The Wolf's Moon Read online

  “Apologies. I didn’t mean to frighten you again. Forgive me?” Raoul seems honestly apologetic, and Silke only hesitates a moment before she nods at him in acceptance.

  “Of course. Just let me go next time if I ask you to.” Silke ignores the way she’s automatically assuming there’s going to be a next time, another occasion in which Raoul will lay hands on her.

  Raoul just looks pleased.

  “Alright.”

  They stare at each other again for a moment, the air between them thick with tension as the silence stretches out. Raoul doesn’t seem too eager to end the moment. He seems content to stand there indefinitely and continue looking at Silke as if he’s studying her. Silke can’t help but fidget after a few moments. She’s not uncomfortable under Raoul’s gaze, but she does feel restless, like her skin is too small or someone’s running a finger down her spine. Silke breaks the silence when she can’t handle it anymore.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you then. I hope we’ll see each other again.” She takes another step back and then another before she smiles and nods towards Raoul’s still form and turns towards Oma’s cottage.

  “We will.” The words come out of nowhere, and Silke turns quickly to look back over her shoulder but Raoul is nowhere to be seen.

  Brow furrowed, Silke turns back towards the faint glow of light in the distance that she knows comes from Oma’s cottage. She’s curious and more than a bit unsettled by her reactions to Raoul, but she can’t deny the flush of heady anticipation that rushes through her at the thought of seeing him again.

  Chapter Two

  It’s begun to snow lightly by the time Silke sets out to make her way towards the village and the promise of a hot meal and a warm fire back at her cottage. Oma had been more than pleased to see her, her weathered face creasing in a wide smile as she’d tottered around the cottage and lectured her on some of the more advanced potions and tonics she’s yet to master. Night is rapidly approaching, and it’s bitingly cold away from the warmth and security of Oma’s raging fire. Normally Silke would not be overly concerned, as the Black Woods have always put her at ease even if she knows better than to underestimate just how dangerous the forest can be.

  Tonight it’s different.

  There’s a pressure in the air, a tension filling the forest that Silke is not used to, and it sets her teeth on edge and her senses on alert. It’s not long before caution overtakes Silke as she moves through the trees. The grass on the route she always takes is worn down from the tread of her thin boots to form a trail she’s sure she could travel with her eyes closed, but the familiarity of it is a small comfort. Her chest of herbs is a heavy yet reassuring weight on her back, and the thin raggedy cloak she’s had for years does little to drive off the chill in the air. Even when she pulls up the hood and wraps the hand not holding her small lantern tightly in the front of the fabric to draw it closed, the wind still bites at her.

  There’s something amiss, something that Silke can feel in the air of the woods that makes her quicken her pace. It takes her a moment before she finally realizes what it is that’s disturbing her so. The woods are silent around her; the sound of her breathing and her footsteps ring heavy in the air, and Silke feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  It’s too quiet.

  The woods are normally alive with the music of the animals that live within it, even at night when the rest of the world is bedding down, but now it’s deathly silent and Silke knows that doesn’t bode well for her. While she loves the woods and respects the creatures within it, she isn’t foolish. Silke knows that she could be easily killed by any of the numerous predators that stalk the trees, the ones she knows about and the ones she doesn’t. Silence such as this is a telling sign that something is on the hunt, that a predator of some sort is active and moving and the other animals are seeking refuge in the hope that they’ll go unnoticed.

  Silke’s grip tightens on her lantern, and her eyes strain to see farther into the darkness as she untangles her fingers from the edges of her cloak and her now free hand once again palms the hilt of her dagger. She draws it this time, wraps her fingers around the thin base and holds it close to her chest beneath the cloak, wickedly sharp blade pointing towards the ground. As if in response to her actions a loud howl shatters the silence, the noise ripping through the snowy air around her. The sound of it sends Silke’s heart to pounding in her chest. It’s answered by another and then another, and Silke feels herself go white in apprehension.

  Wolves.

