The Wolves of Paris

by Michael Wallace

  “Brother!” Marco yelled. “Help me!”

  Lorenzo turned to see Marco fighting for his life. Two dead men-at-arms lay at his feet. A pair of wolves circled him, snarling and snapping while he thrust and jabbed wildly to drive them off. He stumbled and dropped to one knee. The wolves crouched to spring.

  Lorenzo yelled with a sudden, savage fury. He leaped into the fray with his sword flying. One of the wolves spun around and snapped a defense. The other leaped at his brother. It slammed into Marco’s chest and knocked him to the ground.

  Caught in his own fight for his life, Lorenzo couldn’t reach his brother. He jabbed and ducked and feinted and slashed. He dodged a leap and a snap of jaws that caught and tore his cloak, but fell short of his throat. At last he landed a blow with the sword across his enemy’s ribs. The wolf fell back with a yelp, then turned to join one of the others in harrying a pair of wounded guards. Lorenzo rushed to Marco’s side.

  His brother lay on his back, with the wolf pinning him to the ground. Lorenzo roared as he thrust his sword. The wolf, already wounded by a jagged gash across its belly, shuddered and tried to pull free. Lorenzo shoved his blade in. The wolf convulsed and died. Lorenzo pushed it away with his boot.

  Marco lay in a puddle of blood. But as Lorenzo dropped to one knee, crying out in fear and grief, his brother coughed and tried to sit up. Lorenzo let out a gasp of relief. Marco was alive, and most of the blood was the wolf’s.

  “I’m all right,” Marco gasped.

  He tucked his left arm against his body. The wolf had torn the sleeve to ribbons and opened an ugly gash on his forearm. He looked down and winced.

  “I hope Lucrezia has some balm left. Rather not join those brutes.” He struggled to get his legs beneath him. “Help me up.”

  By the time they rejoined the battle, the lines were changing. Men had fought in knots, two or three for every wolf and had been gradually winning the battle. Two wolves were down already, three more wounded and trying to flee. Several men-at-arms lay dead as well, but their numbers were greater.

  Then the fleeing priests and monks broke through their ranks, running for the door. The wolves regrouped in the confusion. Courtaud leaped among them, snarling and biting the haunches of the weaker members of the pack. Soon they had regrouped into a force ten or twelve strong. They formed a vicious wedge and drove their way down the nave toward the choir. Shortly they would meet the second group savaging the men of the cloth still alive by the crypts.

  “Form ranks!” Nemours shouted.

  He stood about ten feet away from Marco and Lorenzo with his sword raised in the air. A gash opened on his leg, with an angry, bleeding wound from his knee halfway to his crotch.

  Men gathered around him.

  “We’ve got those devils trapped,” he said, his eyes gleaming with reflected torchlight. “Hunt them down, kill them all.”

  The wolves were halfway to the choir and to the stairs that led down into the crypt. The only thing stopping them was a desperate mass of monks with staves, together with two men in the boiled leather armor of the city watch. Lorenzo recognized at once what was happening, and what Nemours did not seem to realize.

  The wolves were driving for the crypt. The battle hadn’t gone as they’d intended, and they meant to flee. But to where? The crypt? There must be another way out of Notre Dame.

  It was the only thing that made sense. The crypt must lead to ancient catacombs beneath the building, then to tunnels leading into the cathedral close or beyond. It was how the second pack of wolves had entered unseen.

  But how had they navigated the catacombs to spring into the heart of the cathedral at just the right moment? If there were doors down there, wouldn’t they be barred? And Lorenzo had spotted the entrance to the crypt itself earlier, blocked with a metal grating. Someone had opened it. A wolf? Not likely.

  The important thing was to keep them from chewing through the last few defenders and pouring back into the ground as quickly as they’d emerged. Only a handful of wolves had fallen—the rest could regain the streets and flee Paris. Retreat to the countryside and the woods to kill, to rebuild their pack. How long before they attacked again in even greater numbers?

  “Stop them!” Lorenzo shouted. “They’re escaping into the crypts!”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Lucrezia. My wife.”

