Wrath and Ruin (Wishes and Curses Book 1)

by Ripley Proserpina

  Polya pulled the dagger from her side, holding it at the ready, but one soldier had smacked her hand with the flat of the bayonet, and she had dropped it.

  Instead of holing up in her room, she should have spent the time between learning about the Hunt and beginning it practicing how to fight. She was wholly unprepared for this, and never had it been clearer than when the first time she tried to use a weapon, it was knocked unceremoniously from her hand.

  She hissed in pain and saw the eyes of one soldier widen. She hissed again, moving to the side.

  One soldier poked at her, his blade sliding along the small of her back, and she snarled in response. She couldn’t go anywhere but back. Feet planted, she let them come in closer and blocked another blade.

  It sliced her forearm, and then another soldier moved closer, from the other side. When she raised her arm, he sliced her shallowly along that arm. Overwhelmed with frustration, she roared, and suddenly, from off in the forest came a roar in response.

  Her side ached. Each of the cuts drained her both of blood and energy. The next roar was closer. Hurry, please, hurry.

  One soldier turned his head, recognizing the source of the roar, and Polya realized they were emotionless because they knew that this was their last mission.

  They knew if they’d had to come out of their hiding spots to engage her, they would engage the bear. And they would never survive the bear.

  The soldier glanced at her, and pulled out his sidearm. Polya roared, snarled, hissed. It wasn’t fair!

  He pulled the trigger, and something pierced her shoulder.

  It was no bigger than her mother’s embroidery needle. At first, a soothing heat radiated from the needle. The warmth went along her shoulder, moving down her arm. But as it crossed her back, oozing to the other side, it got hotter until it felt like a million needles, all filled with poison, stabbing her, over and over.

  Then the warmth began in other parts of her body: across her thighs, along her arms, her neck, her hips, her stomach. The poison spread into her face, making her eyes burn, blinding her. Her skin was melting right off her bones, but she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t do anything. There was nothing, nothing except the fire.

  Until she felt him.

  A nose, a breath of air, that was all. Then it was fire, all consuming, all-encompassing fire.

  She could see the flames. These burned so hot they were white and blue.

  What do you want?

  The voice came from the center of the flames, rising up to the sky like a skeletal bird, wings outstretched, bones illuminated against the brightness of the fire.

  What do you want more than anything?

  Polya wanted to crawl out of her skin, she wanted to leave the fire behind and dive, soul-full, into a cool lake. She ignored the voice that only made her hotter and hurt her more.

  Polya.

  A different voice. This one a cool breeze across her skin. But the fire roared hotter, as if the air that soothed her body fanned the flames.

  I have you. We’ll work together.

  Polya focused on that voice, despite the heat.

  Stay with me, Polya. I’ll make the pain go away, just tell me what you want, the first voice promised.

  I have you, Polya. This voice—the cool blue voice—was her lifeline. She held onto it with both hands, with her entire being, even as it turned and twisted wildly away from the inferno.

  I have you, Polya.

  Anatoliy and the King

  Anatoliy walked as quickly as he dared, aware of soldiers behind him, the guns pointed at him, the mortars, the canons. He was at their mercy and hoped going in the direction of the mountain would be enough for them to hold their fire.

  Polya still breathed, but barely. His fur stirred with each exhalation, but the breaths came far apart. He didn’t want to turn his head to see her, afraid he could dislodge her and he’d never be able to get her on his back again.

  So he chanted the same words to her over and over, wishing she could hear him. I have you, Polya. I have you.

  Anatoliy cursed his decision. He was at the mountain. The very place he didn’t want to go. And he was worse off than if he’d just come here in the beginning. Polya was injured, severely injured, and he didn’t have the dexterity to open jars or to apply bandages.

  He was useless.

  He roared, and she startled against his back.

  I have you, Polya.

  Whether or not he could save her was still in question.

  He stared up at the mountain. Merely three miles of tree cover were left before the land became rocky and the plants scrub brush. Beyond that—snow, ice, crevasses, exposure.

