by Dani René
The wolves want me, they said.
The women claim I’m a witch, and that I’ve lain with a wolf and my baby is a half-wolf and will grow up to murder them all. I’m a foundling, and they’ve never trusted me. With their pitchforks and flaming torches, they forced me from my parents’ home and out into the dark forest.
Now, I flee from the wolves.
Behind me, the wolves are baying and snapping their jaws. They hang back, as if chasing me is sport for them. I hear a harsh, heavy grunt up ahead, too deep for a wolf. A shape moves through the woods. Disembodied yellow eyes glimmer, and a scream wells up in my throat. In my arms, Finley cries, the sound high and sharp and carried on the wind.
The eyes blink out.
Something huge leaps right at me. I scream and curl my body around Finley. The wind whips, and whatever the thing is, it passes right over me and races toward the wolves. Without looking behind me, I stagger to my feet and run up the slope.
And face-first into a tree.
Pain bursts in my brow and stars flash behind my eyes. I lurch through the snowdrifts, tears and blood pouring down my face. Finley screams and screams. There’s a snarling roar, and then a high-pitched yelp behind us. Even more yelping.
Whatever that beast is, it’s fighting the wolves.
“Let them tear each other apart,” I gasp, hurrying up the hill, hoping to crest it and get away from the mayhem behind me. As I climb, my chest rasps and my head grows dizzy. One foot in front of the other, dragging breath into my lungs between trying to hush Finley.
My foot catches on a rock or a root beneath the snow, and I fall in a heap. With the last of my strength, I manage to twist to the side and land on my shoulder rather than the baby. I lay there, winded, my limbs refusing to move.
No one wants me. I should just lay here and die. My shoulders shake with silent sobs for my baby, who never had a chance.
Over me, something large moves. I feel it rather than see it. I suppose that thing that chased off the wolves is going to finish me.
“Please. Not the baby,” I plead in a cracked whisper.
I’m braced for an attack, but a warm hand caresses my cheek. I feel rather than see the strong presence over me. Shielding me. Protecting me from the terror of the night. Strangely, the warm fingers trail over my jaw and lower lip, as if fascinated by them.
Strong arms lift me. They cradle me close to a solid body as I cradle the baby. Through all the blood and tears in my eyes I glimpse a cheek with a short beard. Not a beast, but a man, and a very large one.
“Be careful,” I gasp, wincing at the pain battering in my head. “There’s something out there.”
“What are you running from, kochanie?” His voice is deep and rasping, and strangely accented.
His warmth is seeping into me. He holds me as easily as I hold Finley. “A wolf pack, and another beast. I think it was a bear. Take us to your village, please. For my baby’s sake.”
I can feel his head and shoulders turning slowly as he looks around. “Wolves. And a bear,” he says softly, without inflection, I wonder if he doubts me, but he must have heard them.
He starts to walk, and each crunching step feels massive. I peer through clotted eyes and see the ground is moving fast. After just a few minutes, I see the glow of lamplight through my blurry vision and whimper in relief.
A door opens and closes, and we’re enveloped in warm air.
I’m placed on something flat and soft. Too weak to move and too blinded by blood and exhaustion, I hold Finley tight and listen to the stranger move around the room. From the sound of his footsteps, it’s not a large room, and the floor is bare boards. There’s a soft clang of metal, perhaps a kettle on a stove, and then pouring water. A few minutes later, a warm, wet cloth is pressed against my brow and wipes clean my eyes.
I blink, and I can see again.
A huge man is kneeling before me and he’s wiping my face. His hand is the size of my head. The breadth of his shoulders is as wide as a door. His arms are like tree trunks. Even kneeling, he looms over me.
I reel back in shock. I’ve never seen someone this big before. He could crush Finley and I with one hand.
His deep brown eyes widen as I shrink away. He glances down at himself, as if realizing it’s him who’s frightened me.
“Can you wake your wife, please, or another woman of the village?” I whisper. “I need help with the baby.”
