I followed that rabbit of a distraction next. What would happen, truly, if I did not return to them? Would the pressure in my chest build till my heart ceased to beat? Would the pain of separation drive me to such distraction that I would throw myself over a cliff or walk into the nearest lake? Would it ignite a fire within and immolate me?
Scowling at those options, I nosed the frayed bits of twine where the rope was half-gnawed through.
And if I returned to the brothers, what then? Suppose one of them were blooded in sacrifice to release the bond—which brother should it be? Steadfast Alain who thought more of others before himself? Half-mad Pel who should have been born fae and wasn’t?
How disturbing—not that I couldn’t decide which of them I would rather see sacrificed—but that I would even hesitate over a decision that would free me. It was the iron bond that held me to them, nothing more. Certainly not the kindness they had shown me—for that I felt gratitude alone. Not their sense of justice and willingness to fight to keep balance in a world teetering on self-destruction. That was nothing less than what Herne and The Hunt strove to do. And certainly it had naught to do with the arch of Alain’s wicked brow or the curve of Pel’s strong jaw, or the ridges of muscle and the promise of pleasure that parts lower held.
My Edern offered all that—and more. He was fae—and he loved me beyond all pale.
Did he not?
A niggling doubt invaded that surety as I began worrying at the rope again. Why then had Edern abandoned me? Why had he not already found me? Was I so easily dead to him? I was not skulking about by day or night, seeking to hide from fae kind. My trail was plain—for any who wished to follow.
The irony that my betrothed had not come, yet I knew the princelings would be mounted and in search of me within the day was not lost on my sense of justice.
I continued work on the rope as the yellowing sun climbed higher and the light fog gave way to bright morning. Soon in the distance I heard horses and voices. Downwind, I noted, else I would have smelled them coming long before they were almost upon me. The princelings had moved more swiftly than I credited, I thought with warm regard. Relief mixed with embarrassment over my predicament swept over me in that moment, only to curdle in the next.
There were three voices, all with a native burr the brothers did not possess.
I tugged futilely at the rope, hoping it was at last weak enough to separate. It strained in protest at my desperate pulls but did not give.
As the riders came in sight, I pinned myself low to the ground, laid back my red-tinged ears and growled low in warning. They reined their horses short in surprised as we eyed one another. Grizzled beards and peasant-poor clothing did little to inspire my confidence in their intent. Coupling that with the bows, quivers of arrows and long knives at their sides made me despair of a speedy rescue by my own effort or theirs.
My low growl deepened as one of the men swung down from his horse. “What’s that then?” he cooed as he approached, a foolish-looking grin smeared behind his beard. “Here, lads, we’ve caught ourselves some kind of a dog. And none too friendly a one at that.”
He came another step closer. “Eaten through half the rope, it has. That’ll cost to replace.”
“That white fur could trim some noble lady’s cloak,” one of the men on horseback pointed out.
“That it would,” the man just out of reach of my bared teeth answered. “But it seems a fine animal. Perhaps a nobleman’s. And perhaps there’s a reward in the offing. Seems maybe we should keep her around a few days, see what comes of it.”
I held breath, waiting for the others’ response. They had only to loose me from the ropes that held me now. With time, I would escape by my own wiles or the princelings would discover me. That time would cost dear, of course. While an unrecalcitrant hell hound who threatened all who came near would soon be dead, an obsequious pauper’s pup who wagged her tail at every generosity might could live long enough to escape. I had only to keep my temper in check and to give up my dignity.
How long I could suffer either was anyone’s guess. For now, I forced the transformation: my deep growl gave way to a high-pitched whine and I dropped my bristled stance, sinking to my belly. Nudging the chewed rope with my nose, I peered up at the man on the ground from under long lashes.
I was no practiced seductress but the man warmed to my wiles. “Here now, she’s asking to be freed.” A bit of wonder caught at his voice.