  She respects the animals, admires them even, but she’s more than aware of the fact that it’s a one-sided sort of admiration and respect. The wolves of Black Woods are vicious and smart, able to avoid most traps and snares and well known for having no qualms about taking humans. More than once livestock in the village has been quietly snatched. Often times a paw print or the occasional tuft of fur the only clues as to who or what had stolen them.

  Silke darts forward, cloak billowing out behind her and her wooden chest clanking painfully against her back as she takes to running down the path. Silke can feel eyes on her, can feel the way her pulse stutters for half a second when a predator locks its gaze on her. The lantern in her hand swings wildly, the flame sputtering from her harsh treatment, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t dare slow down. Silke can practically feel breath on the back of her neck, and she doesn’t even think about letting up on her pace long enough to glance behind her to see if it’s real or a product of her imagination. Her thin-soled boots are whisper quiet over the well-trodden ground, and the weight of her dagger in her hand offers little in the way of comfort.

  She knows she’s too far out from the village still to make it to safety, but there’s an ancient tree not too much farther down the path, its roots protruding from the ground enough to offer her a leg up. It’s not an ideal solution, treeing herself in such a way, but it’s better than staying on the ground, better than being overrun and then taken down like prey. At least in the branches of the tree she’ll have time to think and plan, and if all else fails she can try to wait them out since her herb chest guarantees that she won’t starve for quite some time.

  Silke’s rounding the bend to where she knows the tree is when the sight of something in the middle of the path sends her flailing wildly in a desperate attempt to stop. She skids across the grass, boots loosing traction and feet flying out from underneath her. She goes down hard, herb chest clanking painfully against her back, and she hears her lantern shatter, sees the small flame of her light go out when it hits the ground beside her. Silke freezes for a moment but then she’s up and running again, one hand wrapped deep in the fabric of her skirts, and in the process she does the one thing Oma had always warned her against.

  She steps off of the path.

  What she saw in those brief seconds before the lantern went dark was enough to convince her body to move, that the direction doesn’t matter, only putting distance between her and the path does. Standing tall and fierce on the beaten grass trail had been a wolf, its body enormous and its fur dark. In the brief second she’d managed to look at it, Silke could have sworn its eyes had glowed a devilish crimson.

  She’s breathing in harsh pants as she races through the forest, cloak flowing out behind her as the cold night air and stray branches bite at the unprotected skin of her face. Silke can’t hear anything behind her, but she knows that doesn’t really mean anything. Predators of that caliber only make noise when they want to. Silke knows that her hearing is nowhere near good enough to pick out the light footfalls of a wolf above the sound of her own ragged breathing. Silke curses low and harsh, wasting precious breath when she flexes her fingers and realizes that she’s managed to lose her dagger along with her lantern. She suspects it had flown out of her hand when she’d fallen even if she doesn’t really remember letting it go.

  Silke keeps running, ignoring the stitch in her side as best she can, weaving in and out of the trees in the low light of the moon that shines down through th
e branches. It’s barely enough to navigate the woods by and most certainly not enough for her to be able to truly get her bearings, but Silke is grateful for it anyways. She puts her head down and charges forward, tries her best to ignore the sharp pain in her side and to concentrate on moving.

  Moments later her ankle crumples beneath her between one step and the next. A short scream punches its way out of her throat before she can choke it down as she hits the ground for a second time. Pain bursts across the arch of her cheek, and Silke feels the skin split open and begin to bleed when her face glances off the side of a random stone on the forest floor.

  Silke sobs out a harsh breath against the snow brushed ground and stays still for a moment. She’s tired and frightened and now her ankle and her face are throbbing with pain. It’s almost too much on top of everything else she always has to deal with, and she gives serious thought to not moving, to letting the wolf come and take her life. Then she thinks about Oma and strangely enough about Emil, about the villagers who would sneer and laugh at the thought of her being devoured, and rage arches through her chest.

