by Jane Godman
Cal had arched a brow at her in the moonlight. “You can necromance us up more light than any torch,” he had reminded her. “But it’s best to do this without. They prefer the darkness.”
“Okay.” She had set her shoulders determinedly. “Let’s get this over and done as fast as we can. Don’t we need to kill a chicken, make the sign of a five-pointed star or light a black candle?”
“You watch way too many horror films and play some very dodgy computer games.”
“Explain to me why, once I have raised them, they are not zombies.”
“Because you are not enslaving them. You will offer them free will. They can choose whether to come to you and when to return to their resting place. When a necromancer raises a zombie, he or she creates a mindless, undead slave. It’s not a practice I recommend. I’ve seen it go horribly wrong.”
“As in the flesh-eating monsters of my iffy games?” Stella scanned his face in the moonlight.
Cal nodded. “And worse. This will be nothing like that.”
And he was right. It hadn’t been the way she had envisioned. She hadn’t needed to give any commands. Almost as soon as she set foot inside the cemetery gates, she became aware of the shifting shadows. Darker shapes within the moonlit gloom. Willingly, they had come to her, rising up from their resting places, seeking her out, wanting to tell her their stories, and offering her their allegiance. Almost, it seemed, giving her their love. In the end, she had stayed in that lonely place all night, even when the heavens opened while lightning tore the clouds to shreds and thunder made the soft whispers of those long dead even fainter. Dawn had been raising a dim curtain on the rain-soaked landscape when she had walked back to the bower in silence. Cal, in tune with her mood, had offered no comment, either then or when she had gone straight to bed and slept until noon.
It had been that encounter, more than the spectacular sight of Grindan’s eerie army, that had brought about this introspective mood. That and the fact that, no matter how hard she tried to push them aside, the feelings she had for Cal persisted. They were feelings that had nothing to do with the past. The image she used to have of her life following a road that changed course had been abruptly altered by the intrusion into her world of a faerie called Moncoya. There was no longer a road for her to follow. She had been thrust off the track and into wild, uncharted territory. It was up to her now to tear a path through the undergrowth with her bare hands. The Stella who had existed before that point had changed and, with that change, Cal’s role in her life had become different. He would always protect her, she knew that. That night in the cemetery she finally understood why he chose the path he had. She had forgiven his comment about protecting her being a job. She knew she would do the same in his shoes. The obligation upon them—the weight they both bore—was infinite.
They were equals now. Not only in the power they wielded over the dead. They were evenly matched in the hunger they felt for each other. Cal wanted her as much as she wanted him. Stella had felt his yearning in the kiss he broke so abruptly. She caught it in his eyes as he glanced at her when he thought she wasn’t aware of his gaze. Yet, when she looked deeper into those inscrutable silver depths, it seemed the barricades between them remained impregnable. For him, she sensed that the obstruction came from something in the past rather than the confrontation to come. For her it was simpler. It centered on the question that played on a continuous loop in her mind. Who are you, Cal? But, if she discovered the answer, would the barricades be lowered or raised? If she was going to like what she found out, why was Cal taking such trouble to keep it hidden?
Sighing, she decided to go back to the cave. Being in Cal’s company wouldn’t stop her thinking about him. Quite the opposite. But at least it didn’t smell so bad underground. The stink was getting worse. She rose to her feet. As she did, her breath caught in her throat in shock. A man was hunkered down a few feet away. Although he was in shadow, his eyes gleamed like burnished gold as he watched her. Of all the thoughts racing through her mind—How had he breached the magical boundary Cal had placed around the bower? Where was Cal? Why did this intruder smell so awful?—the fact that he was naked barely registered.
Stella took an instinctive step back. The man bared his teeth in what might have been a grin. Or it might have been a snarl. At the same time, he rose out of his crouch and lunged, halting just a foot or two from her. Since his intention seemed to be to seize hold of her, she was unsure, at first, what it was that had halted him. It soon became all too horribly obvious. It was fully dark now, with only a faint trace of moonlight illuminating the scene through the branches that loomed overhead. It was enough for Stella to see the transformation that had his body in a powerful grip. She observed in horrified fascination the phenomenon of coarse strands sprouting all at once from every pore on his body so that he was immediately covered all over by thick, dark hair. There was a creaking sound, as if his bones were changing shape. Under her horrified gaze, the fingers reaching for her lengthened, tapering into vicious claws. Throwing back his head to reveal yellowing fangs, he howled once in the direction of the huge full moon before turning his attention back to Stella.
He moved forward until he was mere inches away, and the fetid odor of his body was almost pleasant in comparison with the old-blood scent of his breath. A movement in the trees above his head diverted his attention briefly. Stella did not look up, but the soft velvet flapping sound of a falcon’s wings signaled the bird’s presence.
“Oflinnan.” Her voice was quiet but compelling as she addressed the wolf-man. “Cease.”
He did, stopping in his tracks as if an invisible barrier had been raised between them. His lips drew back. This time it definitely was an attempt at an ingratiating smile. It failed. “Come here to me, little necromancer.” His voice was a hoarse rasp, like fingernails grating slowly down a chalkboard. “Come give your heart to a man who knows what to do with it.”
