Chapter 11
The Heart
W erewolf.
They’ve sent us to a bloody werewolf den, deep in the heart of the Morlagh … on a full moon.
‘Bastards,’ I hiss, straightening up to watch the fight unfolding in the clearing.
This is an Ordeal? Half of us get poisoned whilst the other half search for our partners surrounded by monstrous creatures?
I should bolt, I know I should, but I can’t leave Greg here.
All I can see is Dolly, hear her pleading, the shock of blood spilling from her guts.
Greg yelps as the woman tackles him to the ground, his huge bulk pinned under her small, bone-pale fingers. She bares her teeth at him before he twists, snapping at her throat, and the woman dances back, unharmed. I remember what Dolly said that night. The heart.
‘Greg, rip out her heart!’ I shout, hoping he can hear me, hoping he understands.
The woman’s eyes find me with a snarl and she takes three steps before Greg’s jaw closes around her middle, tossing her backwards.
She lands like a rag doll and my breath catches.
Then he’s on her, claws sunk deep in her chest before opening her up, spilling her heart into the dirt.
She thrashes, shrieking, then just like the monster that killed Dolly, turns grey and gaunt and begins to crumble to dust. I stare at the heap of her, then at Greg as he unleashes a pitiful moan and collapses to the ground.
He twitches a few times before his wolf form seems to shrink, his bones jerking and reforming, until it’s Greg again, just Greg. And he’s not moving.
‘No, no, no,’ I say, rushing for him, checking his pulse, manoeuvring his body gently until I can see his face. ‘Greg?’
His breath is shallow and insubstantial, features creased in pain, but he nods. ‘I’m alive.’ Then he coughs, curling into a ball, clothes a little shredded, but still intact. ‘What happened? My mouth tastes like … like … fuck, put it this way, I could use some velvane.’
I laugh shakily, relief flooding me. He’s alive and making jokes. Surely that’s a good sign? ‘You transformed and fought a creature, something vile, something … not human.’
He hacks, retching violently. ‘I don’t remember any of that, but it explains the taste.’
There’s no time to figure any of it out – that vicious monster, or Greg – we just have to move and find somewhere safe.
But with the trees surrounding us, every cry in the night echoes round and round, and I have no idea which direction the howls are coming from.
I grit my teeth, dig my hands under Greg’s arms and drag him as fast as I can to the tree line.
He whimpers a bit as I hit a jutting rock, but I get him under the cover of a pine, draping his body over the soft cushioning of the needles. He’s still conscious, but barely.
Werewolves hunt in packs when in their wolf form.
The information I’ve gleaned from folktales is inconsistent, some tales saying they only change under the full moon, some claiming they do it at will.
But all the stories agree on one thing: once you’re bitten by a werewolf, there’s no way to reverse it.
They’ve claimed you. And poor Greg has definitely been claimed tonight.
I stand, running an agitated hand through my hair, and consider my options.
If I leave Greg here, he’ll be lost to the forest. He may not even survive long enough to transform again and find the rest of the pack.
I could take the antidote from him, find Tessa and get us both out of here.
But if I do that, Tessa will definitely fail the Ordeal.
She’ll be sent away from Killmarth and that feels intolerable.
She’s the first person I’ve met who actually seems like she could become a true friend, like someone I could trust. I don’t want her to leave.
Then I look down at Greg, curled up on his side, and feel an unexpected pang of sympathy.
All I know about him is that he seems to hang with Tessa quite a bit, he’s a bit awkward and dorky, but sort of endearing.
I don’t even know what magic he wields. Even without the promise I made to Tessa, there’s no way I’d be ruthless enough to leave him here now. He saved my life.
Maybe it’s seeing Dolly that night, burying her cold body in the dirt.
Maybe it’s being away from the Collector and his influence, no longer chasing marks, slipping through the city like a ghost, thinking only of myself, but it’s not just about the deal with Tessa.
I want to help him. Not just because of the alliance I’ve made.
Gleeful howling rends the air, sounding closer this time. Almost as though they’re … hunting. Can they smell Greg’s blood? Sense that he changed? Or worse, is it me they hunt?
