“I did not mean to,” he says from behind his veil of shadows. “I am sorry—I am the one who killed the widow.”
I yank my wrist from his grasp, then tug down his hood.
My breath catches at the sight of him. Before, even with the hood drawn, I could see the blood on the lower half of his face, and on the hair that curls at his temples. Now, I see the gash across his forehead, the cut down his eyebrow, the swelling of his left eye.
Gently, I cup his face and guide his ashamed gaze to mine.
“Dante, I know.”
The pad of my thumb brushes over his cut lip.
I am afraid of him, but in this moment as he stands before me in a sickly state, I am suddenly flooded with warmth within.
These injuries befell him because he chose to fight Colton—to save me.
“It was something Catherine said about another wolf,” I tell him. “I figured … it came to me that you are the other wolf, as though a part of me had known it all along.”
Dante brings his hand up to mine, and rests it there a moment. “Never did I wish to frighten you, or harm you, or in any way drive you from this place,” he says. “The widow…”
His eyes drift down to the snow at our feet.
“The widow began a petition among the villagers to have you exiled. I feared she would gain support—enough to summon a witch hunter to our parts. I couldn’t…” He shakes his head and touches his gaze to mine. “I could not allow such a horror to befall you, Red. I killed her, knowingly and willingly, as the beast that I am.”
“You are no beast,” I spit. “You are a brave Knight.”
Dante’s lips lift to the side, as though he means to smile. But before the smile can settle, his face soon twists in pain and he shoves me away from him.
“Go inside,” he groans. Something snaps inside of him, a rib I think, and the agony brings him to his knees. “Inside!”
I watch, horrified, as his head throws back and out from his bloodied lips comes a howl, so charged with pain that I feel the echoes of it run through my aching bones.
“Dante, you will not hurt me.” I step closer to him, but he swipes at me—with a hairy hand and claws. “You are yourself in wolf-form, no? So what danger could you pose to m—”
“Colton.”
The name is hissed through his clenched teeth; his eyes roll back as another snap brings him closer to the snow.
“Colton is coming … for you, Red.”
He spoke the words too late.
A savage roar tears through the woods. I jerk back and look, wide-eyed, to the path. A wolf, brown and thick-furred, charges up to the cabin. There is blood on its jaw, its lemon-yellow eyes glow with the hunger for my blood, and it bounds toward me as it would a fleeing deer.
Before I can reach for Dante, a burst of fabric explodes in front of me. A confetto of clothes smothers the air—scraps of Dante’s clothes. In his place, is a wolf, the same primitive glow in his eyes and teeth bared at the one coming up the path.
I gasp and scramble up the stairs. Their roars send chills down my spine.
Grandmother snatches me inside before I can run in myself, and the door slams shut behind us. All that’s left are the sounds of teeth tearing flesh apart outside.
Dante, fighting to protect me again, has been abandoned by the one he tries to save.
24.
Their battle rages on for hours.
There are times when silence blankets the cabin, and I move to approach the window and look outside. Those times pass by so quickly that I wonder if they were in fact dreams that took me away in the long night.
Howls call out, rich with the pain of torn flesh. Whimpers are high-pitched enough to pierce through the walls of the cabin. At each sound, I flinch and pray to the ultimate Mother that none of those cries belong to Dante. Fear flows through me for him, but for myself too.
Should Colton come bursting through the door I face, my first thought will not be of Dante and his sacrifice. It will be of Grandmother—and myself. Just as she sacrificed much of her life to me, I shall sacrifice all of my life to her.
So, I stand at the wall opposite the door with a phial of wolfsbane in one hand and a dagger in the other. Grandmother chants by the fire, whispered words to our Mother to bring unto us protection.
This is our night.
Hours of chanting, hours of waiting, hours of gurgled sounds outside—howls choked in blood. Until the howls are no more, and there is only silence.
It takes a good while before I decide to look through the window. Dawn is not yet upon us—whatever wolf might still be outside could break through with ease. Yet, the silence calls to me.
