Quench the Day (Red Wolf Trilogy Book 1)

by Shari Branning

  “The Shonno-mara. They hold most of our sacred texts, and they know much more about curses than we do.”

  Rowan’s ears plastered themselves back again in response to her fear. She shook her head and gave him the best scowl she could contrive.

  “It may be the only way to find out,” he said.

  NO, she wrote in the mushy snow.

  He shrugged. “I know it would be dangerous. But if it means we could have a future together someday…”

  She erased the word ‘no’ with a vehement swipe and wrote it bigger. NO! NO NO NO.

  He looked taken aback. “But why? You want to be human again, don’t you?”

  She sat and fumed for a moment before she wrote again. TOO DANGEROUS. Swipe. YOU WILL NOT RISK IT FOR… she stopped, swiped the words out again, and stared at the ground for another moment. Oh, that words could be had for the speaking! When she wrote again it was more carefully. YOU WILL NOT RISK YOUR LIFE FOR MY LOVE. I FORBID IT.

  He threw his hands up. “What do you want to do then? To stay a wolf forever? If I don’t do it, who will? And if not for love, then for what?”

  She couldn’t spell it out for him in the muddy snow. You can’t break someone’s heart and dash your own hopes with crooked letters written on the ground. So she got up and ran. Again.

  “Red!” he shouted after her, rising to his feet with a strip of jerky still in hand.

  But she kept on running. Both of them knew he’d never catch up with her. Not when she really ran, with the cold air stinging her eyes and her paws barely touching the earth.

  * * * * *

  When she had put a safe distance between herself and her would-be suitor, she slowed, returning to her zigzagging hunt, sniffing the wind, watching for game trails. She didn’t know what else to do. She couldn’t go back to the village yet, she wasn’t ready to explain to Willow why she’d come home early without any meat, and she couldn’t face Sorrell. She was careful, though, to remain within howling distance of the village. If she did bring down a deer, she would have to call for help. She’d never be able to drag it home by herself. As it was, even with her wandering, when night fell she had gone as far as she dared, so she changed directions and headed back, taking a different course and covering different ground.

  The moon came up, and the bitter, damp smell of the impending storm increased. She kept to the shadows, not wanting to turn human on a night like this. It would be two or three hours’ walk back to the village from here in human form. As a wolf she could make it in less than half that, if she had to. But she kept to her zigzagging course through the hills, still hoping to spot something to show for her hours of wandering, though now with the storm closer it was doubtful. In truth, she just didn’t want to go back before everyone had gone to bed. Then she wouldn’t have to face Sorrell and his lovesick pleading.

  A gunshot shattered the night.

  Rowan’s head snapped up, and she perked her ears toward the sound.

  It wasn’t the Shonnowa shooting. Most of them either couldn’t afford Talvan guns, or scoffed at the amount of noise they made. Which would mean it was one of her own countrymen.

  Boom, again.

  She jumped as though propelled by the sound itself, running toward it, down a shallow gully and up the far side. As soon as she topped the hill she could smell blood. A lot of it. And all human.

  A final boom cracked through the air. And then the howling started, off in the distance.

  Whatever was happening was down in the valley below. She slowed her pace, then stopped, letting out her own spine-tingling howl that dipped and rose again into the sky in a pattern that would bring riders out from the village, though it would take them a while to get there. Then she trotted silently down the slope, slowing again when she heard voices.

  “Leave him,” a man said in accented Shonnowan. “He’s a dead man anyway. The wolves come.” He and his companions moved off upstream. Three of them, Rowan saw, peeking through the brush. She scanned the stream banks. Five bodies. Except, she reminded herself, one of them must still be alive.

  She stepped into the open, feeling the moonlight tingle along her skin. Sure enough, the man slouched against the rocks across the stream looked up at her. He raised his gun, struggling to hold it steady, and squeezed off a shot that went wild. His arm dropped, and his head fell back against the rock, knocking his hat off and exposing his mask to the moonlight.