I kneel beside him in the soft pine needles, shaking his shoulders until his eyes open blearily. ‘Greg, can you stand? We need to find Tessa and Alden and get to the mirrors. Any idea which way they might be? Can you smell them?’
‘Maybe a few minutes ago, but now, nothing.’
‘Well, we can’t stay here. You’re exhausted and you’ve lost blood, and …
’ I don’t want to say it, but I’m scared for my own skin too.
And here, we’re sitting ducks. I brace my hands beneath his shoulders, trying to take some of his weight as he attempts to stand, but he struggles, then falls back, panting.
I lean back on my haunches, pressing my lips together as I run through my options and what I know about the Morlagh.
It’s partly to calm my mind as it spirals, partly to form a plan.
This forest is at the furthest point in our territory from Killmarth in the south.
Hess must be a strong alchemist to create a portal that sent us all this way.
I swear softly as I picture the scale of the Morlagh.
Its vast on the maps I’ve seen, possibly too far to travel on foot to the nearest town and get medical help, and even if we come across a hunting lodge, it’ll most likely be deserted.
I would be little more than prey for the den and their moonlit hunt unless we could barricade ourselves in until dawn.
Which if I’m trying to stitch Greg up would be tricky.
Greg grimaces as another howl echoes through the clearing, clutching his side. ‘Go on without me. Find the others; I’ll try to stay hidden.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Can’t see any other option.’
‘But if I drag you …’
A gunshot cracks through the air and I drop to the ground. Blood beats in my ears and I scan the clearing, searching the tree line, wondering where it came from.
Another shot, and a strangled snarl.
I creep backwards, motioning for Greg to shift further under the tree cover, thorn and bramble biting into us.
I try to control my leaping heart, switchblade clutched in my trembling fist as another howl is swiftly cut short and a shape circles the trees to our right.
It’s a man, stocky, dark-haired and almost silent, stalking quietly through the undergrowth.
In his hands gleams a hunting rifle. I press my lips together, not knowing whether to call out to him, or if he’ll turn that thing in his hands on us.
A shadow breaks from the trees opposite, all vicious claws and ragged fur, and I gasp as the man aims and shoots.
The werewolf yelps, dropping to the ground.
In the silver moonlight it twitches, once, twice …
then stills. I release a breath and watch as the man strides to the hulking shape of the creature in the clearing.
He’s wearing a waxed jacket, boots, the garb of a hunter out looking for poachers.
But when he turns his face, eyeing the trees surrounding us, I nearly gasp in shock.
He looks just like Alden, but older, a little shorter and with very well-maintained facial hair.
‘It’s one of the Locke brothers,’ Greg says in a thready voice. ‘Their family owns half the Morlagh. Must be near their hunting lodge. I bet he’s been hunting the pack. Locke! Over here!’
‘Shhh, what if …’
But the man has already stood, a frown pinching those unnerving features as he walks over to us, finger near the trigger on his rifle. ‘Are you bitten?’ he asks, eyes darting between us as he hisses. ‘Are you poachers ?’
‘We’re from Killmarth,’ I say quickly, standing slowly, palms spread. ‘Greg’s injured. We need to find our partners and get back through the mirrors.’
‘The mirrors?’ The man’s face relaxes and he nods. ‘Grant always was a wily one. Hess has changed up the first Ordeal then? Given it an alchemist’s twist? What is it, poisons? She’s got a sense of humour at least. I’d say a den of werewolves is pretty bloody poisonous.’
‘First Ordeal, yes. One of us in each pairing is poisoned; the other carries the antidote and we have to find each other,’ Greg says quietly. ‘And unfortunately, I have been bitten, and already changed.’
‘Well …’ the man says, considering him, his voice softening.
‘Not a lot we can do about that. Not really a cure, but are either of you a botanist? A bit of wolfsbane and a botanist’s wielding will relieve the symptoms. You’re not too far gone like that one.
You’re still human, there’s hope for you. ’
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘But my partner in the Ordeal is – that’s who I’m looking for. Alden Locke.’