“Ella, no.”
Halfway to the window, I stop and look at Grandmother. On the armchair, she sits in her prayer position (hands above her head, palms upwards, wrists overlapped, and her knees drawn to her chest with her ankles crossed). She pauses her chants to stop me.
“Stay inside until dawn touches the earth,” she tells me.
I hesitate, my whole body still with the silence outside these walls. Grandmother knows best. It’s what I’ve always believed. Yet, there is a twist of unease in my stomach, a tug that wants me closer to the window.
For once, I obey myself over Grandmother.
I rush to the window and peel the curtain to the side.
The garden looks like a wonderland in the dead of night. That is the first thing I notice as I drag my gaze over the snow. Moonlight floods the ground with a glow—pools of blood shimmer in the light.
Two wolves lay apart, both are down. Both are unmoving.
I’m out the door before Grandmother can stop me.
The closest wolf to me is dead. I kneel at its side and check for a heartbeat. Nothing. Only eyes that stare ahead, empty and devoid of any glimmer of life. Much of its brown coat is dusted in snow.
I rush to the second wolf. Like the other, its coat—as brown as fresh soil—wears the damp spots of snow. But this one breathes. It lays on its side, and an unsteady rise and fall of its ribs catches my attention. I look into its eyes. It sees me, barely. But when it does, it gives a whine so faint that my heart writhes in my chest.
There is no way to tell which wolf is who. For all I know, the wolf at my knees is Colton. But then, it could well be Dante. Though he is dying, he not yet dead. Perhaps I can save him. Perhaps I can tend to him.
Can I risk myself to save the wolf before me?
The creak of the door pulls me from my thoughts.
Grandmother leans against the doorframe, pale under the moonlight, shadows in her eyes. “If you must,” she calls to me, “be quick about it.”
That’s all the motivation I need.
I run into the house for supplies, then drag them to the wolf outside. Once I wedge a board beneath him—which earns hoarse, choked sounds of pain from him—I coil a rope around the board and heave him to the house.
It is hard work. Before I even reach the stairs, my muscles cry out in protest, and a particular spot beneath my shoulder blade shudders. To tow him inside, I chant words to Mother for strength. These chants are not always effective. It is more faith than practice. Grandmother’s forte versus mine.
My faith is restored some when I have the wolf on the workbench, and I’m rummaging through Grandmother’s stores to gather the right salves.
She helps me for a while. The better part of an hour, even. But she cannot hide it from me so late into the night. Her shaky hands, the coarse coughs that jolt her body. Grandmother really is sick.
I send her off to bed and tend to the wolf on my own.
On his back alone, there are three deep gashes to be healed. Punctures dot along his neck, a chunk is missing from his ear, and even his rear left leg is fractured.
I do it all myself, and I chant to Mother the whole time. This wolf needs Mother. He needs a miracle. Fortunately for him, I am a miracle with my salves and brews.
I only pause in my work when the wolf speaks to me. A deep sound th
at rumbles through him. It draws me to its eyes—they are open and watch me. Really watch me.
The wolf is conscious, aware, and gazing at me, though dazed.
My hand finds its cheek.
“I hope you are Dante,” I whisper. “Otherwise, I will undo all of this work and drive a phial of wolfsbane down your throat.”
The wolf blinks.
At first, I think he means to confirm that he is who I want him to be. But his eyes drift shut once more and they do not open again.
Sleep takes him from the pain.
25.
I wake in the armchair.
Candlelight flickers over the walls with the sapphire touch of the lantern encasing it. My fists find my eyes where they rub away all the crust that has gathered during my rest. It is hard to tell how much time has passed since I dragged the wolf into the cabin.
The wolf.
I wrench my hands from my face and squint at the herb table. Where the wolf had laid when I rested my eyes, is now a man’s body. He sits on the edge of the table and combs his fingers through his dark hair. Small muscles etch into his scarred chest—fresh scars from the battle outside. A milky complexion coats his body and his dark hair is tousled with pieces of grass and a twig through the strands.