  Rigord pushed past the injured wolf. He had changed into something monstrous. Lucrezia recognized his voice, but this thing, this hideous creature stepping out of the shadows, was neither man nor wolf.

  Her husband stood upright like a man, only stooped, like a giant trying to fit through a passageway too short for his height. His hands—if they could still be called hands—dangled below his knees. They had long, grasping fingers, like a person’s, but sharpened with claws. Black hair covered every inch of his naked body, thick as a wolf pelt. His feet were like a wolf’s hind paws, and his back legs bent at a strange angle, like something that was meant to run on all fours and not stand upright.

  But the most terrible thing was what had become of his face. His ears stood high and pointed, like a wolf’s, and his face had elongated into a snout, huge and powerful. His mouth gaped open, filled with teeth longer and sharper than any wolf’s.

  Only his eyes remained unchanged. Not lupine at all, but a man’s eyes—Rigord’s eyes—dark brown and intelligent. Somehow, that made everything else about this thing all the more terrible. The human eyes.

  The injured wolf by his side, so terrible moments earlier, was now a timid, frightened thing next to its master. It cowered behind Rigord, snarling, tail between its legs in submission.

  Her husband must have seen the horror in her eyes, because he chuckled without mirth.

  “Now you see what you did to me, woman,” he said. “Not a wolf. Not a man. Something else entirely.”

  “But you changed,” she managed through a mouth as dry as carded wool, and with a tongue that seemed to be made of lead. “I saw you with my own eyes. You turned into a wolf and you fled.”

  “Yes, after you stabbed me.”

  “I didn’t want to,” she said. “I only wanted to—Rigord, it was an abomination! The way you were using that woman. Drinking blood. And look what you’ve done since you changed. Murdered people in the city, eaten children. And terrorized the roads. Attacked people in their sleep. Turned men to wolves.”

  Rigord pulled back his lips in something that was meant to be a smile but only looked like a snarled leer. “You give me too much credit, my dear. Most of that was Courtaud.”

  “But you did that, didn’t you? You changed him.”

  In the back of her mind, she could only think of stalling. The fighting continued in the rooms behind the corridor at a furious pace. Men shouted, wolves snarled. Rigord was a fool, consumed by some sort of desire to kill her instead of going back to spread terror along with his pack. But if she could hold him for a few seconds longer Tullia or Martin might rush to her defense.

  “I did, yes. Alas, we had a falling out. He leads his pack and I lead mine.”

  She guessed what had caused this falling out. Never mind these two men, already strong in real life, now powerful and corrupted by their transformation. No pack could have two wolves at its head.

  “And this? This half form, what is it?”

  “I tried to turn back. When the moon changed phases, I spoke the incantation to bring me back into the form of a man. But you corrupted it, damn you. Halfway, that’s all I managed.”

  He stepped toward her, his steps lurching in a way like no man would ever walk.

  “This form suits me,” he said. “A true loup-garou, man and wolf entwined. Both natures at once. There’s no one like me, there never has been and never will be again. And I have powers. I wrap myself in shadows, enter where I will. When I’m challenged, I show my face and men weep for mercy.”

  “Why, Rigord? Why would you kill these people? Not only men, but women and children, too.”

  He moved so swiftly
she couldn’t react. One clawed hand seized her wrist in an iron grip. The dagger stood immobile in her fist. The other hand closed around her neck. His heavy scent filled her nostrils, wolf and man and blood that came together in a stomach-churning mix. She trembled, unable to move. Terrified.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” he growled in her ear. “The hunger. It’s all consuming. When you haven’t fed, you can think of nothing else. You’re only happy among your pack, spreading terror, killing. When you feast on human flesh—there’s no greater desire nor joy.”

  “You’re a monster.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s too late now. You unleashed me on the world. It’s your fault.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Now,” he said, but not to her, rather to the wolf behind him. “We feast on this woman’s blood.”

  “You turned all of your friends?” she said quickly, desperate to gain a few seconds. “The ones I saw that night with the woman?”

  “Only Courtaud and Bayezid. The others came to me later, those who survived. Mostly men, a few women.”

