by RJ Blain
I shook off the impulse.
Maybe Francine had been right. One way or another, I must’ve siphoned some of the Wicked Witch of the West’s magic. It wouldn’t hurt me, but I craved more. I licked at my muzzle. The sensation coursing through me reminded me of the full moon: Insistent but resistible. Barely.
Francine poked her head through the doorway leading to the lab. “Harold, I am taking this wolf to a guest suite upstairs until the moon sets.”
“Good,” the doctor grumbled.
“Don’t mind his gruffness, Lady Wolf. We had a few incidents last month.”
I snorted. A full moon on Halloween drove most werewolves into a frenzy. Even me.
Samantha had been wise enough to know I had needed her help. In twenty or thirty years, when the phenomena happened again, the hallowed moon would claim me. If I still lived, I would give myself over to it gladly.
My beloved witch wouldn’t be there to stop me from severing the chain binding wolf to woman.
But first, I would hunt.
I followed Francine. Until the next Halloween moon rose, I would make my plans, hunt Inquisitors, and reap vengeance for everything the Inquisition had stolen from me over the long years.
~*~
Francine brought me to a room meant for a witch. An important, self-righteous witch, for that matter. Stained glass candle holders, their candles already lit, cast shimmering curtains of color across the rug lying on the polished hardwood. A veneer of dust covered the night table and dresser, though the bedding reeked of fresh detergent.
After lighting all of the candles, the old witch bowed and excused herself. The lock clicked.
I pinned my ears back. Something as mundane as a lock wouldn’t keep me penned, not for long. With a disgusted huff, I turned in a slow circle. One wall of the room was a window with a balcony beyond. Outside, the snow fell, blanketing the balcony beyond. Pressing my nose to the glass, I stared into the darkness.
An early snow didn’t mean much to me, but the chill through the window was enough it hurt my nose. I pulled away, watching the thick wet flakes thin to powder. The snow sparkled in the candlelight.
Baring my fangs, I regarded the lights and colors with the same regard of a rattlesnake poised to strike. Aurora and Shimmer were names belonging to me and my wolf, though I regretted them more often than not.
Had Francine assigned me to a witch’s room in the belief I would be harmless because I was a werewolf? Everything I needed to work the magic I had purposefully ignored for so long was nearby, within easy access. I could purge the Wicked Witch of the West’s magic from my blood while doing something productive at the same time: I could ensure that the magic of the Slide Mountain witch coven wouldn’t alter the flow of the seasons.
The candles would represent life and its inevitable end, a slow steady burn with the heat of passion preserved until it was snuffed out. Symbols of other power littered the room. Like Francine’s leaked magic, their presences tickled my senses, prickling my skin until I was forced to acknowledge them.
However unintentional, the dust served as a focal point for both the Earth and for death. Through the window, the snow represented the flow of nature. The full moon, strong despite the covering of clouds, was what I needed as a symbol of both the day and the night.
I closed my eyes and held my breath. My world stilled, quieting to the hiss of the snow. The cold seeped into me, and I welcomed it.
My name was Shimmer, born under an aurora, the Caretaker of the Seasons, and the Witch Wolf of the North. I stained the snow red. I was wolf. I was witch. I was human.
I was the quiet spring rain, the summer heat, the chilly breeze carrying autumn leaves, and the lethal winter cold. Beyond the window, the night and the snow called to me.
Ignoring it, I reached out for the tattered warmth of autumn. A low ringing filled my ears. The snowstorm extended far enough that my chest ached and my muscles burned from the effort of reaching beyond it. Letting out my breath slowly, I drew another, letting the scent of the dust and smoke from the candles fill my lungs.
Unable to judge the distance of the warm front, all I could do was focus my attention on it and hope my will was enough to subjugate it. Pain lanced through my ears to settle as a throb in the back of my head.
Come, I demanded.
The throb faded into a burning sensation. It spread from my skull along my spine. The storm stirred, resisting my command.
