“I loved you more than my own heart!” Charity screamed through the creature’s mouth at her sister. “And you betrayed me! You gave mother the paintings, you gave her the train tickets, and then you…”
At that point, Charity’s voice broke. Even the creature’s rage wasn’t strong enough to power through Charity’s sorrow when she said, “I found it on your shelf. You gave mother the book, the one he wrote. You sent her to him, so she could bring him to me. You let him turn me into this.” Charity’s voice crumbled, becoming as young and destroyed as Garret felt. “Why, Molly? Why did you do this to me?”
Molly was bawling. “Charity, I’m so, so sorry. Mama had you in that room for so long! I had to find a way to get you out! I just wanted you to be happy again. I wanted you to smile. I wanted my sister back. I didn’t think, I didn’t know… Mother told me that if I—” Molly broke off, but it was too late.
Garret felt Charity’s reaction through the creature’s arm. He felt the weight of Molly’s accidental admission. It did not matter what Molly’s mother had said. Molly had listened to her mother, and that meant she had chosen to trust her mother instead of trusting Charity.
That was the greatest betrayal of them all.
“Then you will watch me little bitch,” the creature thundered. “I will take everything from you, just as you took everything from me.”
With that she turned full onto Garret, and slowed his memories to an agonizing crawl. She opened her mouth, and out came a long black tongue, wet and heavy. Both the wolfstrap and the hellhound were lost somewhere under the memories, so Garret was naked. She dragged her black tongue from his groin, around his hips, up his chest, across his left armpit and to his face. But as she did so, she plucked another memory, this one of Garret and Molly wrapped together on the mansion floor, at the very moment of his entry into her. She forcibly tore away the horrible feelings of the abuse and rammed pleasing, sexual feelings in their place. She replayed the memory over and over again, heightening every sensation of it to unnatural levels.
Garret’s body responded. He couldn’t help it. Molly was screaming.
Charity’s voice was lower now, close in his ear. “Now I will take your child and your life. Then my sister will live like she has made me live.”
The moment sharpened for Garret, coming into the slow clarity that sometimes comes over a person in their final seconds. Garret saw the church ceiling above him, most of it blotted out by the horrible body of the creature, which was becoming human, about to settle on him. He saw the grave mistake he had made in bargaining for power from the darkness, and he also saw the knife fly by over Charity’s head, thrown by Sarn.
Molly leaped from the altar and seized the knife in midair. Awash with tears, she fell onto her sister’s back. Garret glimpsed the expression on Molly’s ashen face. He saw it for only a fraction of a second, but the self-loathing and despair would be burned in his memory for the rest of his life.
“I love you,” Molly whispered, as though her own soul was bleeding to death through the words. She drove the knife home.
Charity instantly became the creature, screaming. It arched its back, thrashed, flinging Molly away. Between its humps of shoulder muscle, the knife blade broke off in its back. It screamed until the stained-glass windows began to break. It rolled away from Garret, who found himself caught in Sarn’s arms and dragged back from the creature.
It rolled, convulsed, and shrieked. Its muscles strained, stranding and tearing as it flailed. Veins ruptured beneath its skin, creating blisters of blood. It tore at its back, ripping long straps of its own muscles loose in the attempt to rid itself of the silver blade. Purple fire spread from the wound, burning the creature’s flesh away as if it were paper.
The creature’s anguished screams rose. The purple flames raced through it from the inside out, splitting its skin open here and there to set its fur alight. The creature’s voice became Charity’s and the last of its disintegrating flesh slid away from her. Torn, scorched, and mutilated by the fire, Charity rolled to her side and began to vomit. At first nothing came out, then like a huge, glowing slug, the burning hellheart crawled up her throat and fell to the carpet.
The hellheart was dying as it came forth. The bright, ember-like muscle crawled weakly away from Charity as the purple flames overcame its own orange. The hound in Garret begged to go to it, and he let it go. Not one shred of him wanted to keep the power. He had thought it would be hard, if not impossible to release it when the time came, but it was simple. He still had the power to choose.