One of the men on horseback tossed him a length of rope. “Put this on her, then, if you’re set on keeping her. And be quick. We’ve ten more traps to check and Marta’s like to be holding first meal for us now.”
Wary of me still, my benefactor tied a slipknot in the rope he held and dangled the loop in front of my nose. I stretched my neck, pretending to sniff it in curiosity. He flicked his wrist and the loop settled over my neck. I cocked me head in all innocence and willed myself to not protest. Slowly, the man advanced, drew the knife at his belt and slit the trap rope that held me yet.
I backed a step as though testing the limits of my freedom, closing the loop around my neck with a tug. I didn’t protest but stood and waited patiently, a trained and gentle dog eager to travel in the protection of men, no longer the angry hound that had threatened from a place of fear.
“Right. Let’s go then.” The man mounted his horse, keeping a tight hold to his end of the rope and we loped away in search of the other traps.
They were all empty, save for the eighth one. An older gray wolf bitch, exhausted from her struggles trying to free herself, clambered to her feet as we approached. I couldn’t be sure if her warning growl was directed at me or the trappers. What I could be sure of by the size of her teats and the line of her belly was that she had a litter of nursling pups somewhere. As late as we were in the season, it was unlikely the pups were newly born but close instead to weanling age.
“God’s wounds!” For a moment I thought the man might be cursing in sympathy of the mother’s distress with her full paps and swollen teats that needed relief. Or for the litter of pups hiding in their den awaiting their mother’s return. But no. “Look at that coat. Won’t be worth a tenpenny in that condition.”
I peered to see her through a trapper’s eyes. Indeed, the wolf’s coat was thin and the hair dry, from feeding pups no doubt. Even fae women lost a bit of their natural sheen when they had a suckling babe at their breast all day. The wolf’s imperfections would save her, then, and the pups would grow up and grow strong, perhaps themselves to be caught another day. I breathed a sigh equal parts relief and gratitude.
Then a rope snaked out, its loop settling over the startled wolf’s neck. She pulled back in alarm as the trapper snapped the rope taut and the loop closed around her throat. A second loop fell over her head.
“Back up now!” the man holding the second rope barked to his horse as he hauled on its reins. The animal tucked its rump and drove backward at its master’s command.
The man holding the first rope doubled the end around his arm and stepped his horse back in the opposite direction.
It took a moment to comprehend they weren’t going to spare her after all.
I had heard of men quartering men in similar fashion. Of course, it wasn’t torture these trappers were after but an unblemished pelt. This was no frenzied rush of horses galloping in separate directions. They intended to choke her to death. After a few paces, the horse were brought to a halt and bade to wait.
It took agonizing moments for the terror to leave the wolf’s eyes, the scrabbling of her paws to cease, and for merciless unconsciousness to slip over her.
I couldn’t turn my gaze away knowing this could well have been my fate—and might yet be.
After a few minutes the first man lifted the dead wolf up to the second who draped it across his horse’s withers while the first man reset the snare. Then we loped on to check the last two snares before turning for the trappers’ camp.
Somewhere in the woods, I could swear I h
eard the whimpers of a litter of half-weaned pups.
~ ~ ~
The trappers’ encampment turned out to be a collection of semi-permanent structures, more durable than tents but lacking finely hewn woods and the pitch to keep out the worst of the elements. There were four huts, two of which I took to be for lodging and two built side by side for storage. A makeshift wall between the storage huts held a dozen hides outstretched and drying on their pegs.
A small creek ran nearby, and on the other side of the creek, partially hidden behind the trees and an outcropping of rock, stood an offal pile. The drift of the wind brought its stench into camp. The smell of decaying flesh and other waste flirted in my nostrils. I sneezed, but the scents still clung and I resigned myself to their persistence, hoping for a change in wind.
A clutch of folk greeted the return of the three men. Five women and another three men that I counted, plus a couple of younglings clinging to their mothers’ dirty skirts and a small babe at its mother’s teat.
