Chapter 3
She was an imbecile like all other nettle-brained humans.
I skidded to a stop next to her still form, wondering if she had killed herself from the fall. Humans were notoriously fragile.
Why did she think that was a good idea?
Sure, my wolf form loomed larger than most animals she had seen in the wild, but I wouldn’t actually eat her. No sense in throwing yourself down a hill into Lycaon knows what.
But her last word—it had sounded like she’d said my father’s name. But that was impossible. He’d been dead for nearly a year. And how could a human mistake me for him when we looked nothing alike?
Phasing back to my human form, I rolled the girl’s body over, her head lolling in my hands. I brushed her curly dark hair out of her eyes. They remained closed, even at my touch.
Her face rested so peacefully she could have been sleeping.
Blood trickled down her forehead from a wound, probably from bashing her head into the ground, and she had a slight cut across her cheek. I checked her arms, where a few red spots had already begun forming.
Those will definitely bruise.
But she breathed deep, heart beating steadily in her ribcage.
My father’s words echoed in my thoughts.
Always rescue those in need. Always be kind.
It was, after all, what he had lived for, what I still lived for.
What Arcadia lives for.
I searched and found waybread growing nearby. Plucking off a few of the broad leaves, I stuck them in my mouth, chewing until the leaves were squishy. Brushing the girl’s hair aside again, I arranged the poultice over the bigger wound, pressing it down to cover the cut.
Licking my thumb, I rubbed the blood away from her cheek, leaving behind a puffy scratch mark that would disappear in a day or so. Or minutes if she could see my Healers.
She seemed familiar, yet I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. Most humans existed outside of the forest, driving mechanical beasts, voluntarily locking themselves in stone buildings for daylight hours, and boxing up their feet in shoes. It’s no wonder that most of them couldn’t survive in the wild. They’d pampered themselves to the point of taming their wild spirits.
I glanced around, finding her backpack. Digging past plastic-wrapped food and miscellaneous art supplies, I found what had piqued my curiosity.
I’d stumbled upon her when she leaned over the ferns, sketching them in her book. At first, I wondered if she might need my help, thus fulfilling the ancient duties of my people. Protecting humans and leading them back to civilization when they found themselves lost or injured.
But then she’d studied the ground with more intensity, her heart rate increasing tremendously. The sound of it jumping piqued my attention.
So absorbed in her notes, she didn’t see me coming up over the embankment. Of course, that’s when I made noise, purposely trying to scare her away. Instead, I had only made her more curious.
Precisely what made her an imbecile.
Curiosity.
And then she found my print. I realized my own mistake: she wasn’t lost.
And maybe I wasn’t her first virlukos. Maybe she had met my father.
Granted, she probably called us werewolves.
Again, imbecile.
And she had to throw herself down that hill. And me—being King of Arcadia—I had to protect the human. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t at least erase the notes she’d written down about me.
Opening the journal, I leafed through the book. Page after page, case studies were documented on all different types of creatures and plants native to the area and some other non-native species. Pieces of newspapers and magazines haphazardly stuck to a few of the pages, some corners sticking out of the sides, no rhyme or reason for the setup.
Dogwood.
Elderberry.
Synchronous Lightning Bugs.
Black Bear.
Solomon’s Seal.
Most were diagrams, artistic renditions, and lists of facts about the different creatures or plants. Then the entries became interesting.
Red Wolf.
Smoke Wolf.
Timber Wolf.
Gray Wolf.
Werewolf.
I flipped back to Smoke Wolf, reading the entry. The drawing showed a black dog in a cloud of smoke, a soft red glow replacing the eyes.
Said to be pure evil and kill for fun. Only the sound of rattling chains will deter the Smoke Wolf.
I scoffed out loud. “Nothing deters him. He’s a parasite.”
I flipped to the Werewolf entry.
“Virlukos,” I corrected, shaking my head.
Noted as one of the more common myths to circle the globe, werewolves date back for centuries. Occasionally known as wolf-men or lycanthrope, these creatures are known to shift between wolf and human form. Greatly disputed, some say they phase involuntarily when there’s a full moon. Others say that they shift for seven years at a time, only becoming human again if they survive the seven-year period.
Potentially growing up to ten feet tall, bipedal werewolves are the stuff of nightmares, wreaking havoc on rural towns. Though there are lesser-known myths suggesting some werewolves are meant to be protectors for children and lost travelers.
Under the written entry, she had drawn several different depictions of werewolves. Some looked ridiculous while others were fairly accurate. Most of them, however, captured the fear most people had for werewolves of legend and fairytale.
I flipped to the page she’d been working on, moments before I startled her, and critiqued her sketch of my print. Decent, except she’d gotten the shape of my palmar pad wrong. Next to the drawing, she’d guessed at the size of my paw.
9” by 6 or 7”?
“Nine by seven and a half,” I muttered, shaking my head again.
This was serious information to consider.
For one, most people believed that werewolves were fantastical creatures from ghost stories and legends. Or at least that’s what my history lessons had led me to believe as they delved into the centuries of wolf folklore and fairytales. On the other hand, this human had lots of real information. Sure, it had been mixed in with a bunch of fox spit, but real nonetheless.
I could leave her here. She’d wake up and think she’d passed out and hurt herself.
I glanced up where the path waited. Would she remember where she’d fallen from?
You could wait for her to rouse.
I observed the girl again, face soft and undisturbed.
Do I take her in? She seems so familiar.
My father’s words again rang clear in my mind. What would he do? What would my father have done had he been alive?
But I knew what he would do.
What he always did.
He would take her in, ensure she survived the fall, and then assess if the situation with her journal warranted action.
I flipped through the journal again, not even reading the pages anymore. My mind shifted between duties as protector of my people and duties as leader of the virlukos. They usually coincided on a regular basis, but this could be an issue. Bringing a human home was unprecedented.
“Lo vaara e feru,” I said to myself.
Replacing the journal in the bag, I sat it to the side and stood to my full height, stretching my limbs, fur replacing skin, claws replacing fingernails. I landed on all fours with a thud against the dirt.
I shook out my fur, then rolled the girl onto my back, her limp body draped over my shoulders. I threw my head back in a low and long howl. I paused to listen and picked up the backpack with my mouth.
A few moments later, another echoed my call.
With a huff, I took off.