  She can’t do it, refuses to do it. She can’t lie down and give up, can’t waste all the time and effort Oma had put into keeping her alive. Can’t give the villagers the satisfaction of knowing that she’d met her end in the woods they’d always mocked her for loving. Determined, Silke struggles to get to her feet, cursing when she’s sent sprawling again when she tries to put weight on her ankle. She pounds balled up fists against the leaves and dirt beneath her in helpless rage and then she pushes her way up again.

  This time she braces herself against the trunk of a nearby tree until she’s steady enough to move forward slowly, limping and keeping as much of her weight off of her ankle as she can. It doesn’t feel like she’s broken the bone, but she’s more than aware that there are other ways it can be injured, ways that make the skin feel hot and tight where it’s beginning to swell in her boot. Silke stumbles forward a few feet and then has to admit to herself that she’s not going to move fast enough or far enough in the shape she’s in.

  Her mind races, searching desperately for a way out of this situation, anything that’ll help her survive, when she manages to think up a rough outline of a plan. It’s foolish and will more than likely fail, but it’s better than doing nothing so she’ll take her chances. Since she has to be careful not to topple over sideways, it takes Silke longer than it normally does to work the herb chest off of her back beneath the shelter of her cloak. When it’s finally done she slides down the trunk of the tree she’s leaning against and pulls the chest around until it’s pressed against the side her leg. The light in the woods is still poor so she goes mainly by touch, runs her fingers over the latches on the carefully carved drawers, counts down and over until her nail finds the lightly carved flower that marks the compartment she’s looking for.

  She fumbles the latch open and carefully draws out the fat bottle that’s inside. The glass is cool and smooth beneath her fingertips, and she has to force herself to breath slow and even. She’ll only get one chance, one split second to use it before the wolf will have her throat in its jaws. If she fails, it’s over so Silke is more than a bit nervous as she tries to prepare herself to make one last ditch stand with only an herb to protect her.

  Wolfsbane.

  She’d gathered the herb under Oma’s watchful eye and the light of the full moon some months back after they’d stumbled upon a rare patch growing in the trees earlier during one of their walks. She had listened and watched in fascinated awe as Oma showed her how to grind it down into a fine powder and told her its properties. She’d whispered to her about how it could confuse and repeal a wolf, how it was deadly to man but deadlier still to a beast. Most of all she’d told her to use it wisely, to guard what bit she’d managed to gather and to make sure her chest always had a small supply on hand.

  Silke tightens her sweaty fingers around the body of the bottle and feels her heart stutter in her chest when she hears a twig snap in the trees across from her. It’s the wolf she knows, the monstrously huge beast that she’d crossed paths with earlier. It’s the thing that’s been hunting her through the woods this entire time, the animal that’s been toying with her to draw the hunt out a bit.

  It’ll have to get a lot closer for this to work; have to get close enough for Silke to toss some of the powder in its face, to get it into the wolf’s nose and eyes. She hopes that’ll be enough to turn it away, that the pain and irritation the powder will cause will convince the creature that she’s more trouble than she’s worth and that it had best seek its meal elsewhere.

  It paces closer to her, and she can just see the way the shadows shift around its body as it slinks fluidly through the trees. Breath hitching in her chest Silke keeps her movements slow and hopefully unnoticeable as she cautiously works the cork out of the bottle’s neck. It gives a pop that’s unbelievably loud in the night air around her and she sees the shadows go still, feels the tension in the air ramp up another notch.

  What steps out of the trees surprises Silke enough that she almost drops the bottle. It’s not the wolf, not the massive thick furred creature she’d caught a glimpse of on the path, but it’s almost worst. It’s a cat, wide chested and tall, lips pulled back far enough for its teeth to glint silver in the moonlight. Silke wonders if this is what has been hunting her all along or if she’s managed to pick up two predators at once. The cat paces around the small clearing, eyes fixed unwaveringly upon Silke as it slowly begins to close in on her. She knows distantly that the animal isn’t truly malicious, that it’s just hungry and she’s relatively easy prey. Still she can’t help but feel like it’s mocking her, like it’s toying with her.