  He stopped and nearly stood on his hind legs to find a better path before he remembered Polya.

  The wind blew stronger here and carried with it the scent of rock and ice. It shifted, and he snarled, a different scent on the wind.

  Human, familiar.

  Aleksandr.

  Anatoliy stopped, backed up and snarled low in his throat.

  Behind him, hammers were cocked. There was only one group of soldiers who could remain hidden until they wanted to reveal themselves. He took a deep breath, and smelled his old friend, Dara. He felt a measure of hope, which doused quickly when he realized there was nothing his friend could do surrounded by the king’s army, who no doubt, had orders to kill anyone who tried to help him.

  Aleksandr walked through the trees, almost as if he’d been given a cue to do so after waiting patiently.

  He appeared serene, smiling, and comfortable in his tall furred hat and furred coat. In his hands, he held a hunting rifle, and he leveled it at Anatoliy nonchalantly, laying the barrel across his forearm before he propped his foot on a rock.

  “How are you enjoying the Hunt?” Aleksandr asked, smoothing his mustache with one hand. “I find myself exceedingly distracted by it.”

  A man puffed up the hill. He lowered the huge box on his back, and immediately set to work. He attached legs, twisted the box, slid in glass plates, and waited.

  “Do hold still, Beast,” Aleksandr said. “We don’t want to give the newspaper a blurry photo. Sergeant,” Aleksandr addressed Dara. “Please remove the Princess from the Beast’s back.”

  Dara shouldered his rifle, and stepped forward. He met Anatoliy’s worried eyes.

  Help her, he silently pleaded.

  Dara gently lowered Polya to the ground. Anatoliy didn’t move his gaze from her, barely aware of the pop and scent of smoke and iodine.

  Help her, he asked again, staring at Dara.

  “She needs medical attention, Vaša Svjetlost.”

  He ignored Dara, peering instead at the photographer. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes, Vaša Svjetlost.”

  Aleksandr adjusted his stance, and snapped his gun to his shoulder. In response, Anatoliy growled, and moved forward slowly, stalking toward Aleksandr.

  Help her.

  With one shrug, the king lowered his gun, leveling the barrels at Anatoliy’s head. “Stop, Beast.”

  Anatoliy took one more step, heard the pop and smelled the iodine before he snarled and took another step. The king swung the gun to Polya’s still form. “I said, stop.”

  Anatoliy froze, but continued to growl low in his throat.

  Aleksandr smiled. “For such a strong beast, you are easily controlled.”

  He pulled the hammer back on the gun, and fired it without looking. The ground next to Polya exploded, spraying her body with dirt. Anatoliy lunged, his teeth inches from the king.

  “That was a warning.” Dead-eyed, Aleksandr held Anatoliy’s stare. Unconcerned with his Beast’s display, he showed no fear. Anatoliy’s growl quieted before he cut it off.

  “You will continue upward. There is a path and it leads to your next challenge. Do not try to enter the forest again until you’ve completed the challenge. Hopefully the princess will survive. If she does not, you will complete it on your own. Any humans you see are there to record your per
formance.”

  A flash of forest green appeared in the corner of his eye, and he swung his head, snarling at the threat, but it was Dara. He knelt by Polya, checked her pulse, lifted her eyelids. He stood, and met Anatoliy’s gaze. “Vaša Svjetlost, may we help the Princess?”

  Aleksandr sighed. “You may place her back on the Beast. That is the extent of the aid we give.”

  There was another pop as Dara lifted her and placed her on Anatoliy’s back. Dara’s hand slid under the strap holding the casks to his body as he placed small bottle underneath it.

  He hoped whatever was there would help her. Though how to administer what was inside would prove more challenging.

  One step at a time.

  “I thought you were finished.”

  “My apologies, Vaša Svjetlost.”

  Dara stepped away from his body, but not before giving him a minute reassuring pat. The king walked away from him, stepping backward without care. “Enjoy this next challenge. It is one of my favorites.”