  “None of them can change back?”

  Rigord shook his huge, shaggy head. “None. Your corruption was complete, woman.”

  “Then how did Courtaud gain entrance to Lord Nemours’s chatelet?”

  He drew his snout back a few inches. “What do you mean?”

  “They’d raised the drawbridge. We were behind stone walls. A man was turning to a wolf in the basement. Courtaud and another wolf came to claim him for the pack. He broke free when they came. Courtaud must have changed into a man and tricked his way into the castle.”

  “No. Impossible.”

  But she could see the confusion working in his eyes. And doubt. Rigord was wondering if he was wrong, if Courtaud and the others had something he could never reclaim—the ability to turn back into a man and walk among humans when he chose.

  He roared and flung her down. She landed hard, her head smacking painfully against the flagstones. The dagger clattered across the floor. He pulled back his powerful arm with its claws outstretched, to slash her open.

  The door flew open at the far end of the corridor. Martin stood there, his sword dripping with blood and gore. Lorenzo’s servant Demetrius, too, the left side of his face a ruin, one eyeball destroyed. Two wounded guards with spears backed them, and Tullia came in after. The mastiff bled from several wounds, but seemed untroubled by the injuries as she roared her challenge. The sound of battle continued to their rear with surprising ferocity.

  Rigord and the wolf whirled to face this new threat. Even against four armed men and a mastiff they presented a formidable front. Her husband, if he raised himself to his full height instead of hunching in that lupine fashion, would scrape the ceiling, two full heads taller than any of the men. The wolf was smaller, but at least as big as Tullia. And there were still wolves in the house, ready to join the battle.

  “Mercy,” Martin said as he caught sight of Rigord. His eyes opened wide.

  Rigord snarled and drew back to spring forward. Still lying on the stone floor, Lucrezia grabbed for her dagger. Before he could leap, she buried the blade in his calf. He howled in pain. His jaws snapped down to tear off her head. Before he could reach her, Tullia slammed into him and knocked him back. The others joined the battle.

  Lucrezia yanked back her knife, slick with her husband’s blood. She ducked to the side, then got to her feet. More men and wolves spilled into the corridor as the battle came toward the tower. They were evenly matched in numbers, some half dozen of each. Every man and wolf among them suffered injuries, but the men were in worse shape. Some had lost weapons and fought with mailed fists or spear shafts with broken-off points. One man carried a dagger no bigger than a kitchen knife. He snatched a torch from the wall and waved it madly in the air.

  All of them bled from cuts in their arms, legs, or faces. Even as he gained the corridor, the man with the small knife and torch fell. A wolf went for his throat and finished him off. Tullia rolled end over end with the injured wolf that had stood behind Rigord. The two animals bit savagely at each others’ haunches.

  Demetrius stabbed at Rigord with the sword, but her husband slashed with his claws and raked the man across the cheek. Still fighting, the Greek came around again with the sword, but Rigord seized his arm with one of those powerful hands. He slammed the man’s sword hand against the wall. The weapon fell. Huge jaws darted in and snapped shut. Rigord came away with half of the man’s face.

  The sight was so awful that Lucrezia almost fainted. But she was in a fight for her own life. A wolf came at her, biting and snarling, and she slashed with her dagger. Her other arm swept her cloak forward and wrapped it around the beast’s muzzle. She stabbed before it could pull away, and drew blood.

  Then Martin was by her side, slashing and hacking. The injured wolf died under their joint attack.

  He grabbed her arm. “To the tower! Hurry!”

  “No, I won’t run.”

  “Please, my lady!”

  The wolves were getting the upper hand. Two of the six who’d come in had fallen, plus the injured wolf that had menaced her before her husband’s arrival, but four more fought on, one struggling to free itself from Tullia’s jaws, but the other three getting the better of their human foes. Rigord waded in, slashing and biting and kicking with his clawed feet. He threw one man against the wall, and Lucrezia realized with horror that he was going for Tullia. His lips pulled back in a snarl and murder lit up his eyes.

