Wolf Song (Wolf Singer Prophecies Book 1)

by Elle Cross

  I melted my body, trying to envision myself as nothing but goo. Boneless, noiseless as I flowed out of my bed. There, on the floor, I felt protected, the bed between me and the windows.

  My hand went past the scriptures at my bedside and rested right on the handgun. That felt more reassuring at the moment. What I lacked in my dad's magic, I made up for in sheer will and target practice.

  I hugged the gun to me and with a steadying breath, I flipped open the book to the verses that talked about sharpening iron. I traced my fingers over the words like Dad had shown me, believing them. When I felt that tingle, the rush of the words coming alive, I drew my thumb and forefinger together the way my dad did, and pinched the words out of the scriptures.

  They dangled and wriggled between my fingers in what looked like gossamer silken threads. I whipped the words-turned-spells onto the gun with a flourish, and smeared any residue from my fingertips along the barrel for good measure.

  The weapon shone with a holy gleam, and I could smell the blessings being loaded into the chambers.

  I crawled out of my bedroom, slinking in shadows, and descended the stairs. My feet knew exactly which step would creak and which wouldn’t so that I moved silently from room to room.

  Before long, the only rooms I needed to clear were the living room and the front entryway. I should have started there first.

  Two figures, possibly four, had crisscrossed the porch, gliding just as soundlessly as I did from one end to the other. They must have learned very quickly about the creaky floorboards, too. I looked down at the gun at my hand, the realness of it there in my grip. The heft.

  I was a crackshot, but I didn't want four to rush me.

  Survive, Soli. That's all you need to do. Survive.

  I crept up to the entrance. I heard their whispers. In the morning I needed to strengthen the wards, no more excuses.

  "Well, she took the apples, so at least that's a good thing. She's not gonna starve."

  There was a low growl. "Of course she wouldn't have starved. She knows how to take care of herself and she was able to outrun you in that pass."

  Whoever it was snuffled. "Good thing, too, that thing nearly got her. She took too long changing."

  "You didn't complain when she got out of the clothes."

  I froze, tuning in now. Had there been something else after me the other day in the woods? Something I couldn’t see?

  I remembered that mournful wolf song, then, the one that I felt pressed to my skin, telling me to run.

  "Besides," a deeper voice intoned. "She was able to outrun the Judas because she was in her dry clothes. She slowed down, yes, but only to speed up again."

  That voice, wrapped in its cool logic, shut them up. It seemed that whenever that voice spoke, silence followed in its wake.

  Based on the conversation, I hadn't been alone out there. There had been something unseen that one referred to as a Judas that had meant me harm. And then there were these people on my porch. Whoever they were didn’t try the door or even jiggle the doorknob to see if it was locked. It was like they knew it was warded, and they were okay with it.

  I was drawn to hear more.

  "We'll take shifts just to make sure we ran the last of those...things...away."

  "Her wards are good. Where was the breach?"

  "I think the damn chickens did something. I can't be sure though. It could have been made to look like an accident, perhaps by someone in the area who might have followed her here."

  "I'll check it, boss."

  Whoever Boss was, all he answered was a grumbly hmm.

  I rose up on tiptoes to peer into the lookout, bracing myself so I wouldn't make too much noise. I pressed my eye against it.

  A man filled my viewfinder. This one was the one the other referred to as Boss. He had that feel to him.

  The first thing I noticed were his eyes. They shone like a newly minted penny, back when that kind of currency meant something in this world. As he tilted his head, his eyes changed, revealing a silver-mirrored shine.

  Then the next thing I noticed was smooth caramel skin that made me lick my lips at a long-forgotten sweetness. His face was sculpted from the heavens and angels themselves. It could make the demons, hell, Ravers weep with joy at its beauty.

  And those cheekbones! They were so perfect, my palm itched to slap them just to see if they were real. Then again, I'd be afraid I'd cut my hand on them, they were so sharp.

  When he turned, there was a brand on his neck. I couldn't quite read it, but it looked almost like the kind that the government had stamped on shifters Before.

  Before we’d realized that there were more Reapers than Humans in the government and that they were dead set on eradicating the shifter population.

  I shook, clasping my hand over my mouth.

  I didn't know why or how he knew something was wrong, but he raised his head a moment, and then as if scenting the air, turned in place until he faced the door.

  Perfect Cheekbones leaned into the door, bracing his hands on the threshold. It was like he was listening in. I held my breath.

  "Are you there, ramina?" His voice had a touch of an exotic accent, as if English wasn’t his first language.

  I felt the words more than heard them. Who in blazes did he think he was talking to?

  "Is she there—?"

  He held a finger to his full lips as a hush, followed by a hand gesture that I translated as "calm down."

  "There's no need to fear,” Perfect Cheekbones assured me. “We will guard the door so that none can test these wards."

  My eyes swiveled to the sigils glowing in the dark room. My father's rule never to open this door at night boomed in my mind. I never doubted the wards’ efficacy, but it was nice to have proof that they worked somehow in maintaining this place as a sanctuary.

