have our town that much safer, won’t you?”
“Safer?” Celia challenged with a mocking tone. “With a wild, vicious girl galloping around town, firing that weapon of hers in every direction? We might as well all shoot cannons at each other.”
“I close my shutters every time I hear her passing by,” Marie said.
The man lifted his palms. “How do you know it’s her?”
She laughed. “It’s not hard, with everyone shouting, ‘It’s the Red Rider!’ in the streets.”
“A
long with the screams of whatever poor creature she’s just killed,” Celia added.
“Screams?” The man sounded aghast. “Those ‘poor creatures’ have been devouring children in the village for years, from what I hear.”
“Not the wolves,” Celia corrected. “I’m talking about people.”
“You think she’s killed someone?”
“Several people, from what I hear,” Marie said. “Haven’t we noticed some men turn up missing from the village, since she went mad?”
“I don’t believe she’s mad,” the man defended.
“Then you haven’t seen how she dresses,” Celia joked.
“And I don’t see what those disappearances have to do with her,” he went on. “If she’s killed them, as you say, where are their bodies? Do you imagine she’s dragged them off somewhere by herself?”
Thankfully, I had discovered that when the Lycanthru die, they remain in whatever form they had taken at that time. When I killed them, they died as wolves.
“There’s no reason to assume she killed any of those men,” the man continued. “But large dead wolves have been found every week for the past two months. Several people now admit they were rescued from them by the Red Rider. Now that those wolves are dying off, they feel free to speak up. And the other day, someone recalled how Helena Basque had worn that red cloak at her sister’s funeral, before she disappeared.”
“And good riddance,” Celia said. “If that bizarre girl moved into the village, I think it would be safer for us all to sleep in the forest.”
The others laughed again.
“How can you say that? Haven’t you heard a word I said?”
The dark-haired man put a hand on the first man’s shoulder. His voice was deep and smooth. “I must admit, I believe the ladies are correct.”
I recognized his voice and my blood ran cold. It was Jean Paul Brocard, the mustached Lycanthru who had approached me the night after I first fought the wolves at Favreau’s farm. He had sauntered up to me at La Maison, making veiled threats while pretending to be friendly and helpful.
Red Rider Redemption (The Red Rider Saga Book 3) Page 4