  Rowan stopped in her tracks as shock bolted through her. That mask! Even after more than three years the sight of it took her back to the blistering hot marketplace in Skybreak, where Aaro had bought her the wolf pendant and hung it around her neck.

  She forced herself to take a step forward, then another, sniffing the air. The scent of blood was so powerful it covered everything else. His pant leg was soaked with it, while a dark pool of it gathered in his palm from a slice at the base of his thumb. His coat and shirt hung open, revealing a long, ugly gash.

  Rowan stood over him, her heart twisting at the familiarity the mask had ignited. There was something else about him that felt familiar as well, but with her focus on the mask, she couldn’t tell what. He looked to have a lean, muscular build under his winter layers, and neck-length hair frizzed out of its binding, curling darkly at the edges of the mask.

  She looked up at the moon, feeling the tingling magic congealing across her skin, and waited for the transformation. She wouldn’t have much time, with the storm rolling in. The moonlight would be gone soon. But that was just as well, with real wolves howling after the scent of blood. In the meantime, she had to get him into some kind of shelter.

  The rocky hills were overgrown with brush and trees, and it was hard to see, but she thought there might be a rocky place near the top of the slope. Possibly someplace that could conceal a cave. If it didn’t, then it would still be better to have stone at their backs than to be sitting in the middle of the bloodbath when the wolves came.

  The second she felt her form shift she stood up and went to work.

  Willow had provided her with a couple changes of clothes for when she was in human form. Whatever she wore at the time became a part of her when the curse turned her back to a wolf, but still, it was good not to be stuck with the same white dress she’d been married in. That dress had too many memories. Now she wore soft doeskin trousers and light boots with a simple linen tunic.

  She found a dagger laying near the masked man, and used it to cut strips from the dead men’s clothing to use for bandages. With nothing to help remove the arrow in the man’s leg, and fearing to rip it out backward, she wrapped the makeshift bandages around it, tightening them as much as she dared. It was when she went to lay the man down that she realized he had another arrow in his shoulder, broken off a few inches out. This must have been the first wound. They must have shot him from behind and further away, for the arrow hadn’t gone all the way through. She hastily wrapped that too, winding the bandage around either side of the arrow shaft, under his armpit, and around.

  The man groaned in his sleep as she wrapped his hand.

  “Good. You’re still alive,” she muttered. Her fingers ached with the damp cold as she tied off the strip of cloth. She regretted not having anything cleaner than a dead man’s shirt to use. Willow would have a fit when she saw it.

  Now she just had to get him up the hill to those rocks. Hooking her hands under his arms, she leaned backward against his weight, huffing as his body scraped over the rocky stream bank. “Come on, friend. Help me out here. You’re a whole lot heavier than you look.” She heaved backward another couple of feet. “Too much…” another heave, “…muscle. On you. Not on me, sadly.”

  How was she ever going to get him up the hill? And the wolves were howling closer. Soon they would go silent, and then she’d be worried. A glance at the moon showed her it was still holding its own, even as the first few snow flurries fell.

  After a few more feet she gave up and went back to the bodies. Two of them were wearing belts. Good. She buckl
ed them together in a big circle and looped it across the man’s chest and under his arms. It gave her some leverage, which helped. She got him into the trees, and from there was able to brace herself against them and haul him further. One tree, then on to the next. Up and up. By the time she reached the rocks she was soaked in sweat. The man stirred and muttered.

  “Of course. Wake up now.”

  It was hard to tell, in the dappled moonlight and with the mask shadowing his eyes, but she thought they flickered open for a minute, resting on her. The man gave a sob, which turned into a moan in the back of his throat, and he lay still again.

  “You, sir, are worthless.”

  Rowan left him and went looking for a cave. This area had many of them, and the place she’d dragged him to looked even more promising up close, with ledges rising out of the hill, cracked and broken, with many shadowy gaps.