  It was because of that night in the library. Cicero and Tullia had driven him from the house. Cicero had died, and now Rigord meant to take care of Tullia.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Lucrezia jerked free from Martin and tried to fight her way through the battle, but the quarters were too close. Her dagger slashed right and left, but she couldn’t make any progress toward her dog.

  Tullia came up with a bloody muzzle. The wolf lay dead, throat open, eyes glazed, tongue hanging from its open mouth. The mastiff turned her head toward Rigord, now looming above her. She threw herself at him.

  The two grappled in the air. Rigord fell back, clawed hands pushing at the dog’s snarling, snapping jaws. Her teeth clamped on the wolf man’s hand and he howled in pain and rage. His mouth opened, showing lines of teeth, gleaming and dripping. His head plunged in. The two fell to the ground. Only Rigord came up. Tullia lay on the floor, head torn nearly off.

  Lucrezia wailed in grief. She almost reached her husband as he returned to the battle, but Martin and one of the remaining guards grabbed her arms and dragged her back. She lost the grip on her dagger and it fell.

  Two wolves remained, facing two guards, but one man had fallen to his knees and the tip of his sword had broken off. The other was backed into the corner, covered in cuts, but still standing and armed when the wolves came at them. Dead men and wolves lay all around them. Rigord roared into the battle.

  Lucrezia didn’t see what happened next. Martin and the last guard had her to the stairs and at last she relented. One final, anguished glance at her dead dog, at the carnage in the hallway, then she ran up the stairs, following Martin, with the armed guard struggling up behind. He was one of Lorenzo and Marco’s men, hired to escort their caravan through the Alps and along the long road up France to Paris.

  A man screamed below as they rounded the first turn up the tower. Then the sounds of pursuit, claws on stone. Their enemies howled as they climbed. It sounded like two—Lucrezia prayed to God the beleaguered guards had taken at least one of the remaining wolves before dying.

  Martin disappeared above her. The door opened with a groan and a gust of cold air that rushed down the tower. He cried for the other two to hurry. One more turn and they’d be there. The enemy was right below them, closing quickly.

  Behind Lucrezia, the final guard screamed. She turned to see the wolf had seized his calf. The man flailed with his sword and he and the wolf stumbled. They rolled several steps, still grappl
ing, then disappeared as the stairway curved toward the bottom. Breastplate and gauntlets clanked against the stone as they continued to fall. Rigord cursed somewhere from the darkness below.

  Lucrezia reached the doorway. Martin grabbed her arm and dragged her through and into the open air. He turned toward the open entrance, waiting for the last guard.

  “Fabricio!” he called. “For God’s sake, man!”

  The only answer was a snarl and a dark shape racing up the stairs. Rigord. Fabricio would not be coming.

  Martin and Lucrezia lowered their shoulders and drove the door shut, then threw down the crossbar. Not an instant too soon. Rigord slammed into the door and it shook on its hinges.

  Paris stretched below them. The frozen Seine lay on one side of the tower, the hard street on the other. Lights flickered behind windows below them, and the heavy odor of wood smoke hung in the air as people huddled at fires to keep warm on this cold, plague-infested night, when wolf howls filled the air. Death stalked the streets and every soul knew it.

  The smoke turned the gibbous moon a ruddy orange. The wind gusted her hair, so cold it seemed to suck the breath from her chest and turn her lungs to ice. Inside, she prayed for help as she hadn’t prayed since she was a child.

  The door rocked on its hinges. Rigord snarled in rage and tore at the wood with his claws.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” Martin said, his voice heavy and trembling. “I have failed you.”

  “Courage, Martin,” she said, though she felt weak with fear of the snarling, scratching creature behind the door. This thing that had once been her husband. “We aren’t finished yet.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Lorenzo and Marco fought their way across the cathedral nave toward Lord Nemours’s side, yelling a warning about the fleeing wolves. Several men lay bleeding or dead. One of them sagged against a pillar with his hand clenched to his gut, which split open from side to side. Another clamped his hand over his neck, trying to hold in the blood that gushed between his fingers. Two men ran for the cathedral doors, fleeing the battle. Faced with the wolves, their courage had failed.