Two of the men hurried forward to take the dead wolf and carry it to the tanning hut. The third man, the oldest of the clan and likely father to at least some of the grown men and women, searched for more, his anticipation quickly turning to disappointment. “Just the one? There’s plenty of game about. Are you sure you’re setting the snares aright?”
“Go check them yourself if you think you’re the only one here knows how to tie a knot,” the man at the end of my leash retorted as he slid off his horse’s back.
The old man grunted, then squinted in my direction. “What’s that then?”
“A nobleman’s lostling if we’re especially lucky, or trim for a lady’s cloak if we’re not.”
The old man frowned. “It’ll need feeding.” His lips pursed as he considered what to do with me. “Give it a fortnight then. No more.”
My captor shrugged. “Agreed. It’s a long arrowshot anyway. Cavin!”
A small boy who’d been staring at me with eyes round with awe took an obedient step forward. The man tossed the end of my leash the boy’s way. “Tie it up and see to it. None of the good meat, mind you. Don’t get attached to it, either. One way or another it won’t be with us long.”
He led his mount away with the other two men trailing behind. I looked for other horses and tested the wind for more, but these three seemed to be all they had, and probably had been paid for dearly.
I turned my attention to the boy who had picked up the end of the rope and was now advancing along it, moving carefully toward me. The youngling meant no harm, and I stood my ground patiently, enduring the small soiled hands that reached out tentatively at first, then boldly to pat first at my shoulders then my head. Proud to have tamed The Beast, he grinned back at his mother, but the woman with the babe at her breast had already turned away.
Had it ended there with the boy alone to tend me, all might have gone well enough. Other than a meal or two of bone and gristle and being tied to a stake outside their huts, the next few hours would have passed in relative quiet.
But men are never so placated.
And fae are never so easily tamed.
“I said don’t become attached, boy.” The child’s father stepped in and cuffed the boy away with a lazy backhanded blow that spoke to long years of casual abuse.
Clutching to his cheek, the boy fell back without a whimper.
All I had to do in the world was keep quiet, be a good and obedient dog. But the blow to the boy seemed to have knocked away any good sense I once possessed.
I growled … and lunged.
22. Brinn
“Here now, you vile dog!” The man grabbed up a fallen bit of a deadwood as he rushed toward me.
“No, Da!” the boy cried, stumbling to stand before me. His father shoved him out of the way and raised the long branch.
With the wall behind me, there was no chance for escape. I cowered low, hoping the man’s rage would ease. Forgetting men’s rages, once lit, are not so easily snuffed.
The branch, thick as his forearm, crashed down. I twisted at the last, and the blow landed on my jutting hip rather than on my head or back. The pain, at once sharp and dull, spread from hip to hip and up my lower back. My eyes closed against the pain and I clenched my jaw so as not to cry out. Then I felt the jab of the branch against my ribs.
“Move, ya bitch!”
The man’s words sounded muffled, as though they came from deep within a keg. My skin shivered and my body folded in on itself. Familiar though this was, it came upon me all unlooked for and unwanted, catching me unawares. Only once before had it happened like this…
I was shifting. No! This was not of my doing. And this certainly was neither the time nor place to reveal my true form. Frantically, I fought for my hound shape, scrabbled at the core of my self to stop the transformation.
Another hard jab to my flank undid me. All control fled as pain spread through me from shoulder to tail. Only I no longer had a tail, did I? In but a moment, I went from cowering hound to cowering fae as I tried to catch my breath before the men abusing me.
The man beating me dropped the branch and his eyes went wide with shock. Instinctively my gaze followed the thing that moved as it fell to the ground. The branch. Something about it…
Rowan wood.
Magic in a mortal’s hand. Hidden magic that this man would never see, never know he dealt. And yet I now had to endure the consequences of it. Already I could feel the bruising creep across my naked skin.
The trapper recoiled in terror. I heard his breaths, short and rasped, as he fought to understand why the seeming of a woman now cowered in place of the easy prey he’d been beating. His conclusion was not long in the coming.
