by Radclyffe
Rebeca didn’t respond.
“How long since she was bitten?”
“Three years. I’ve known her a year. She’s been able to shift until the last few months, when the magistrate expanded the hunts.”
“Can she shift without the moon?”
Rebeca stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“A shift can be controlled, and without the use of potions.” She waved her hand to stop another question. “You and I will talk, later. Was there another rogue in the vicinity that brought the hunts on?”
“One that I know of. I brought it down, but it didn’t stop the panic.”
Morgayne corked the bottle and set it aside. “It never does.” She stared at the bottle for a moment. “One rogue ruins the whole lot.” She looked over at Rebeca. “I’m grateful that you were here that day.”
Rebeca remembered Morgayne’s open front door hanging crazily on a hinge the year before, and the smell of blood. She’d had an arrow loaded and ready as she bolted across the clearing toward the house. The beast heard her and threw itself outside, snapping and growling, muzzle speckled red. She’d shot it without compunction, and when the silver-tipped arrow buried itself in the beast’s chest, the rogue screamed and collapsed, smoke trailing from the wound. Black and acrid, like the pyres in the town square. She hadn’t known the man the beast had been. She didn’t recognize him, lying naked and bloody outside her grandmother’s house. He was the last beast she’d killed.
“She needs to shift.”
Rebeca looked at her.
“It will help with healing, and expel Griselda’s mixture.”
“I’m not sure she can.”
Morgayne frowned.
“She’s too weak. It might kill her if she doesn’t have the strength to complete it.” A cold fear dug into her heart.
“I’ll make her something. Watch her. If she starts, we’ll need to get her outside.”
“I brought you more herbs. In the saddlebags. And the other things you like.”
“Such a dutiful granddaughter,” Morgayne said, not unkindly. “Perhaps you’ll be visiting more often.”
Rebeca said nothing and retreated to the room behind the kitchen, where she sat on a chair next to the bed, waiting. Morgayne brought a cup to her some time later and Rebeca coaxed Isadora to drink it. She handed the cup back to Morgayne and remained in the chair.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but something jerked her awake and she stared, disoriented, around the darkened room. She heard Isadora mumble something in her sleep, and beyond that, a tapping from the other room. She sat still, listening, and heard Morgayne open the shutter for a rustle of wings. She smelled a burst of magic.
From the bed, Isadora stirred.
“Red,” she whispered.
Rebeca left her seat and leaned over her. Isadora gripped her arms.
“Get out,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Rebeca slid her arm around Isadora’s shoulders and sat her up. She had just managed to stand Isadora by the bed when Morgayne appeared in the doorway, a raven perched on her forearm, light from the other room spilling around her.
“Someone approaches.”
“Who?”
“Three men on horses. Armed. With dogs.”
“Hunters?”
“Most likely.” She looked at Isadora and her brow furrowed. “We have to get her outside. Now.”
“How close are the hunters?” Rebeca used her free hand to grab a blanket off the bed.
“A mile. As the raven flies. That gives us a bit more time. They’ll be using the path. How long does it take her to shift?”
“A few minutes, when she’s healthy.”
“Red, please,” Isadora said through clenched teeth.
“Out back.” Morgayne moved aside as Rebeca passed her, supporting Isadora with one arm and holding the blanket with the other. Morgayne followed them through the house and opened the back door, grunting a little at its weight.
Rebeca hauled Isadora outside into the night, past the stable, into the forest. Isadora’s breath came in short, sharp gasps that left puffs in the chill air, and Rebeca felt the muscles in Isadora’s arm twitch. She lowered her to the ground, spread the blanket out over a patch of reasonably clear ground, and pulled Isadora onto it. Her sides heaved with painful exhalations, and in the waxing light of moonrise, Rebeca saw her muscles ripple and stretch, heard the muffled cracking of Isadora’s bones. She tore the nightshirt off Isadora’s body, leaving her naked and exposed to the moon.
“I…can’t…” Isadora said, voice low and guttural.
“You can.”
“Leave.”