My heart catches in my throat; I rise from the armchair, my slow and delicate movements a lie of the relief that flows through me.
“Dante.”
At the sound of my whisper, he looks up at me from beneath his long lashes. The sparkle is gone from his eyes, and in its place is a weary pain.
The shaky breath that escapes me cannot be stopped.
Dante slips off the table in all his nudity, and strides toward me.
“Ella,” he says and pulls me against him. His nose finds the crook of my neck, where his hot breath caresses my skin in a familiar kiss. “Ella.”
Why he repeats my name, I do not know—until it settles within me. The warmth that comes with my true name on his lips. Not Red. Not Sorceress. Healer, Gift, Made Witch. I am Ella.
Despite the urge that takes me to melt into his arms, I detach myself from him and draw away. My treacherous gaze runs him over, a mixture of awe, desire and fear brewing within me.
Dante is reluctant to let go. His fingers graze from my wrist to my hand, but then he, too, draws away and leaves some space between us. In that space, our doubts swarm.
“Do not fear me,” he says—no, he pleads with me in his gentle voice that aches for my touch. “I never meant to hurt anyone, Ella. Least of all you.”
It takes a second for me to realise what he speaks of. Dante hurt me, not with bites or claws that ribbon my flesh. No, he hurt me in other ways; ways just as painful as physical wounds.
At the reminder, my hand goes to my chest. Behind my skin, the ache burns stronger and spreads down to the emptiness in my gut.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, unable to meet his gaze. “I might have helped you, I might have…”
Done what? There is no cure for wolf-venom. There is nothing I could have done.
Dante has no answer for me. He holds out his hand and echoes all he can; “I didn’t want this, Ella. I wanted never to harm you in any way. For that, I am sorry.”
I hesitate. His offered hand tempts me, not unlike the way my Witch Lure tempts him. And that is what this is. Lures and lies.
“This is your wolf talking, Dante. What you think you feel for me … it isn’t true.”
A smile takes his lips. “Then let us live lies together.”
I blink at him.
“Aren’t we liars and murderers? Why not be true to ourselves and in each others’ arms?”
I’m struck with an odd sensation. A strange feeling that warms me, so much so that it fills the void in my stomach. I think Dante sees me. That horrid, putrid darkness within me.
I think he likes it, whether it is his wolf-urge or not, Dante likes me.
“I will never allow you to bite me,” is all I say.
Hand still outstretched, he wiggles his slender fingers and says, “Then let me touch you.”
I do.
The moment my palm rests on his, I am yanked against his bare body. Predictable as he is, his nose finds its place at my neck, then travels up to my jaw. My eyes flutter shut as he nears the healing gash on my cheek. A chaste kiss touches beside the cut.
“Dante.” The stiff quiet of my voice threatens to break our moment. And it shall, for our moment must be broken before we let it carry us into a fantasy land. “We cannot be together. You must know that. Our secrets should remain so in the village.”
Arms tense around me, a new cage that holds me to him. “Why must you speak such truths, Ella? We are liars. Let us be so.”
Dante brushes a final kiss against my temple, then I am cold and without him against me. It is time for him to leave. He tells me with the way he averts his gaze, and how he searches for his clothes while he knows well that they were shredded in his change to wolf.
I take a fur cloak from the back of the armchair and offer it to him. It is the only piece of clothing that might fit him, and as he shrugs it on, I see that it hangs low enough to cover much of his nakedness, but his ankles and feet show under the hem.
Dante gives me that wink of his, but this time it is tainted.
We are tainted.
Before he leaves, he speaks last words that stay with me;
“To live our lies would be sweet like honey, Ella. Sweet enough to catch us both, bitter enough to keep us there.”
26.
For a while, I stand in the herb room, staring at the door he disappeared through. Seconds or minutes have ticked by before I drag myself to the door and push it aside.
The woods have swallowed him up already.
I wonder how he returns to his manor-house at the high hill of the village. Does he have a passageway like I do? A way to move in and out of the walls without detection?