“There’s no village.” Again, that strange accent and growling voice. His features are hard and pronounced, and his jaw slices away to a strong throat. He looks mid-thirties, or perhaps a little older, and his hair is shades of gold and dark brown. The clothes he wears are neat and well-made, but basic. A tunic and pants. Boots of animal hide. There’s a gash on his cheek, and it’s bleeding a little.
No wife. No village. We’re alone with him. The gratitude I felt earlier has fled. I glance nervously toward the window, covered with what looks like an old sack, and wonder how many hours it is until morning and I can leave.
“What did you see out there?” he rasps, resuming dabbing at my brow.
“I already told you. Wolves and a large beast. If it was a bear, it was the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
“And the wolves?”
“They were huge, as well.”
“Too large for normal wolves,” he agrees, but to himself, and bitterly.
What are not-normal wolves?
The man’s gaze lands on Finley, and he draws an enormous forefinger down the child’s cheek. I pull the baby away from him. This isn’t a villager, it’s a lone man and a stranger. He could be anyone, do anything; he could be more dangerous to Finley and me than even a pack of wolves.
The man stares at me for a long time, those brown eyes mesmerizing. Then he stands up and goes to the door. He opens it and stands framed in the doorway, his huge bulk blocking out the thin moonlight reflected off the snow.
“There’s nothing out there now,” he says into the wintry air, vapor curling around his lips. Beyond him, the forest is silent and dark.
He turns to me, eyes narrowed. Flakes fall onto his massive shoulders and they glisten in the lamplight.
“Kochanie,” he purrs. “What were you doing out there in the middle of the night with no one to protect you?”
Chapter Two
Balen
The young woman is beautiful, but her eyes shine with fear. I close the door behind me and hunker down before her once more. I gaze at the child, enraptured by his tiny, perfect eyelashes and stubby little fingers. How long it’s been since I’ve held a baby. Fed it so it grows strong. Held its hands while it takes its first steps.
I reach out to the little one, but the woman clutches it closer and shrinks away. My hand curls into a fist and drops to my side. “It’s too dangerous to be alone in the forest with a baby. Stay here until you heal. I’ll not bother you.”
She’s still staring at me. “You’re hurt.”
I reach up and feel wetness, and several long, thin gashes, as if I’ve been swiped by claws. “Must have caught it on a branch. Where are your people?”
“In the village at the bottom of the mountain.” She hesitates, her eyes filling with tears. “They cast me out.”
I grunt in sympathy and get to my feet. “Those people. They let other people fight their battles, but they’ll never accept you if you’re different.” I eye the top of her golden head, wondering what this pretty little thing did to earn the villagers’ hatred. She can’t be much more than eighteen, and she’s strong if she made it all the way up this mountain in the dark and cold. She’d make someone a good wife.
The human-half of me betrays a flicker of interest.
The bear-half shifts restlessly. He doesn’t want a human wife. He wants a mate.
Impossible, I tell him, and he growls in anger. He’s been agitated for hours. He kept me awake long after I should have been asleep. I don’t know what’s got into him tonight.
I turn away from the woman. �
�Lie down and rest. The wolves can’t get in here.”
I stoke the fire in the pot-bellied stove, and then sit down on the floor opposite her with my back propped against the wall. It’s not comfortable, but I can doze and listen for the sounds of that mangy, flea-ridden pack sniffing around my door.
All through the small hours, the woman feeds and watches over the child and flinches at any small sound outside. Just before dawn, she falls asleep. I doze a little more, until the falling temperature rouses me into wakefulness.
In the thin morning light, I add logs to the stove as quietly as I can and tear a worn-out sheet into large squares. The woman opens her eyes as I’m folding them into a neat pile.
“For the baby,” I explain.
My whisper wakes the child, and even before his eyes open, he starts to cry. The sound shoots into my brain and straight down to my heart. The woman sitting on my bed looks tired and rumpled and suddenly so much like Ethelle did after a long night, and without thinking, I reach for the baby and lift him out of her arms.