  The wind gusted, driving a fine flurry of snow into her face, and she glanced at the moon, broken by the bare branches of trees. Still a little while yet before the storm blotted it out. She returned to the man and fumbled through his pockets until she found his flint fire starter. Feeling suddenly frustrated and overwhelmed, she ran back down the hill and took off what clothes remained on the bodies that were dry and would burn, and bundled them together. A bulky object laying near the rocks caught her eye. A pack with a bedroll. She snatched that up as well and raced back up the hill.

  The wolves had stopped howling.

  There was a hollow in the rock that had caught her eye. Not quite a cave, but if she used her imagination it could be. It curved inward enough to provide shelter from the wind on three sides, and the rock overhang above would keep some of the snow out, though it let the moon shine in. There would be plenty of room for both of them in there, so she dragged him over to it.

  She gathered a few armloads of wood, frantically snatching branches, twigs, leaves, anything she stumbled across, and tossing or carrying them back until she had a small pile collected next to the bundle of clothes. It only took her a moment to stack the driest cloth and wood together, then struck flint and prayed that it would light. It did. She almost laughed in relief. She coaxed the flame along, blowing gently on it, adding more twigs, silently begging it to burn.

  She cast glances toward the stream, which she could just see between trees, as she worked, watching the flashes of movement down there. Gray fur under a white moon. Hopefully they would stay busy with the bodies for a while. She added more fuel to the fire, making it bigger, longer. A wall between them and the wolves. She gathered as many fallen branches and sticks as she could without going far, and stacked them nearby. Then she turned back to the man.

  Her first chore was opening his bedroll and pulling and tugging him onto it, then covering him with a blanket. She slid him as close to the fire as she dared. He shivered and mumbled something, mostly unconscious. If Willow were here… but she wasn’t. And Rowan didn’t have a way to get her here any time soon. Men from the village should be on their way, but even when they got there, they would have to go back and get Willow. It would be three hours at the least before she arrived, and in the meantime Rowan had to stop him from losing more blood. Nor did she have much time left to do it.

  She found a flask of alcohol and a needle and thread among the man’s things, and put them to use cleaning and stitching up the gash across his chest. Willow would be horrified when she saw the sloppy stitches, but Rowan had never been any good with a needle, and tugging it through human skin threatened to make her queasy.

  Finished with that, she checked his leg again. She guessed the arrowhead had struck into the bone, and she had no way of getting it out without causing more damage. What do I do, Willow? She touched Aaro’s wolf pendant that still hung around her neck, visible when she was a human, smearing blood across it. The day she’d faced Ormand and been cursed, she had put her life in the hands of the Almighty, giving up on all her hopes and fears. Was this stranger’s fate in her hands any more than her own life had been then? Was it not the Almighty who still held her, and him as well?

  Ah! Forgive me. Your will be done.

  She broke off the arrow shaft and bound up his leg again. That one would wait for Willow.

  The moon, sinking toward the west and staying just ahead of the storm, shone into their little shelter, faithfully keeping her human as she worked. But the storm kept following it, drawing inexorably nearer. “No you don’t,” she muttered. “Give me a little more time.”

  His shoulder wasn’t as bad. Kneeling beside him, she rolled him slightly, propping him against her knees, where she could cut his shirt and coat away. The arrow had gone almost all the way through the muscle on top, missing the bone. Running her fingers along his shoulder, she could feel the bulge of the arrowhead beneath his skin.

  “Have to cut you out,” she muttered as she worked. She set his dagger blade in the fire for a moment to sterilize it, then slit along the bulge of the arrowhead. Blood coated her fingers as she guided the flint out, pushing the arrow shaft gently from the back. Breaking off the feathered back end, she pulled it the rest of the way out, then used a generous splash of alcohol to clean both sides, stitched it, and rewrapped it.

  Another glance at the moon. Almost gone. Fine snow pellets swirled around, hissing in the fire.

  Hurrying now, she unwrapped his hand and cleaned it with the alcohol as well, holding it in her lap as she stitched it closed. Yes, Willow would have a fit when she saw the butcher job Rowan had made out of the stitches. Clouds swallowed the moon, leaving the fire as her only light source as she re-wrapped his hand. Her curse tingled along her skin, and she grunted in frustration as she fumbled with the knot.