“No.” Rebeca placed her hand on Isadora’s back, willed her to find the strength to complete the shift. She stared as her fingers glowed red, as if they burned from the inside, and the smell of wet stone and earth surrounded them.
And then there was fur, thick and warm beneath her hand, but only for a moment as the beast that had been Isadora rose on her four legs, wolflike, but bigger than any wolf, moonlight glancing off the ebony of her coat. Isadora turned toward Rebeca, lips raised in a snarl, a low growl in her chest.
Rebeca remained on her knees and kept her eyes on the blanket, waiting for the two parts of Isadora to merge in the wake of transition.
Isadora growled again, then stopped and moved closer, sniffing. Rebeca exhaled with relief as Isadora nuzzled her face and licked her cheek.
“Go, my love,” Rebeca said. “Hunt.”
Isadora whined softly.
“Morgayne will take care of me. Go.”
Isadora nuzzled her once more, then slipped into the forest, leaving only the smell of musk and cloves behind.
Rebeca gathered the torn nightshirt and blanket and returned to the house. She shoved them into the woodbin near the back door, noting that the stable was gone and the house was but a cottage again. She entered and pushed the door closed and barred it. When she turned, a much older Morgayne waited for her. The raven was gone.
“How long have you been using your magic?” She appeared pleased.
“First time for—whatever that was.”
“Perhaps you should stay a while, rather than simply visit once a year.” She turned away and Rebeca heard a man’s voice outside, shouting a greeting. Morgayne turned back and took Rebeca’s face in her hands. Heat shot through Rebeca’s skull followed by a million pinpricks that faded as quickly as they had come. Morgayne released her, left for a few moments, and returned with a hand mirror. She held it up.
“Come, William. Someone hails us.”
Rebeca stared. A young man stared back. Her features, made masculine. Her hand flew automatically to her chest.
“You’re intact. But our visitors see what you do in the mirror. Come.”
Rebeca followed her to the front door. She heard male voices beyond. Morgayne pulled the door open.
“Here, what’s the fuss?” she asked. “Who goes there, bothering an old woman in her home?” she said in the reedy, tremulous voice of age.
“Apologies,” said a man Rebeca knew. She swallowed a growl of her own when she saw Robert outside with two others she recognized from hunts past, all wearing thick, dark cloaks and carrying crossbows. Their horses stamped behind them, and one man to Robert’s right held two leashes with straining hounds. The other man held a torch, as did Robert.
“Have you perhaps seen or heard any large wolves in the area?” Robert asked.
Morgayne moved aside so Rebeca could join her in the doorway.
“Haven’t seen a wolf in months,” Rebeca said, and her voice was the tenor of a man’s. “Or the likes of you, for that matter. What village is home?”
“You’re a feisty one,” Robert said with a laugh.
“And you’re a hunting party out after dark, trespassing. Are there bounties on these wolves?”
His eyes narrowed in the torch’s light, and the man who held the dogs looked first at Rebeca, then
at Robert.
“No need to concern yourself with that,” Robert said, danger in his tone.
“Seems it is my concern, should you kill one on my grandmother’s land.” She felt Morgayne’s hand on her arm, gripping hard.
“Now, lad, no need to get saucy,” said the man to Robert’s left.
“My grandson is protective.” Morgayne tsked. “We had some trouble with another hunting party a few weeks back. Not from a village we know.”
Robert shrugged. “No need to worry on our account. We’ll make camp elsewhere.” He turned away just as a long howl floated over the trees.
Morgayne’s hand dug harder into Rebeca’s arm.
“No wolves, eh?” Robert laughed. “The bounty’s ours, lad. Unless you beat us to it.” He jogged to his horse and mounted in one swift motion as his comrade released the dogs. They ran, baying, into the forest, and the men on horseback followed.
“That sounded like Isadora,” Rebeca said, voice as tight as her chest.
“They must be stopped.”