“Eat it, you mean?” Stella asked. Bravado and dark humor might have been misplaced in the circumstances, but she had a feeling that if she showed him any fear, her power over him would be diminished.
He laughed. Or perhaps growled. The bird rustled in the tree again. Distracted, the wolf-man looked up. “Tell your feathered friend to fly away out of here.”
“He’s no friend of mine. I thought he came with you.” And yet, now that she thought about it, there was something about the falcon. The last time one had landed here it had brought a message for Cal. This was not the same bird. Stella had no idea how she knew that. She just did. For some reason she sensed that, for her at least, the falcon was a benign presence. It was a fleeting sensation, one she could not afford to dwell on.
Her mind had been off the wolf-man for a second or two, but it was long enough for him to spring forward on his haunches, teeth bared. She threw up a hand before he could grip her upper arms with those lethal talons, and her palm came to rest against the harsh pelt of his chest.
“Fýrwylm.” She hoped she had remembered the correct pronunciation.
It seemed she had. The wolf’s howl of pain split the night in two as a ball of fire passed from Stella’s open palm and into his body. The creature dropped to the ground, shuddering and groaning. A smell of mingled burning fur and flesh replaced the rotten animal scent that had invaded Stella’s nostrils for the past quarter of an hour. It wasn’t an improvement.
“Don’t kill him. Not yet.”
She looked up in surprise as the tree branches shook and the huge falcon flew down. As the bird landed beside her, it stretched out its vast, dark wings and drew itself slowly upright. Before Stella’s startled eyes, the silken feathers disappeared and human flesh emerged. Within seconds, no trace of the bird remained and Cal was standing at her side in its place.
“You bastard,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Sadly, that’s always been one of the rumors about me,” he repli
ed with a cheerful grin. “But my parents aren’t around so I can’t ask them.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. You allowed this to happen. You let him get to me. It was a test. You were seeing if I could go it alone.”
“And you did. But I was always right here if you needed me...” They were interrupted by a pitiful groan from the figure on the rocks at their feet. “A bit of light would be useful here, Stella. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it earlier.”
Casting a less-than-friendly look in Cal’s direction, Stella focused her attention on lighting up the area immediately around them and then crouched to observe the injured wolf-man. She was shocked at what she saw. All trace of fur, fangs and claws was gone. He was just a skinny, scared youth and, although he glared at them with venom in his eyes, his fear was palpable. Angry red burns had melted away the pale flesh of his chest.
“Kill me, necromancer.” The words were an anguished plea. “Bring my nightmare to an end.”
“Who sent you?” Cal was close enough for Stella to smell the warm, fresh scent of his flesh. She focused on that for a second. He was the first good thing her nostrils had encountered since the sun had gone down.
“I don’t know. Something drives me when the moon is full, but I don’t usually know what I’m doing.” The youth writhed as though hit by a fresh wave of pain. “This time, I heard a voice telling me to come here. Urging me to take the heart of the necromancer. Over and over.” He clenched his fists against his temples. “I couldn’t get that sound out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. So I came.”
“Man or woman? Was there anything distinctive about this voice?” Cal asked.
“Man. And do you mean the lisp?” He began to shake. “I know what this is. I’ve read the books and seen the films. There’s no cure for what I’ve become. I’ll keep killing until someone stops me by piercing my heart with silver. Do what you have to do.”
Stella rose to her feet, gesturing for Cal to move away slightly so that they could talk without being overheard. “Is that true? Isn’t there anything else we can do for him?”
“He has been infected by the bite of a true lycanthrope—what has become known as the werewolf—and he is right when he says there is no cure. It is a curse that can only be purged by the death of the host.” He glanced down at the boy, his face unreadable in the shimmering moonlight. Stella thought there was a trace of sadness in his expression. “We dare not let him go.”
“Are you seriously telling me we have to kill him?”
“We have no choice, Stella. He said it himself.”
She tried another approach. “We don’t have a gun, let alone any silver bullets.”
Cal held up his hand to reveal a slender but serviceable dagger. “Solid silver.”
“You’ve done this before.” It was a reminder, if Stella needed one, of the chasm of secrets that existed between them.
“Too often to count.” This time his sadness was unmistakable.
“What does the silver do?” A glimmer of an idea, probably an outrageous one, was forming in Stella’s mind.
“Silver is the element of the moon. Through its supernatural properties, it drives the wolf from the mortal body.” He turned back to the shuddering figure. “Let me get it over with, Stella. It’s unfair to leave him this way.”
“Cal, wait.” She grabbed his arm, stopping him as he began to turn away. “Just so I’m clear, as the silver pierces the human heart, it drives out all trace of the wolf?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, it also drives out the life force.”
“The same life force that can be given back again by a necromancer?”
Chapter 11
“He’s gone.” Cal found Stella sitting in the corner of her bed with her knees tucked under her chin and her hands clasped around her calves. It was her favorite defensive position. He sat next to her and, as if by instinct, she rested her head on his shoulder. His mind tried to give him a warning but he ignored it. “I dressed the burns, gave him some clothes and money. He wouldn’t stay until morning.”