So he chose to be done. He let go of the hound, and it passed from him as gently as a leaf falls. The wispy, canine shape dragged itself across the floor, and the dying heart crawled towards it. They met at the altar and rejoined. The relief was palpable. It echoed out from the dying hound like ripples on a lake.
Its chest settled in a long, slow exhalation. Its heart beat once more, then was snuffed out. Whole again at last, the hound lay down and died in peace.
It faded into oblivion.
Chapter 23
Charity lay on the floor, a scorched, bloody wreck of a young woman. Her arms were outstretched to Molly, hands open, like a child begging to be picked up and held. She kept trying to say something, but her vocal cords had been burned away from the inside, so only soundless breath came out. Molly crawled to Charity, while keeping her left wrist, which appeared to be broken, tucked against her stomach.
Charity’s face was so badly burned that both of her eyes were gone, but she knew when Molly reached her. Molly lay down with her sister, and Charity held her and cried away the last few moments of her life. Even long after Charity was gone, and her ravaged body lay mercifully slack on the floor, Molly kept hold of her. She moved her sister’s head into her lap, and hummed Brahms’s lullaby while her tears rained on Charity’s slack face.
It took Sarn’s help, but Garret eventually made it to Molly’s side. They lay there together amid the wreckage, the four of them, while the town burned to the ground outside the church.
Garret couldn’t get up, so Sarn kept hold of him. Sarn’s arms were strong and comforting. They were solid, loving. Garret kept hold of Molly because he could not let her go.
Molly lay in Garret’s arms, pressed her face into his chest, cradled her dead sister’s head to her bosom, and cried the emptiest tears Garret had ever heard.
Germany, 1589
Youngblood lay still, bleeding profusely. The monster had bitten his paw off and swallowed it. A hand was on his head, smoothing his fur, speaking in the tongues of men, but in a soothing way. Heavy footsteps approached, far too heavy to be man. The monster careened drunkenly past Youngblood and Gerda. It stumbled, coughed, staggered, slamming its fists into the ground, hacking and roaring in rage.
It ran for a group of men, huddled down with their thunder branches. They unleashed a volley of shots, which the monster simply ignored, but it fell to its knees before it reached them anyway. Drool ran from its jaws in blood-darkened strings. It was hacking now, its stomach muscles heaving and tightening as Youngblood’s stomach did when he had eaten something which made him ill.
Head lolling, Youngblood pushed himself to his feet. Beside him, Gerda reached into the bloody mess of torn vines where the monster had bitten off his paw. She picked a flower. It had a thin stem and a delicate blossom, still wrapped in on itself.
“Wolfsbane,” she whispered, wide-eyed. Youngblood did not know what the sound “wolfsbane,” meant, only that he and his pack did not like the flower she held in her hand. Several of the stems had been sheared off. The creature had bitten off a mouthful of the flowers when it had eaten his paw.
The creature was rolling now, frothing, vomiting blood all over itself, ripping at the dirt and… changing? Indeed the monster was shrinking, its fur disappearing, its claws vanishing into its very human-looking fingers. With a final convulsion, the deadwalker turned into a naked man, older, looking like any of the farmers who now advanced cautiously towards him.
He vomited up a blob in the grass. It was a heart, old and black, but riddled with cracks. A dull orange glow shown through the cracks, as if it burned weakly from within. The heart was still beating.
Youngblood pushed himself up and towards the heart. Now that the creature had become a man, he smelled just like a man, but the heart he had thrown up smelled like the deadwalker. Youngblood did not understand what was happening, but he knew the heart had to be destroyed. He fell to his belly and dragged himself towards it. Men surrounded him before he reached it.
Boots stomped on his legs and kicked his body, knocking him here and there, lighting up the inside of his head with flashes. A thunderbranch loomed, its black eye staring sightlessly at him. Gerda flung herself on the man, knocking his shot wide.
The thunder branches disappeared and much yelling ensued. Youngblood cringed on the ground and waited for the end. Had he not been laying there, his chest against the ground, he would not have felt the vibrations of the steps that he knew so well. The footfalls only came twice, and they were lighter and more awkward now that they were only human, but Youngblood knew they belonged to the deadwalker-man. Youngblood raised his wobbly head.