“I know.” Rebeca retrieved her crossbow and cloak. “I’m going after them. If Isadora smells me, she’ll smell them, too, and know to stay away.” She didn’t wait for Morgayne to respond and instead slipped into the forest, following the sounds of the horses and dogs.
And then there were beasts. Three? Four? They moved parallel with her, slicing through the moon-dappled darkness like knives, the only evidence of their presence the tang of magic.
The torches bounced like will-o-the-wisps ahead, and one man shouted in triumph. Rebeca was running now, moving nearly as silently as the beasts, and a howl sounded, haunting and eerie, just ahead.
Isadora.
The beasts ran past her, and the hoots of triumph became screams of fear. She heard the wet crunch of bone and the gurgle of blood before she came to the scene, two men already dead, Robert backed against a tree, shooting bolts as fast as he could load. The dogs ran yipping past her, away from the carnage, and she saw a flash of ebony in the light of a dying torch.
Isadora.
Robert raised his bow, took aim. Rebeca launched herself off the body of a fallen horse, threw herself between him and Isadora. The bolt caught her in the side, but the pain didn’t start until she slammed to the ground and then that was all she knew. That and the dying scream of the man who had shot her and the anguished howl of a beast.
*
Rebeca opened her eyes and stared at the moon. She tasted blood, and knew what that meant. Isadora whimpered beside her. “Are you hurt?” Rebeca asked. It hurt to talk.
Isadora whined and licked her face.
“She’s not. But you are.” Morgayne kneeled beside her, and a ball of pale blue light floated above her palm. “There isn’t time enough to get you back home,” she said. “The wound is too severe.” She used the ball of light to further examine her. “Any movement will make this worse.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebeca said to Isadora. “But you’re safe now.”
Isadora whined again and nuzzled her face.
“She drew them away from the house,” Morgayne said. “It gave me time to bring in some reinforcements.”
Rebeca smelled the beasts, but she didn’t try to see them. “Look after her, Gran.” She coughed and tasted more blood. Pain filled her belly.
Morgayne laughed softly. “No, my dear, that will still be your task.”
And then Rebeca heard the crack of bones and smelled musk and wild roses. “Gran,” she said in the light of the moon, stunned. “Your teeth.”
“The better to bite you, my dear,” came Morgayne’s voice, low and guttural. And her fangs closed on Rebecca’s neck, gentle, until they broke the skin and Rebeca felt a searing heat and then a sensation as if she were floating, watching her pain recede and the bolt emerge from her body, as if it was pushed from inside. She relaxed, exhausted.
“Rest,” Morgayne said in her normal voice. “We’ll talk in a bit, after you’re healed.”
Rebeca’s eyes closed again and Isadora licked her face, and as she drifted to sleep, she knew the price she had paid for Morgayne’s help.
It was worth it.
Rob Rosen (therobrosen.com), award-winning author of the novels Sparkle: The Queerest Book You’ll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, Southern Fried, Queerwolf, and Vamp, and editor of the anthologies Lust in Time and Men of the Manor, has had short stories featured in more than 180 anthologies.
This story is based on “Jack and the Beanstalk.”
The Beanstalk Revisited
Rob Rosen
Jake awoke with a start at the sound of pounding on his bedroom door. “Time to get up!” his father shouted, repeatedly, until Jake flung his long legs out of bed and lumbered over to the door.
“It’s Saturday, Dad. I don’t have to get up early today,” Jake grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he slowly opened the door.
“Yes, but I do, and today is your mother’s birthday.”
“Step-mother,” Jake corrected, as he always did.
“Semantics,” his dad replied. “In any case, I’m sure you’ve conveniently forgotten to get her anything, so here’s fifty dollars. Go buy her something nice.”
His dad handed him the bills and was off in a flash. Jake could think of a million other things he’d rather do than go shopping for a present for his stepmother, especially on a weekend, but he knew he had little say in the matter.
When his real mother was still alive, birthdays were more fun than Christmas. Now very little excited Jake, especially anything that had to do with the woman his father married. Still, he did have fifty dollars, and that could buy a whole lot of things besides just a gift for his evil old stepmonster.