Come, I repeated, opening my eyes with a snarl of outrage that it dared to defy me. Nature didn’t reply. It never did. It didn’t need to. Its voice was the wind, its existence always present though often ignored.
I was Shimmer, the Aurora Wolf, and I would remind men of the true power in the world they too often sought to destroy.
Winter would come, but not before the seasons were balanced. The coven of Slide Mountain had shifted the scales, and I would shift them back. Winter would come, but not before I slammed the Inquisition with all of the fury and grief of the loss of my witch.
Winter would come, and on its heels, spring would follow, but not before I ushered in one final autumn storm to reset the balance.
Come!
My legs trembled before collapsing beneath me. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. The heat along my back and head evaporated, letting the winter chill seep into my bones to stiffen my muscles. I closed my eyes, gathering the strength I needed to continue on and finish what I had begun.
When the trembling eased, I opened my eyes to stare at the shimmering snow beyond the window. Stay, I pleaded to the storm overhead.
The wind hissed at me.
In the back of my head, I was faintly aware of my summoned storm obeying my call. Yes, come, I encouraged it.
Both of the storms fought against me. I dredged up every bit of strength left in me to take hold of them and force nature to do my bidding. I threw everything I had into my effort. All of my magic, all of my strength, and all of my anger and grief drained away until at long last, the darkness claimed me.
Chapter Twenty Six
Hunger roused me, and I opened my bleary, sleep-caked eyes to a cold, dark dawn. The heat in my belly gnawed at me until I couldn’t ignore its call. Snow crunched beneath my pads. My legs trembled under my weight.
The broken remains of a tree surrounded me; the branches had crushed most of the furniture. Blankets of white covered everything, including me. The wind hissed, blowing through the broken remains of the window. The sky beyond was a steel gray, pale enough to indicate that the sun had risen. Ice coated the balcony, with icicles dangling from the window’s frame.
My breath emerged as white clouds, which were torn apart by the gusts blowing through the room. Bracing myself, I shook snow and ice from my coat in a glittering plume. I drew a deep breath.
The itching and sneezing I expected didn’t come. My hunger roused once more as a growl in my stomach. I took a step forward on shaking legs, as though I had run a marathon during my sleep. A pinpoint of heat in the back of my skull reminded me that something was coming, something large and warm to drive away the cold of the false, early winter.
My hackles rose. Reaching out with my witch’s power, I concentrated on the raging snowstorm. My power was present, coercing the storm to stay in place. But another power was present, a tingling energy that didn’t belong to me. Relief warred with my apprehension.
I drew another deep breath. Without the burden of a stuffed, traitorous nose, scents assaulted me. The sharp burn of a car’s exhaust was partnered to the sweat of humans and the rich musk of wolves.
The door behind me creaked open. I whirled, ducking my head low to snarl at the intruder. A rumpled, bleary-eyed James blinked at me.
“Bloody hell, Francine!” James twisted away, exposing the back of his neck to me. I tensed, calculating the distance between us. The Brit leaned out into the hallway. “You better come look at this.”
After a few minutes, the old witch appeared. “Well, well, well. That’s quite the mess.�
�
“I’d say,” James agreed, turning back. He flashed a rueful smile at me. “Come then, Old One. Breakfast awaits.” Hesitating in the doorway, the werewolf stared at the fallen tree. “Bloody hell. Can you look her over, Francine? There’s no way she didn’t get hit.”
Francine sniffed. “I’m a witch, James. Not a vet.”
“You’re a witch who can cure the plague.”
“Be it as it may, wolves aren’t, nor will they ever be, my specialty.” Francine drew a deep breath as though to launch into a lecture. Panic widened James’s eyes, and he waved his hand in a gesture of desperation.
“Yes, yes. You see the unseen. You witches and your unfathomable powers. Be a werewolf, I tell you. Much simpler. But could you please? You can see if she’s hurt. My blind eyes can’t.”