The man was wild with hate, covered with blood, and holding one of man’s sharp pieces of metal. He lurched towards Gerda’s father, aiming his blade for the man’s heart. Youngblood caught the old man’s wrist in his teeth, bore him to the ground, released the wrist, and sank his teeth into the man’s neck. One last time, the deadwalker-man howled in rage and defiance before Youngblood crushed his throat, silencing him for good.
The thing that could not die had died at last.
The men were still circled around the heart, pointing thundersticks at Youngblood. Shaking, he took off, running clumsily as the last ounces of his strength dribbled out of the stump of his rear ankle. The men did nothing, only watched him go. Gerda called and called, her voice breaking down as it had done outside her treebox when her father had held her close. He wanted to stay with her, but he could not. The final instinct of wolves had taken over. He would go home to die. It was time.
Not far into the forest, Youngblood fell to the ground by a brook. He wanted to die in his den, where at least the scents of his pack would be with him. He gasped and panted, but the air did not satisfy his body anymore. His mind was light as a feather, his body heavier than a mountain.
He could not reach his den, so he lay, listening to the trickle of the brook. It flowed like Gerda’s voice. It soothed him, like her hand. He would not see her again, and it made him very sad. He took some comfort in knowing the deadwalker’s shadow would never fall over her again either. She would be safe. Youngblood closed his eyes and waited for the silence that would set him free. Here he came now, the Peaceful Brook. The one who came to take wolves to the next path beyond the sun and moon.
Youngblood had not seen Peaceful Brook before, but he had felt his presence when his mother died. Now he felt it again, sunny and warm and calmer than the stream for which he was named, trickling past Youngblood’s head. Youngblood didn’t remember opening his eyes, but he must have, because he saw Peaceful Brook kneeling before him. He appeared much as a man, but his steps crushed neither leaf nor twig, and he smelled like a hundred summer days, all running together in a perfect flow of life. Like his namesake.
He laid his hand on Youngblood’s neck, and peace flooded Youngblood’s heart and washed the pain from his senses. Youngblood lay still, soaking up the smell of Peaceful Brook, who, after a moment, moved his hand from Youngblood’s neck to his head.
Awakening. Awareness. Understanding.
Youngblood breathed deep. Meaning unfolded in his mind.
Brave little one, Peaceful Brook said, stroking Youngblood’s head. Though you cannot speak, the cry of your heart has been heard. You have honored yourself, those before you, and those who will come after. You have learned the meaning of love. It burns bright and pure within you, and so you are to be given a chance to earn that love in return. The one you watch over, the one you adore—you may spend the remainder of your life in her world, if you choose.
But know this. If you enter her world, you must leave behind everything you know. You and your pups will be changed in ways you cannot understand. You will have the chance to win the heart of the one you love, but a great gift such as this comes at an equally great cost, for not only yourself, but all those who will come after you. Choice cannot be taken from the sons and daughters of this earth, and so your choice will pass to the firstborn of each generation of your pups. You and all who come after you will have the chance to win their heart’s desire, but they will fight for it, as you have done. The greater the reward, the greater the struggle to earn it. The choice is yours, little one. Will you have this gift?
Youngblood lay still under Peaceful Brook’s hand. To be with Gerda was more than he could have imagined. This was, in fact, the first time he had imagined anything. Perhaps this gift would let him be like the wolf-cousins that denned with Gerda. Perhaps he would become like one of them, guarding and protecting her. Perhaps she would allow him to catch food for her. Youngblood had seen men trap rabbits, much as he did. But maybe… maybe, if the gift was as great as Peaceful Book said, she would let him enter her treebox and sleep at the foot of her goose-smelling thing. Youngblood shivered at the thought, and though he could not speak, he met Peaceful Brook’s eyes and begged.
Youngblood felt Peaceful Brook smile.
You have chosen wisely.
He moved his hand from Youngblood’s head to his heart, then he spoke with his mouth, a whisper to which all the trees and even the wind hearkened.