“No!”
I freeze, looking down into the woman’s shocked face. The baby squirms against me, strong and warm. Slowly, I lay the child down beside her, and pass her a cloth and step back.
The baby’s bright blue eyes are staring at my unfamiliar face. He reminds me of my own sons and daughters. I remember them all as clear as morning, though more than ninety years has passed. My wife died fifty years ago; my last child died nearly fifteen years ago. The pain of all that loss makes me wonder why I took a human wife in the first place. The loneliness has lay upon me like a curse ever since. Female bear shifters are so rare that I’ve never even seen one. I thought perhaps one of my daughters might be a skinbearer, and a mate for some other lonely bear, but they were all mortal like their mother.
As the woman changes the baby, he grabs his feet and gurgles, still gazing at me. The woman smiles and strokes her finger down his nose. The pain and longing in my heart doubles.
“What’s his name?” I ask huskily.
“Finley. He’s five months old.”
“And your name?”
She hesitates, moistening her lips. Pretty lips, pink and full, and with an intelligence to them, as if she never speaks a word she’s not thought carefully about. “Carys.”
She whispers it like cold wind through the trees. Her small hands tuck a fold of fabric around the baby’s middle. Too tender to be cast out and hated. Too young to have done anything to be hated for. So precious, and she was cast out like trash.
“Did the father not want you?” I growl, hot jealousy and anger burning in my chest. If I had a mate I could grow old with, I’d tear the world apart rather than let her out of my sight.
Carys’ eyes fill with confusion. “I think the wolves got him.”
Those cursed wolves. If I see them again, I’ll break all their necks and skin their hides from their backs.
Carys picks up a damp cloth and dabs at her forehead, which has bled again in the night. The scent of her blood twines through my senses. Suddenly, without warning, the bear within me roars. Her.
He wants her.
I grasp the windowsill. No, you fool. She’s just another human.
I snarl and curse under my breath as the bear roars again. I need to get out of here before she sees the beast in my face.
I pull my cloak on and head out into the snow. My chest feels tight, and I walk hard until the tightness becomes an ache so strong that I can barely breathe. With a howl of anguish, I throw off my cloak and turn my face to the sky. The bear swells within me. Bones pop. Muscles bulge. Fur ripples down my chest and arms. I howl again, and the howl becomes a roar as I fall onto all fours.
The scents of the forest invade my nose. I smell the wolf pack and their lingering residue of dirty fur and piss. Foul little scavengers on my mountain. I run through the snow in a large circle around the cabin, far enough away that the woman won’t see me among the trees, but I can sense her. I can smell her, too. Sweet and delicate like summer fruit, and something else. Something I have to deny myself, because I won’t go through all that pain again, even for a moment of sweetness.
She stays that night, and then the next. Her head aches and she’s weakened from cold and fear. It’s torture to keep catching her scent and seeing her body as she tenderly holds the baby. I imagine crushing her lips to mine and taking her into my bed. I stare at my huge, rough hands, remembering how she felt in my arms. Picturing what it would be like if she stayed.
I curl my hands into fists. I won’t take another human wife, who’ll slip through my fingers as the decades pass, and see my children turn old and gray and wither before my eyes.
Once Carys and the baby are rested, they have to leave.
Chapter Three
Carys
Finley cries and cries. The strange man is going to grow tired of our presence and throw us out, or kill us. I’m hyperaware of his huge body every time he’s near, towering over us. I feel him watching us out of the corner of my eye.
Watching me.
I’ve known the aggressive stares of men since I was fourteen years old and hated them for it. This man’s gaze doesn’t feel like that, though. It’s reluctant, like he’s so lonely he can’t help himself. I see the single plate and cup by the stove. The one cloak hanging on the back of the door. The signs of his solitary life are everywhere. Is this what I have to look forward to if I survive? My parents turned away from me, the girl who got pregnant and couldn’t name the father. The girl who wasn’t even their real daughter, but someone they took pity on and regret it now. The girl who everyone says is a witch. Tears fill my eyes as the pain of their rejection impales me over and over again.