“Witch.” The word came as barely more than a breath upon the wind. “Witch.” Louder now, as he found his wits and his voice. “Witch! Witch! Witch!” The words shrieked across the camp.
“No,” I pleaded as I struggled to stand. He spread his arms as though he meant to catch me should I flee. Hip and ribs kept me grounded. At the moment I didn’t think I could outrun the youngling much less a grown man or the horses that grazed nearby.
The others rushed in just as I found my feet, my hands pressed against the wall behind to steady me. The eyes that stared carried in them every dark emotion from horror to lust. I had no shame in my nakedness but I felt my vulnerability only too acutely. I tried to move a hand from supporting me to covering me, but my legs were too weak to bear me up. Besides, one hand alone could not cover all that needed its shield, so I endured the stares that swept me from the flame-red hair that curled at my cheeks to the patch of flame that curled between my thighs.
The men I could handle, I thought. It was the women with their tired faces and breasts that drooped from nursing and stomachs swollen with new life that scathed me most. Disgust and envy warred in their scowls. They blamed me for being what I was formed to be. And blame so irrational was the deadliest kind.
The leader, with hard gray eyes, stepped forward at last, dragging his gaze up to look into my face. “Witch,” he pronounced, as though naming me so made it so.
“I’m not,” I protested. “I am of the fae folk, natives of this land. No more unnatural than you.”
He shook his head. “Call yourself what you will, but witch, fae or demon, you’re an abomination. And God has made it very clear what men must do with such as you.”
“My kind traveled these lands long before your ancestors stepped foot into the world.”
“So did the rats and wolves. Doesn’t give them any more right to it.”
“Don’t speak to it, Gunter,” said the woman with the babe. “It’ll witch your words, make you hear and say what it wants you to.”
I desperately wished that were the way of it. But the Old Magic gave me no spells or witchy ways to compel men to my will. It was magic rooted in the earth and the beasts and how the fae were bound to both. Over men I had no sway but for the logic of my words and in the pleasantness of my form.
�
��What do we do with it, then?”
“Kill it.”
“Aye, but how?”
“Let me go,” I urged, “and I and my folk will do you no harm. Kill me and The Wild Hunt will come for you in the night.” Would they avenge me, I wondered? Would Herne even know of so small a deed as my death?
My words had an effect. I saw fear light in the woman’s eyes. But there was triumph in Gunter’s.
“She’s afraid to die,” the man gloated. Don’t you see, that means she can be killed.”
“Give her to the fire?” suggested the younger of the men.
Gunter pointed his chin toward the full-bellied clouds above us. “May not be able to keep one going long enough.”
“Drown it.”
I truly despised the woman with the babe and the way she spat the word “it” out whenever she referred to me. As though there were protection by not acknowledging we were of the same gender, she and I.
“What if she’s right about The Wild Hunt?” It was another of the women who asked, and her voice trembled at the thought. “What if they come for us?”
“We leave it for God to protect us! Is it not His bidding that we destroy witches and demons? Cast them out of this world?”
“God hasn’t seen fit to help the likes of us so far,” the second woman mumbled, her protest lost on the others.
“We’ll want stones to weight her with,” Gunter said. “And Tudwal, tie her hands and bound her mouth so she can’t lay a spell on us meantime.”
The man called Tudwal grabbed up a length of rope and hurried toward me. The lust in his eyes was as naked as I. He stepped in close, the bristle of his beard no more than a handspan from my cheek, the stench of his breath heightened by how fast and hard it blew through his parted lips. His rough hands mauled my breasts before they found their way around to my arms, still bracing my weight from behind.
He stepped in closer then to grab my wrists, the length of his body pressing mine, his face bent to the side of my neck, inhaling the fragrance of my hair. A slight shift in his stance snugged his hips to mine and I could feel the extent of his arousal as he pretended to fumble the tying of the knots.
Shifters After Dark Box Set Page 108