Francine let her breath out in a sigh. “Werewolves are so much more violent, James.”
“So?”
The witch made a disgusted sound before vanishing into the hallway. “Bring her to the lab after she’s been fed. Harold doesn’t need to clean rabbit blood off the floor again.” The sounds of her footsteps retreated. James leaned against the door frame, wrinkling his nose.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered under his breath. Then in a louder voice he said, “Come on, Old One. What would you like? Rabbit or goat? If you want goat, it’s not live.”
I shook more snow off of my coat before working my way across the room. To navigate through the debris, I had to leap onto the trunk of the fallen tree and worm my way through a maze of branches and broken furnishings.
“I have no idea how no one heard this. Unbelievable.”
Even if I could’ve answered him, I doubted I would. The tree missing me had been miracle enough. While I doubted the impact would’ve killed me, even I would’ve been hard pressed to escape the weight of a tree without a lot of help.
James led me downstairs to the second level of the basement. Like the lowest floor, the place reeked of disinfectant. Closed doors lined a long corridor.
“This is where us wolves who don’t share your level of control stay during the full moon,” James explained. At the sound of the werewolf’s voice, a wolf howled. A pained look dimmed the Brit’s eyes. “It might get a little noisy in here.”
Several more wolf-bound werewolves howled, while others joined with barks and whines. It wasn’t the song of a proud race, but a hopeless plea for freedom. I put my ears back and growled. My low-toned warning went unheeded. James winced, leading me down the corridor.
The ruckus intensified.
“Forgive them. They’re young and don’t know better. Most of them were forced through the ritual.” James ducked his head, turning his chin to the side to expose his throat. I considered leaping for the pale, warm flesh. Instead, I followed at his side. “Some of them don’t even know how to become human again. The witches haven’t figured out how to reverse the change.”
I paused, and then shook my head. Even if I could’ve replied, there wasn’t much I could say. What would drive a werewolf to create so many new wolves, only to abandon them to their fates? Why were there so many caged wolves in the Inquisition’s basement?
The plague was real. Keeping so many captured in one place was an invitation for it to spread. I had lived through the plague once, left alive while knowing my pack was gone. Back then, I hadn’t been a person. I had been property, groomed to become a rare female of a male-dominated group.
The Inquisition had stolen me, newly changed, before I had been forced to accept a mate.
I halted, staring at one of the doors. Beyond, I envisioned the comfortable bed and spare decor. There would be books on shelves far above the reach of a wolf, waiting for humans to read.
I could smell the silver lining the walls and doors. A layer of steel kept it from hurting me, but for those within, there was no escaping its presence.
I shuddered. My wolf had been with me for so long I couldn’t remember what being a true human was like. But at the same time, I didn’t know what being a true wolf was like either. Time marched on, dragging me along for the ride without any regard for my comfort. The memories of before I had been changed faded away, leaving me with incorporeal fragments and ghosts.
Some memories would never fade away. I shook myself. I wished I could forget the years I’d spent locked away in my little cell with books I had read too many times, let out only when it was time for me to hunt and kill my own kind.
~*~
James said nothing more as he led me through a maze of corridors to a kitchen. The place was a blend of a butcher’s shop and a pet store with a fixation on bunnies. It was eerily quiet, with the glazed eyes of the rabbits falling on me without really registering the presence of hunters among them. I bared my fangs.
Some witch was likely tasked with the morbid duty of keeping the live animals quiet.
“Pick a rabbit or you’re getting goat,” James said.
I really needed to learn how to light people on fire with my eyes. No matter how hard I tried, my gaze did nothing more than increase the fear wafting off of the younger werewolf. I was almost tempted to change back into a human, but I suspected James would try to take my pelt for a trophy.
Wolves didn’t like when their prey escaped.