  "Dude, we have—"

  The man with the blessed cheekbones turned to his compatriot and silenced him with a glare. They didn't look like they varied in build all that much, at least from what I could see through the peephole. But the other man definitely stepped back from that look.

  I swallowed hard.

  He was the Boss indeed, and he addressed me. "I am called Creed. You are safe now. Sleep well, ramina."

  And with that he turned his back against the door, so that all I saw was that brand on his neck.

  I didn’t know what had bothered me more: the fact that he spoke to me as if he knew me or the fact that he referred to me by some other name and I liked it?

  Sleep well, he had said. Sleep well.

  How in the hell was I supposed to sleep well when my heart was racing?

  And yet...my eyelids were suddenly so heavy that I struggled against their weight.

  From one blink to the next, I found myself staring at my bedroom ceiling. I sat up, discovering I was in my pajamas, tucked into bed, with daylight streaming through my windows.

  I didn't remember going to bed, so how did I get here? What was the last thing I remembered?

  The brand. The eyes. And the command to sleep.

  Was that what happened?

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed in bed past sunrise. I'd always risen with the sun because daylight was so precious and I wanted to spend as much of it outdoors as possible. Not to mention the required maintenance of the farmhouse and surrounding wards.

  But full sunshine streamed through the window. I crept along and looked outside and sure enough, the chickens were already tearing through the field, looking for grub.

  Not even the roosters woke me.

  I massaged the back of my neck to get the aches out. Shook it all off me like a bad dream.

  I washed up, splashing cold water on my face in the closet bathroom just off the main bedroom. I still didn't feel like moving into what I considered my parents’ room. It felt like admitting that he wouldn't come back.

  He would come back, though. I could feel it in my gut.

  Survive.

  I put on new clo
thes, tapped blessed oils on my pulse points and eyelids. Strapped the gun to my hip, hefted the scriptures under my arm, and I was ready to face the day.

  It was on the second turn around the chicken yard that I thought to check the fences, just to prove to myself whether last night was a dream or not. All of my fences were solid. And if I hadn't been looking for it, I would have missed the little bit of new wire that adhered the fencing together.

  Huh.

  I pinched some words from scripture about mending fences and being strong. The coil of blue-black thread curled and looped together as the words turned into a binding spell that I threw on the fence. As the spell landed, it melded itself with the metal, oxidizing it to a blackened steel.

  I waited until the scent of scorched metal and lightning dissipated before testing the new fencing’s strength. It flexed as it was supposed to, but it was stronger than ever. I might not have been the caliber of preacher my father was, but I was becoming a pretty decent word mage.

  I hummed as I worked, blending the spirituals and the gospels my parents loved into randomly new songs as I forgot lyrics. It was a fun game, and kept me entertained as the gardens were weeded and the chicken coop was maintained. I decided that I’d earned my breakfast.

  As I stood, a flicker of movement caught my eye from a ways up the mountain. I started to think I’d imagined it when in the distance, a boy no bigger than a pea bounded along among the tall grasses. What in the heck was he doing out there? Unprotected? Where were his folks?

  He was in the complete opposite direction of where the town was, with its ring of blessed walls. Even in stark daylight, few people would think to walk out by themselves, let alone a child.

  This boy was peculiar, and not because I couldn’t place him. He didn't seem like he was supposed to be playing up here. So what was he about?

  I didn't bother to yell; there would be no way for him to hear or see me through the wards.

  I shook my head. Maybe I could shoo him away and get him back toward his family.

  I never had a sibling, though my parents had talked about having more kids, Before. Now the idea of bringing life into this new world was insane.

  I went around front, to the main gates. It was better for the wards to think that there was a specific entrance and exit so that the rest of the fence line wouldn't be worn down from misuse and disrespect. After all, if you disrespect a fence line, it will no longer work for you. What's the point of keeping it mended and strong if you would just chop it, anyway?

  I placed my hand on the post before I smelt it. That metallic tang in the air like the grinding of metal gears meant that a Reaper was nearby.

  A shadow in the tree line made me pause too. I slowly backed away. Backed away from the shadows in the tree, from the smell, from the boy who was playing happily in the field.

  I didn't stop until I was back inside the house and the glow of the sigils told me that it was safe and sealed. From the window, I didn't see much. I still saw the shadow, but not the boy.

  I rushed upstairs, past the bedrooms and up through the attic to the rooftop access.

  In the clear light of day, I ought to have been safe from any Reaper waiting for me.

  I looked up and there he was, in the distance. I grabbed my rifle and looked through the scope. And yes, through the scope, I saw the boy. But I also saw the monster within.

  It wasn’t fair that monsters should appear beautiful, but that was exactly what this one looked like. Beautiful. It had more mass than the boy it imitated, so that the rest of it looked like a shadowed halo around the boy it pretended to be. Long hair billowed around it like a soft halo. Its body had a sinewy grace that bordered on insectile with its exaggeratedly long limbs.

  But it was its eyes that held the most danger. They truly were otherworldly, an opalescent black like a beetle’s carapace; they could hold you prisoner in their gaze if you let them.