  She felt the buzz of energy, and the shift in form as the knot left her fingers. Then, just as suddenly as always, she was sprawled in the most awkward position possible for a wolf, on her tail with her four legs all tangled up together. The scent of blood washed over her again as she lost her balance and toppled over backwards, missing the fire by a few inches.

  Righting herself, she took a second to regain her bearings, and then sent up another howl to guide her friends, who must be getting close by now. Soft growls, and an inquiring bark replied to her howl, and the soft scraping of dead leaves stirred by silent paws out beyond the fire. The wolves were headed their way.

  Chapter 12

  Aaro felt himself being dragged through brush and over rocks, twisting his wounds. He faded in and out, slogging through pain and weakness just to peel his eyes open, though all he could see were dark shapes of bare tree branches. He must have lost track of time, for the next thing he knew, he lay beside a fire with a woman at his side, talking to herself as she worked over him.

  Rowan, his heart cried.

  He must be hallucinating. Probably he was still propped against that rock next to the stream, waiting to die. But if he must die, he was glad to see her one last time.

  “Red,” he whispered. But she didn’t hear him, intent on sterilizing his dagger. His eyes closed, and when she started tugging on the arrow in his shoulder he faded out again. Not so much unconscious as lost in a dark world where nothing existed except pain.

  When a wolf howled directly over him, he knew he had nothing left to do but wait for the final wash of agony before he died.

  Nothing happened.

  He forced his eyes open. Shaggy, coppery-red fur filled his vision. He flinched, scrabbling backward on his elbows, gasping out a cry as the movement tore his shoulder and chest. A massive red paw came down on his chest, pressing him, squirming, back onto his bedroll. He blinked his vision clear, twisting his head. His bedroll? And a fire roared bedside him, hissing at the snowflakes falling hard and fast outside their rock shelter.

  The wolf lowered its head toward his face, sniffing at this mask. Big, intelligent eyes surveyed him, gleaming like hammered metal in the firelight. When he stopped struggling, the paw moved from his chest to his face, the claws brushing gently across his cheek, hooking under his mask. His he
ad tilted to the side as the beast tugged at his mask. When it didn’t budge, it—she he corrected, since he could see down the length of her shaggy belly, gave up. But then she seemed to follow his line of sight. Her ears pinned down, and her paw came back, swatting him upside the head. She backed off and sat down, glaring.

  Not a normal wolf.

  “How?” he rasped. How did I get here? he wanted to ask, but his voice refused to work.

  The wolf stuck her nose in the air and turned her back on him, curling her tail around herself and staring out into the night, for all the world like an offended woman. He became aware of noises beyond the fire’s light. Snapping, occasional snarling and growling, but from a distance. Closer to their shelter came a short bark. The wolf sat like a statue, her ears following the sounds. She sniffed the wind, and howled again, sending an involuntary shudder through Aaro.

  Outside the firelight, her howl was answered by growls and movement. Eyes gleamed, reflecting the light.

  The red wolf pushed another stick into the fire, backing away as sparks flew up, outlining her in flame and shadow. She whined softly.

  “How?” he asked again.

  She turned her head enough to give him the stink-eye and a curled lip.

  He let his head fall back and he sighed out a groan.

  The wolf eyed him for another minute, then something beyond the fire caught her attention, and she turned, her ears forward. Her tail swished slowly back and forth once across the ground.

  Aaro heard a yelp, and then another. A distant whinny, and then a human shout echoed up to them. The red wolf barked once, standing up now, waiting. Her tail hung motionless behind her as hoofbeats pounded up the hill. Two riders materialized in the firelight, shouting in Shonnowan. The wolf replied with a bark.

  One of the men dismounted and came around the fire, talking to the wolf, though she never answered him. He knelt on Aaro’s other side, lifting the blanket to survey the damage, and grimacing.

  Aaro could have sworn the wolf tried to speak then, carefully manipulating her velvet lips into something that sounded like “Illuoh.”