So Jake showered, dressed, and drove his beat-up Honda down the street to the local pawnshop. Mr. Harrington kept a rare collection of comic books that Jake couldn’t normally afford. But normally he didn’t have a wad of cash burning a hole through his jeans. And though Jake never did care for Mr. Harrington, he certainly liked his comic books well enough. He eyed them hungrily as soon as he entered the store.
“No reading in here, young man. You want it, you buy it,” Mr. Harrington quickly admonished.
“No sweat,” Jake replied, and flashed him the money. Mr. Harrington eyed him suspiciously, but stepped a few feet back to let Jake explore the collection. Mr. Harrington liked cash more than he hated teenagers; it was merely a question of priorities.
Fifteen minutes later, Jake was at the counter with several hard-to-find issues. Each cost ten dollars. That was five comics: a boon for any broke nineteen-year-old. But just before Jake paid for them, he remembered his stepmonster. She’d never believe the comics were for her, and, more importantly, neither would his father. So, with much thought, he dwindled the stack down to four and asked Mr. Harrington what he could buy with ten dollars for his stepmother’s birthday.
Mr. Harrington reverently looked around the place and replied, “Son, you’re lucky to get those comics for that price. You know, ten dollars doesn’t go very far these days.” Jake looked around the store as well, but all he saw was a bunch of junk. Who’d want this stuff, he thought, let alone pay ten dollars for any of it? But just before he started to return another comic to the rack, Mr. Harrington pulled out an item from beneath the counter.
It was dusty. It was banged up. It was on the small side. And it had a funny-looking angel-like thing along the side. More important, however, was that it was marked for exactly ten dollars.
“Bingo.” Jake exhaled with relief. “What is it?”
“What is it?” Mr. Harrington said in mock surprise. “This, young man, is a harp. And a very unique harp at that.”
“Then why’s it marked for only ten dollars?” Jake asked, already leery.
“Because it can only be sold to a very special young man, someone like yourself, I believe, someone who can truly make it sing.”
“Sing? You mean play, right?”
“No, for just the right p
erson, this harp will sing,” was the reply. “Do you know the story of Jack and the beanstalk?”
“The fairy tale? Sure, I know it. My mom used to tell it to me when she was, um…still alive.” Jake looked down at his sneakers. He hated talking about his mother like she wasn’t there anymore.
Mr. Harrington nodded. “Yes, the fairy tale. Though, like many fairy tales, this one is rooted in truth. Because this, my boy, is the actual golden harp that Jack stole from the giant. And it will sing, but like I said, only for a special young man like yourself. Or, well, a giant, but they’re significantly harder to come by these days.”
“Oh come on now,” Jake said. “You’re pulling my leg. It’s just an old brass harp. Fairy tales are fairy tales, nothing more.”
“No sirree. Lots of those stories are based in some way or another on real people and events. Take, for instance, Dracula. You know Dracula, right? Well, he’s based on a real live person: Vladimir the Impaler. Ever heard of him?”
“Sure, I suppose so,” Jake said, thinking that Mr. Harrington was even crazier than he first thought. “Still, Dracula isn’t a giant beanstalk or a singing harp.”
“Okay, how about Cinderella, then? And her evil stepmother?”
Ah, now Jake did indeed see something concrete in that example. He knew they existed. “Fine,” he allowed. “I’ll give you fifty for these comics and that banged-up harp.”
“You got a deal, my boy. But I’d be careful with that harp if I was you. No telling what’ll happen if it ever starts singing again.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just wrap it up so I can get home before my dad does.”
A few minutes later, Jake was back in his car and heading home. “Crazy old man,” he said with a laugh as he raced down the street. Still, far in the back of his mind he couldn’t help but think about the story of Jack. You never do hear what happens to that harp of his, he thought. The goose that laid the golden eggs is surely dead by now, but what about the golden harp? This one here looks old enough, doesn’t it? “Oh man, Jake, now you’re as crazy as that old coot,” he said to himself as he pulled up to his house a short while later.