  Anatoliy snarled, and Aleksandr laughed. “Let’s go.”

  The men disappeared into the woods, fading away as if they’d winked out of existence.

  Walking up the hill, Anatoliy strained his ears, breathed in the air, and with every ounce of his being, tried to sense danger. There was something in the air, something different, something… wrong.

  The trees thinned out, and there, ahead of him was the challenge and a sign—“Go to the Mountain.”

  Shelter

  Anatoliy hesitated. If he entered, the challenge would begin, but if he didn’t, they would be shot and shelled. Here, those explosions close to the snow and rock could result in an avalanche.

  He took wary steps forward. The entrance was a hastily constructed arch made of young saplings. Their boughs twisted and turned, wrapped around each other. There was still another mile of trees before the snow.

  The path was marked with the blue and gold flags of Aleksandr’s family crest. The same as the ones which led from the arena to the hut. Once he passed through the arch, he stopped and gently lowered his body to the ground.

  He rotated his head until he could reach the fabric holding the casks to his body, and bit at it until it ripped and the casks fell to the ground.

  He slid a few more feet and gently rolled to one side. With his head motionless to catch Polya, he continued to roll until she shifted off of him.

  She smelled different. A sickly, sour smell replaced her warm, sunny one. It seemed to leak from her pores. Her skin was pale and sweaty, and though her face was flushed, her body shivered.

  She’d been cut in a number of places—shallow slices which had already stopped bleeding. Nosing aside the fabric, he shoved away the casks until he found the silver vial Dara had tucked against him.

  Anatoliy picked it up delicately between his teeth before settling his body around Polya. He dropped the vial and pushed and pulled at her body until her torso lay over one of his paws and he could drop his neck and head across her if he needed to keep her warm. He picked up the vial again, extending the claws on one paw before wedging the vial between them.

  Here was the challenge. Pull out the stopper and tip the contents into her mouth. He assumed it was medicine. He trusted Dara above everyone.

  Except maybe this girl, suggested a cautious voice in the back of his mind.

  Experimentally, he tongued the vial around with his teeth then inserted his canine into the cork and pulled. The entire vial slid out of his paw, and he was stuck with the vial hanging from his mouth.

  He wondered if he was being watched now, as he used his tongue to dislodge the bottle and keep it steady between his teeth. He lowered his head, keeping it closer to Polya’s slightly open mouth. The vial tipped, and he got a drop of a bitter vinegary liquid on his tongue. Moving confidently now, he dribbled it over the place he thought Polya’s mouth would be.

  Anatoliy only had one chance, and he couldn’t stop to make sure he was getting it right, because it would spill into his mouth. He turned his head as far as it would go before he swept the bottle aside with his paw and examined Polya.

  His aim was good. Most of it had gone into her mouth. A thin rivulet of liquid trailed along the side of her face. Snout to her mouth, he sniffed, and smelled the liquid on her breath. His breath huffed out of him in a relieved sigh.

  Still careful of her wound, he tucked his head around her side and pulled her more tightly against his chest. He tilted his head down, closing his eyes to shut out the sights and sounds of the forest. His only focus was on her heartbeat, her breath, and scent.

  He waited, and as it began to grow dark, he found the cask and unstopped it, wedging it under his neck, until it spilled unceremoniously on her face. Her pink tongue escaped her mouth and she lapped at the water, one hand coming up and clumsily wiping it off her face. He stopped pouring, waited, and her eyes opened. They were dark, the pupils dilated so only a ring of blue was left around the black. “More.”

  Her tone was demanding, brusque, and he wanted to smile. He wished his mouth moved that way.

  Carefully, he tipped the cask again.

  She lifted her head, and tried to hold the cask, but he growled warningly. Stop it.

  She finished drinking and snarled in response, “Don’t be a bully.”

  The scolding tone in her voice had him nearly trembling in relief.