“I give you the gift of life,” he said. “By the power entrusted to me for this task, I command you to rise, to walk. To Become. Wherever you go, no matter how far your descendants may scatter over this earth, you shall always carry your wolf’s heart of courage. It is yours to keep. It belongs to you and your children, forever.”
Peaceful Brook vanished from the air, but his voice came again, mingled with the trickling of the water past Youngblood’s body, “Rise Youngblood, son of the moon. Rise and win the heart of your beloved.”
A strong hand grabbed Youngblood’s body, mind and heart, tugging, reshaping. He yelped, not from pain, but surprise. His body was being pulled, stretched. Youngblood groveled. He was being molded as easily as mud on a riverbank. His torso flattened and broadened, his joints popped in and out. Not only was he being reshaped, he was growing. The good earth beneath him flowed and sifted, giving up elements into his body, feeding his size from its own self. Trees, shrubs, and even rocks around him popped and splintered, their own bodies lashing out with tongues of flowing particles, donating all things to his growth.
His snout retreated into his face, taking his nose with it. His ears shrank and ran down his head as though they were melting. As they did so, the sounds and smells of the forest retreated to a dim shadow of what he had known all his life. At the same time though, his skin, especially the skin covering his hands and face became sensitive, telling him of touch and textures delicate and intricate enough to overload his mind.
While his body continued to twitch, twist, and grow, and as his mind struggled to process the load of touch flooding from every inch of his skin, an even more wondrous thing happened.
Color.
Since the moment he’d opened his eyes as a pup, he’d seen the world in black and white and shades of grey. As he breathed deep with his newly-shaped lungs, the brilliant blue of a summer sky unfolded above him, the shadowy greens of the pine boughs reached towards it, and the almost violently pink petals of three small flowers stood beside his head. Color flooded the world around him, making him breathe deep as though it was his first breath after a lifetime of sleep. He had known wonder and excitement, but now he knew beauty. He began to cry as if he saw the world for the first time.
His legs stretched a bit more, though the right one still ended in a bleeding stump, and just when he thought all was done, his grey fur
retreated up his body, until it hung loose in a strap around his naked man-chest.
Pain returned with a vengeance. The throbbing ache in his abdomen, the pulsing, searing pain from the stump of his missing foot, and the spike-like sharpness from the arrow which had clipped his neck. He wailed, a human cry of pain, and he curled up.
He cried for the beauty around him, for the pain and weakness that weighed on this new, strange body. He cried not as a wolf, but as a man, tears running down his face. His teeth, now flat and blunt instead of pointy, ground together as he tried to halt the salty flow down his face. Men’s shouts approached through the forest. A pang of fear shot through him. The men were coming with their thunder branches, and he knew he could no longer escape them.
But someone beat them to him. He flailed, curled up, covering his head with his hands when the footsteps seemed to appear out of nowhere in his dull hearing. No one had ever been able to sneak up on him before. A hand rested on his wrist, grasping it gently. He knew the touch, didn’t he? He’d felt it before. On his bare skin, it was magnified a hundred times, and were it not so shocking, he would have thought it was the most wondrous thing he’d ever felt.
“Shhhh, shhhhh,” came a soothing voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
It was Gerda. Youngblood uncovered his face. Gerda knelt beside him, her hair a lustrous brown, her eyes the same green as the tree boughs around them, and her skin a beautiful depth of pinkish tan that he could look at the rest of his life. He laid a hand on her cheek in wonder. For a moment, she seemed ready to pull away, but her lovely eyes caught sight of his ankle which ended in a ragged, bleeding stump. He moved his hand to her neck, enthralled by what his fingers were telling him about her.
Her eyes opened wide as she saw his neck and abdominal wounds as well. Lastly, her eyes fell on the strap of grey fur, hanging loosely around his chest. She reached out, and after hesitating the briefest instant, ran her fingers through the fur. Her eyes shot wide open, and his hand, which he had moved back to her cheek was suddenly wrapped in her hand. She met his eyes, looked deep into him, searching for something. Whatever it was, she found it.
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