With a sigh, I shove thoughts of him from my mind and look at the brown lump in the garden. Colton’s wolf-corpse, buried by a thick layer of snow and covered with the morn mist.
Grandmother comes around the side of the cabin from the herb garden.
She pulls an axe alongside her, the blade of it scraping through the snow.
“Grandmother.” I hurry down the steps to cut her off at the wolf-corpse. “Must we dismember him? A burial might suffice.”
“Girl, knock off your silliness.” She taps me on the head; I flinch. “We must cut off his head. Beheading a wolf is the way it is done.”
I kick the snow-lump, hard. “He looks dead to me, Grandmother. Decapitation won’t make him any more dead.”
Grandmother steadies me with a sharp glare. “It is deader, for future reference, and you couldn’t be more wrong. For a wolf’s soul to leave its corpse, it must return to human form. Beheading the beast is the only way to allow the body to turn human again. The head will forever remain that of the wolf.”
Silas’ body in a cage springs to mine, and his wolf-head on a pike.
“If you insist.” I take the axe from her, not because I feel I should be the one to chop up a wolf that my emotions are tangled for—but because Grandmother is poorly and weak.
With a studious look, Grandmother watches me. Then, she demands, “Today, you will take his head to the village and announce that you were the one to kill him. I will burn the body.”
My grim face doesn’t meet hers.
As Grandmother sets to stacking firewood, I unearth the wolf from the snow.
When he is completely free of snow, I have no other ways to delay what must be done. I bring the axe down on his neck. It takes five hits before it is completely severed. Either the axe is blunt, or it is harder to behead a wolf than I had expected.
As I ram a pike into his open throat, I let the bud of grief blossom within me.
In a way, I harbour a flicker of sorrow for his death. Yet, I know it was it best for me to let him die.
Colton’s actions were
villainous. Mine were too.
We both wear our cruelties and evils. He was no better than me.
Still, to save myself I dismember him, help Grandmother burn his limbs piece by piece, then I trek through the woods to the village Square.
It is midday when I stab the pike into the soft snow at the church’s front.
For a while, I stand beside it, my grip firm on the pike—for all to know who ended the wolf. A lie. Just as Dante tells me, to live our lies is sweet like honey.
Villagers leak out from their homes. Small trickles of people that soon turn into rivers flowing through the lanes, until they swarm me in a crescent-shape. And in front of me, the Priest stands. He wears the same expression of every other ordinary around me.
Awe-struck. Inspired. Terrified.
With a mere glance at the wolf-head, they know that it is the wolf. Regular wolf-heads aren’t the size of a man’s torso. They don’t have bright yellow eyes or fangs longer than fingers.
Perhaps I am despicable. For when Priest Peter finally reacts and applauds me, and cheers erupt all around me, I smile.
Colton wanted to remove me, to take me away from the village and tear out my throat. But in his death, he has done the opposite.
Colton has secured my place in the village.
Now, thanks to him, I belong.
27.
Four Months Later
Grandmother fought me to the bones.
Whether it had been her pride or her deep-rooted disdain for the village, she couldn’t abide my insistence that she move in with me.
Still, in her poor health Grandmother finally relented. It took only three months of my badgering for her to agree. Now, she lives to pester me whenever I am home. I’m not home often.
I spend my days in the apothecary shop I stole from the physician (Dante might have helped with the cost). Out back, I replanted most of the herbs and flowers from the garden at the cabin. It is protected by a tall fence of its own, next to the privy, and upstairs is my new home above the medicine store.
Grandmother had more than a few words about my purchasing a shop in the Square. It might be because we are from different bloodlines, one true witch and one made witch, but she doesn’t understand my need to belong. In opening the shop, it wasn’t to help others. I would be lying if I said otherwise. My shop is built on the foundations of my selfish needs—to be one of them.
Feared Fables Box Set: Dark and Twisted Fairy Tale Retellings, (Feared Fables Box Sets Book 1) Page 11