“Who was he?” Her voice had a slightly distant quality that troubled him.
“His name is Nathan and he’s a student from Cardiff. He’s twenty-two.”
“Older than he looks. Does he remember any of it?”
Still dismissing those inner promptings, Cal shifted position so that he could slide an arm around her and draw her closer. She snuggled gratefully into his side. “Vaguely. He knows he owes you his life.”
Cal wanted to say more. He wanted to let her know how hard it had been to leave her to face the werewolf alone. When the falcon had brought him a warning that danger was approaching, Cal had faced an agonizing decision. He needed to discover whether Stella was strong enough to use her powers without the security of his protective presence. Lowering the barrier spell he had placed around the bower in order to permit the marauding wolf to approach her had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. Watching in his own falcon disguise as she faced the snarling fangs of her would-be killer had been even worse. It had gone against his every instinct to leave her to it and not intervene. In spite of that, his heart had been full of pride as he watched Stella face and then defeat the wolf.
He wanted to tell her as well how proud he had been of her for acting so quickly and bravely after he had lifted Nathan, holding him in a half-sitting position before plunging the knife into his heart. Nathan had barely enough time to nod briefly in a combination of acceptance and thanks, before the life died from his eyes. With it, something dark had risen from his body and hovered briefly above him before dissipating in the darkness like dust blowing on the breeze. Swiftly, Cal had withdrawn the knife and stepped aside. Stella had been shaking pitifully as, heedless of the blood gushing from the wound in Nathan’s chest, she had knelt beside him, laying a trembling hand on his forehead.
“Awacnian.” Cal had marveled anew at the way she intuitively knew which Old English words to use. If ever he had doubted that she was the necromancer star of the prophecy, this ability alone would have been enough to convince him. In Cal’s own first language, she had told Nathan to awaken and, with a murmur, almost of protest, the young man had opened his eyes, gazing around him in wonder. At that point, Cal had sent Stella away.
“Does he remember how he became a werewolf?”
“Yes. He clearly remembers the wolf bite that brought about his transformation. It was after a night out with friends. He didn’t have the money for a taxi so he walked home. Something, he thought at the time it was a mugger—he knows differently now, of course—jumped out on him from an alleyway. In a classic wolf attack, it went for his throat. Nathan thought he was dead for sure, but a group of passersby disturbed the wolf and it ran away before it could finish him off. He was taken to the hospital, stitched up and sent home. The police believed they were looking for the same attacker who had brutally murdered a number of young men in the same area. It was only when the next full moon came around that Nathan knew there was something very wrong.”
“I only know of werewolves through the stories I’ve read in books. Tell me the facts.”
“A true werewolf is a human being who turns into a wolf during the full moon. He or she has no control over this transformation. The condition came about many centuries ago, when a curse was placed upon a shape-shifter wolf by a sorceress. She took away his ability to shift by making him half human, but she also took away all that was human about him while he was in wolf form. True werewolves, when in the grip of their wolf self, are governed by uncontrollable rage and hunger for blood. They are driven to kill everyone they encounter, regardless of their human self. The curse causes these wolves to lose all control of their rational minds, and when they return to their human form, they remember nothing or very little of what they have done. They transfer their condition through a bite, assuming tha
t the bitten human survives the attack.”
“But, if werewolves are half human and live among us undetected most of the time, what place do they have in Otherworld?”
“Over time, the werewolf has mutated. Some—those of the true bloodline—continue to be human by day and wolf by night and have, on the whole, achieved a quite remarkable feat. They are able to maintain control over their bloodlust, although their other wolf instincts remain strong. A few are still under the control of the original curse and remain unaware of their inner wolf. Often, they end up in prison cells and mental institutions, unaware of the terrible deeds they have committed when the moon is full. They are becoming rarer. Others are full mutants. They remain in their human-wolf form at all times. They are the undead wolf pack who dwell in Otherworld. With strong leadership, they could be an imposing force. As it is, they resemble a pack of rabid dogs. The werewolves are a sorry story of nobility lost.”
“Because of the curse? The first wolf must have done something pretty bad to cause a sorceress to take such a drastic step.”
“No, if we are to seek badness within this tale, it lies in that sorceress. If ever there was a story of pure evil, Stella, she embodies it.”
“Really? What was her name?”
“Her name is Niniane.” Stella seemed not to notice the shift in tense. All her concentration seemed focused on his eyes. He knew they held within them a world—perhaps also an Otherworld—of memories and pain whenever he spoke that name.
He told himself he was glad when she shifted the conversation back to Nathan. “If Nathan was a true werewolf, how could he be sent to get my heart? And who sent him?”
“When he said a voice in his head commanded him, and that voice had a lisp, I knew immediately who it was. The wolves of Otherworld have been torn apart by infighting. Their loyalties are tested between one leader, named Anwyl, who offers them stability, and another, named Nevan, who promises them power.”