Snorting my disgust at the idea of hunting rabbits incapable of fleeing didn’t whet my appetite. Goat didn’t either, but James served it in chunks like it was fast food for canines. At least it tasted better and was confirmed to be actual meat.
I ate as fast as I could, growling between swallows. James stayed at a respectable distance.
Through the meal, the storm siphoned away my strength. It didn’t take long for my stomach to start protesting from eating too much. I sat back on my haunches and licked my muzzle.
“Finished?” James set the bowl of meat on the counter before heading for the door. I stood on my hind legs, and out of spite, grabbed a final piece of meat to carry with me.
Growling around my prize, I followed James through the prison complex to the elevator. Once back in the elevator, we returned to the fourth level of the basement.
A rumpled Doctor Harold glared at both of us. His lab looked like a war zone, with samples, Petri dishes, and equipment scattered on every available surface. “Now what?”
I dropped the chunk of goat meat on his shoe, baring my fangs in a wolfish grin.
“She’s either trying to thank you, or she believes you’re incapable of hunting on your own.” James didn’t laugh, but there was a slight waver in his voice.
“If you came down here for that, I’m skinning you, James.”
“I wanted you to check her for the plague’s progress.”
“Don’t bother,” Francine announced from behind me. I whirled, flattening my ears to my skull. I barked a warning. “Ah, my apologies, Lady Wolf. I will check her myself. There is still the matter of contamination I must deal with.”
“Contamination? You don’t mean the plague?” James cocked his head to the side with a puzzled expression on his face.
“No, I mean my sister’s magic contaminating her through spilled blood. It should be purged.”
“And why didn’t you do it yesterday?” Doctor Harold asked.
Francine sighed, shaking her head. “It wasn’t a problem yesterday.”
James crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against one of the larger pieces of equipment in the lab. “And it’s a problem today? I find this rather unbelievable. Bloody hell, Francine, at least be consistent.”
The witch’s smile was secretive.
“Cursed witches,” Doctor Harold muttered.
“Very well. Put the news on, Harold. I’ll show you my worries.”
“The news?” As one, James and Harold turned to one of the larger screens mounted on the wall. The doctor grabbed a remote and pressed a button.
“The weather channel will do.”
I backed away until I could see the screen. The pinpoint of heat in my skull strengthened, but th
ere was still a sense of distance between me and the storm I was summoning.
The TV flickered on, revealing a reporter standing on a sunny beach, calm waves lapping at the pearl white sands behind her. To the woman’s right was a boarded cabana. “The storm that was supposed to hit in the early hours of the morning veered northward, leaving the islands with light breezes and calm sea conditions. Wary residents have yet to move back to the shores, but the emergency evacuation measures have been officially canceled. Back to you, Frank.”
“Thank you, Lisa.” An old man, a meteorologist I suspected, appeared on the screen. Behind him was a map of the east coast of the United States. One major cloud system hung over the middle of the eastern seaboard, centered over Virginia.
The spiraling arms of a hurricane reached for the coast. I sat down, throwing my head back with my ears pinned flat, wishing I could whistle.
James did it for me. “Bloody hell.”
“Turn it off, Harold. That’s enough,” Francine said. The doctor obeyed. “We’ve been watching the storm since it shifted course in the middle of the night. Not much good watching is going to do us, though. Unless it changes course again, it’ll be a direct hit.”
“But it’s November,” Doctor Harold whispered.
“Almost December,” Francine agreed.
“We don’t exactly get this sort of weather in London. What does it mean? What will happen?” James slid along the piece of machinery so he could stand near the door. “It’s pretty bad out there already.”
“It’ll only get worse. A lot worse, James.” Francine’s voice wavered, but I couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion or fear. There was plenty of human fear and anxiety stinking up the place between the three of them. I cocked my head to the side.
Was the warm front I was summoning actually an entire hurricane? While it was past the normal end of the season, it wasn’t unheard of for one to form in late November or even early December.