  Her eyes closed, and her head slipped back onto his paws. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he watched her sleep. He prayed they would be left alone and given time for her to recover enough that she could move.

  He would protect her better this time. They would stay together. She would listen.

  The thought made him snort in the darkness. What little he knew of Polya made that wishful thinking. She’d never listen if she felt obligated to do a thing.

  Slowly, he removed his paw from under her head to let it rest against the ground. He stood and gradually moved his head along her body, sniffing at the wounds. The sick smell was stuck to her clothes, but when he nosed the fabric away, her skin smelled more like her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was amazed he had attached so quickly to her. He had already memorized her scent.

  Nose over her hip, he sniffed loudly. A quick poke in the eye with her tail made him draw back and huff out a laugh. He watched her face, and her mouth tipped in a smile.

  “Let me sleep.” Her voice was stronger, and he sat down, stretching himself out so his head was even with hers. He couldn’t resist the smug smile on her face and the way her tail slapped against the ground as if she was exasperated with his actions. He put his head right next to hers, and she tilted her head toward him, her nose against his snout. Her lips pursed, and she kissed him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Anatoliy wished for lips so he could kiss her in return. He had never wanted to kiss someone as much as he wanted to kiss Polya. Not during his boarding school days when he ran amok in the city, not during the days of officer candidate school when he would binge and frequent bars where the booze was always free and the women mostly easy.

  He had grown up a noble, a poor noble, and the younger son of a poor noble, so he had never given much thought to women beyond what brief pleasure they gave him. He had never met a girl he wanted to marry.

  In fact, he’d never met a girl he really liked. Girls, and then women, were strange, shy creatures. They giggled and swooned, and didn’t care about swords or fighting, or any of the things which had dominated Anatoliy’s life.

  This girl—this strange, fanged girl with a striped tail—was magical. She was smart, and spoiled, and she stamped her foot and claimed things weren’t fair.

  How was it possible she was surprised things weren’t fair when she’d been forced into this hunt? He wanted to know how she had been made to participate. He wanted to know everything about her.

  He would ask her.

  When she woke up, he would write his questions on the forest floor. He would show her he understood what she w
as saying. They would make a plan, together, about how to finish this thing. He would ask who she was, what she knew about the Hunt, how they had made her play. He would answer whatever questions she had. He would tell her who he really was.

  He stopped breathing.

  Should he? Should he tell her that he wasn’t a bear, but a man transformed into a bear? He wanted to. He wanted to more than anything. Even if he was forever a bear, he wanted her to know.

  Polya on the Mountain

  Polya shivered and ached. Her muscles were so tense. Every shiver jarred her entire body, making her arch into the air. Her mind was immediately plunged back into reality. The fire burned her body, but now, her mind not only had to process the sensations of pain, but the light, the cold, the smell of the forest, the taste of blood in her mouth.

  She groaned and arched again, trying to escape the pain. A cold nose touched her face, and when she slammed into the ground, something soft was beneath her.

  The bear’s blue eyes focused on hers, drawing her in, forcing her to focus on him. Only him. He had given her medicine and water, but whatever relief they had supplied was short-lived. She needed this torment to end. It would drive her mad.

  Still the bear watched her, as if he could hear every thought, feel every emotion, and her pain. He looked like he could understand the pain. More than that, it seemed like he had suffered and been burned in the fire, too.

  She’d lost the ability to speak, though her mind raced, processing sensations and emotions. She couldn’t ask for water to wet her dry and cracked tongue or for the bear to pull her close and lay his cold nose on her hot neck.

  Just as she had the thought though, he put his nose on her neck, near her ear. Then, pushing against her head, he put his nose on the other side of her neck. She sighed in relief. He cooled the fire from the outside, the steam hissing angrily when it was doused.

  “Water?” she croaked.

  The bear slid away from her, and her head touched the ground. He must have had her head resting on his paws. He hopped toward her awkwardly, the cask tucked against his neck, one paw holding it close. He tipped it and looked at her. She remembered him dribbling the water onto her face earlier.