As I sit in the cabin and nurse Finley, I wonder if this man chose to live alone, or if he was cast out, too.
He’s made a cradle for Finley out of a hollowed-out tree trunk, and now he’s fashioning something small and complicated, but I can’t tell what it is.
On our third evening, as Finley squirms in my arms and cries, he holds it up and smiles to himself. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. He comes over to us, holds out the object to the baby, and shakes it. It’s a rattle, made from a cylinder of wood covered in stretched animal hide, with a dried pea or two inside. Finley stops crying and takes the rattle in his chubby fist. I hold my breath, praying Finley will quiet at last.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Finley closes his mouth and falls silent. I sigh in relief and look up at the man to thank him.
And find him staring back at me from three inches away. The words die in my throat. His strong features are striking, and I can’t help the way my eyes skitter over his full lower lip, but I wish he wouldn’t stand so close, or peer at me so intently.
“You don’t smell like the villagers,” he says in that deep voice. His eyes run over me, as if I’m some strange creature.
What’s that supposed to mean? Does he think I’m a witch, too? I get up and turn away. “Finley needs to sleep. I’ll try to put him down. Thank you for the rattle.”
That night, Finley screams and screams. I try everything I can to quiet him, but he won’t feed, and my singing is lost beneath his cries. My desperation mounting, I shake the rattle, but he ignores it. Every time the man shifts in his spot on the floor in the darkness, I cringe, certain he’s about to throw us out.
Finally, the man gets to his feet and stands over us. I start to sob, bent over my baby in exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t seem to make him happy no matter what I do.”
The man reaches down and takes the child out of my arms. Finley stops crying, and the relief is intense—for half a second.
Then I realize he’s taking my baby away from me.
The man swings a cloak around his shoulders and plunges through the door out into the night.
“No!” I get to my feet, grab my own cloak, and run after him.
The man hasn’t gone far. He has Finley against his sho
ulder and is walking slowly up and down in the snow. The baby’s pale head is just visible among the fur at the man’s shoulders. Finley’s still crying, but the crisp air and movements of the man’s body seem to be soothing him.
Murmuring softly, the man pulls the swaddling cloth up over the baby’s head and tucks it around him, and gently pats his back with an enormous hand. “He’s teething. Give me that.”
I realize I’m still clutching the rattle. I pass it over, and he holds it, handle first, out to Finley, who immediately puts the hand-smoothed wood into his mouth. He starts to chew tearfully.
The man pats his back and resumes pacing, murmuring softly to the baby. “It hurts, doesn’t it? I know. I know.”
Teething. I didn’t think of that. I sit down on the front step, shuddering in relief that someone else knows something about babies.
“I don’t know your name,” I whisper, as he passes.
“Balen.”
“Thank you, Balen. I’m so sorry for all this trouble.”
Balen shakes his head and keeps pacing. I sink back against the door, my cloak wrapped tightly around me. It’s cold, but the silence is heaven and I find my eyes fluttering closed and I doze in fits and starts.
I open my eyes some time later and see Balen holding Finley up and examining him in the moonlight. Balen’s back is to me. Finley’s eyes and pale skin are silvered and bright. Even brighter than the snow. I can hear Balen talking to himself, something deep and urgent. I open my mouth to call out and ask if there’s anything wrong, but Balen tucks the baby inside his cloak again and resumes pacing.
I must sleep some more, because the next thing I know, I feel myself lifted up in strong arms and held against a warm body.
Balen holds me so tightly I start to wonder if something really is wrong. He moves with me in his arms, his muscles rippling against me.
“Where have you been?” he asks in an urgent whisper.
I mumble sleepily that I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been sitting right there, on his front step.