  Silke lets the bottle she’s been clutching like a lifeline fall from her hand, hears it thump faintly against the ground. It doesn’t matter now if she loses the carefully hoarded powder, not when she knows it won’t be of any use against the cat, not when she knows she might not survive the next few minutes. The cat stalks closer to her, a low chuffing noise breaking the silence of the night, and Silke can practically feel her life winding down. Her fingers scramble over the ground beside her, searching for anything, a rock, a branch, anything she can use as a weapon. Finally for lack of a better option she wraps her fists in the straps of her chest, gathers her strength and prepares herself to swing. It won’t do more than buy her a few seconds she knows, the hits more likely to anger the cat than deter it, but she’s determined to fight until she simply can’t anymore.

  She sees it the moment the cat gets tired of waiting, sees the way it arches its back and brings its chest closer to the ground, thick muscular legs preparing to pounce. She’ll only have one chance, one narrow gap of time in which to strike, but either way Silke is sure it’s over, that she won’t live to see the sunrise.

  The cat springs, front legs spread wide and claws extended, and Silke feels time slow down around her, feels her breath freeze in her chest for a second as her mind blanks out. She uses all of her strength to bring the chest up in a wide arch, feels the impact in her spine as the blow lands firm against the cat’s side, surprising it enough to knock it off course. It lands a few feet to her left, snarling in rage and already leaping for a second time before Silke can get her bearings back.

  Something massive and dark barrels into its side, sends it flying through the air to land dazed upon the ground a few yards away. It’s back on its feet within seconds, circling the clearing, large paws swiping out against this newest intruder as it roars its anger for the entire forest to hear. Silke can barely see it past the wall of fur that’s only an arm’s length away from her.

  It takes her a moment to realize what she’s seeing, to register that she’s been saved from one predator by another. That the wolf she’d run from before, the one she’d thought was chasing her, had been the one to interfere with the cat’s plans. The beast growls, low and vicious enough to raise the hair on the back of Silke’s neck, and the cat answers its challenge, hissi
ng and spitting as they both rush forward.

  They clash in the middle of the clearing, a tangled heap of fur and teeth and claws that moves almost too fast for Silke to keep up. They roll around the clearing, teeth flashing in the moonlight as they fill the air around them with the sounds of feral battle. Then, just as suddenly as it began, there’s a yelp and the sound of bone snapping, and the cat goes down and doesn’t move again. The wolf rises, victorious and panting to stand above its downed foe, and when it swings its massive head back around to stare at Silke their gazes catch and hold.

  The light snow that was falling has finally stopped, and the forest is slowly growing brighter as the moon works its way out from behind the clouds. Silke holds the wolf’s gaze, one hand wrapped tightly around the straps of her chest. Nothing happens at first. They both stay frozen, gazes locked in what feels to Silke like a silent battle of wills. Then there’s the sound of a light sneeze and the wolf moves. It doesn’t rush forward, doesn’t leap across the distance and go for Silke’s throat; doesn’t try to finish what the cat started. Instead it paces forward slowly, stepping away from the cat’s corpse and into the slowly growing pool of moonlight that’s trickled down through the leaves to the forest floor. Silke gets her first real, clear look at the creature.

  It’s just as tall as she’d thought it was when she’d seen it earlier, and its eyes are a bright devilish crimson that should be impossible. It’s the wolf’s coat that’s not what she expected. It’s not the dark black she thought she saw earlier. Instead it’s a strange dappled color, a mix of red and black that almost shines in the low light. The wolf is magnificent; its chest is broad and solid, its muzzle elegant, and its legs are long and obviously strong. It’s beautiful in a deadly way, a mesmerizing example of an animal truly built for the hunt. Silke can’t help but be in awe of such a creature, can’t help but feel the admiration and respect she’s always felt for the wolves well up within her to a greater degree after seeing it in action.