  It was really creepy the way Reapers could just wrap themselves up in people skin. I hated that I nearly got duped. And in the clear light of day, too.

  When they got my mother, it was nighttime. They were stronger at night, and falling prey to them in the dark was more or less the expectation.

  To be this blatant during the day, though, made it somehow...worse. Did that mean they were getting more powerful?

  A shiver racked my body at the thought. The only reason there were any survivors was because of the sunlight. If that level of protection were gone, how long would any of us manage to stay alive out here?

  I lined the boy up in my scope. I had to remind myself that he wasn't a boy. He was a trap. A lure. A bait.

  He was bait so I would leave the house.

  My finger shook against the trigger. All of my dad's affirmations and thoughts and all that goodness rang inside my mind reminding me of the rules of survival.

  And I couldn't. I laid the rifle down. I couldn't.

  I couldn't.

  He was still playing there. And then he stopped. And just stood and stared. He was decidedly un-boy-like then. I whipped the gun back up but he disappeared.

  The smile at the corners of his mouth would linger in my memory.

  Staying indoors for the rest of the day seemed the best idea.

  I scoured through my dad's book, trying to get a feel for what he had done and where he was going the day he disappeared.

  He and my mom were really great artists. At least they seemed like artists, though one was a preacher and the other an herb witch. There were the usual sketches of flora and fauna, herbs and animals, and other strange creatures. I skipped any mention of Reapers and the Rave sickness. I was already living it. There was no need to read about it.

  Some of the pages of the journal were torn out. That was weird.

  It wasn't a neat precise cut as I would expect, but a tear. Why would he rip out a page? What was he doing?

  Where are you?

  I didn't want to be prisoner of my own house, so I went to the town the next day. For all my bravado, though, I still went along the blessed paths down the mountainside to where the town was.

  I made myself a little list of what I needed. I brought some herbs and other things from my garden for trade. I was usually able to get all the supplies I needed with the medicines and vegetables that I brought with me.

  Dad was against staying in the town for too long. He felt like that was an easy way to draw attention, like painting a giant target with the words “Shoot Here” in the middle. He’d said that that was the reason the cities were targeted in the first place Before.

  He still preached though. Still lent his power of the word to the townsfolk who asked him to preach his Hellfire sermons to lend strength to the wards around town’s walls and gates that kept them all safe.

  He did a pretty good job. If it weren't for him, many more of the town folk would have been snatched by the Reapers. And there had been no hint of the Rave since the town’s inception because of his gift of healing.

  But now...

  He only visited once, maybe twice a month, but it was a couple of days at a time. What would they do if he didn't come down? Would they notice?

  The gates to the town remained shut even during the day because the giant locks that kept the heavy doors from swinging inward were too cumbersome for a quick entry. It took two men at least to walk them shut.

  However, there was a pass-through to the side that kind of reminded me of old pet doors. Though it was open, there were enough interwoven spells to make it feel like I walked through dense webbing. It served one main purpose: to make sure that whoever passed the ward was Human.

  At the market, only the person who manned the fruit stand asked about my dad, and even then, it was for the sake of small talk and nothing more. At least not yet.

  Dad had only been gone a week. But he'd be expected before too long. He'd always had timely arrivals, right before Reapers would roll in for harvest or before a pack of monsters sniffed around. It was like he had a sense of those things
, like swelling joints before a thunderstorm.

  Dad always had the wards strengthened in time to preach away any Hellfire. What would happen to the town if he didn’t come back, though?

  I buried that stray thought, not willing to acknowledge it or allow it to become words.

  I was ready to leave, proud to have proved to myself that I wasn’t afraid to leave my home, when there was a commotion at the town gates. The bells rang out signaling the gates be opened.

  Two teams of men ran to each door, pulling them apart just as men—field hands by the look of them—ran in sweaty and out of breath. “Close the gates!” one of them yelled. “Quick!”

  There was nothing quick about those gates, but the gate team shifted direction easily enough, pushing the gates together with a satisfying thud as the hefty deadbolt latched into place.

  The field hands hadn’t stopped and now I could see that they hauled a man on top of a makeshift stretcher. No wonder they were desperate for help. The whites in their eyes were large and luminous, and their skin gleamed from their exertions, sweat soaking every bit of their clothes.

  One of the younger men—Kirby, the mayor’s son, recognizable with his shock of curly hair haloing his head—rushed down from a building and immediately saw me in the crowd. He called to me. "Soli? Soli!"

  His father, Mayor Gabriel St. Clair, also rushed out from wherever he had been. Most likely from his perch on the second floor of the trading post. Whatever they saw from their vantage point scared them.

  The mayor instilled order among the fray. "What happened? You! And you!” He pointed among the gaping crowd of onlookers. “Get over there and help them bring the preacher to the church."

  At Gabriel’s words—the preacher—I froze. It was like there was a bubble of still air and all sound was cut off. All I could do was look on as the newly appointed pair of men joined the group hoofing it to the church, who adjusted to the added help of hauling the weight between them.

  The man on the makeshift stretcher, the man who looked like he had flown past death's door and kept on flying, was the town’s preacher and word mage.