Chapter XVIII
XVIII
The French Alps
“Professor, I fear we need to move faster,” said Jacques, interrupting me mid-story.
I was digging the wagon out of a shallow snowdrift on the road while my horse waited patiently. We were close—so close—to leaving the icy forests of the Alps behind, but winter was chasing us hard and this was the third time we had been forced to stop and deal with the snow.
Five days since his monstrous transformation, Jacques was still too weak to be of much help, though his injuries were healing well under my care.
His swollen eye had opened again and he could now walk around without clutching his tender manhood.
He was not yet strong enough to ride, which was a happy coincidence now that we had only one horse.
He was more than content to remain in the wagon most of the time, reclining in his nest of blankets and sipping on willow-bark elixir.
“I am digging as fast as I can, sir.”
“I know. I know.” His voice cracked. “But we need to keep moving. I can hear him again, do you understand?”
“Him?” I put down my spade slowly. “This ‘voice’ you spoke of?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“These past few days. I didn’t want to believe it would return so soon.
” His mouth was a red crack, the only color in his face.
“I am sorry; he speaks only of hunger and sometimes it is all I can hear. I want . . . he wants you very badly and I don’t have the strength to withstand him should he return in earnest. If there is help to be found in Gévaudan, we must get there very soon. ”
Well, sadly it seems the time has come to nip the young man’s wick, said Sarmodel. It’s unfortunate, but his anima will not go to waste. The hunting knife will be fastest—it’s in the left saddlebag.
I’m not going to slit his throat in the mountains like a bandit. There is still time, surely.
Sebastian, you know we won’t survive if he transforms again! Why take the risk?
Because I suspect whatever has happened to Jacques is my fault. I must try to fix it, for Antoine’s sake at least.
Shit on that, Sebastian, and shit on you! You are risking our lives in the hope of earning another tumble in the sheets with some French meatbag who has likely forgotten all about you—and who will likely be dead in ten years.
Come, Sarmodel. He is forty, not eighty.
You know what I mean! And may I remind you what happens if you die out here?
Even if by some chance the young lord does not kill and devour us, we are in a terrible state—every minute brings us closer to death by exposure or starvation, he snapped.
And where does that leave me? Trapped in your frozen corpse, that’s where! 1
You are being very dramatic.
“Professor? Have you nothing to say?”
“Apologies, sir—I am thinking.” We were still days from Gévaudan. Even if I got us moving again and pushed my horse to her limits, it was time Jacques very likely did not have.
“I believe I have a solution, but it’s going to be very unpleasant.”
“More unpleasant than your vile tinctures?”
“Very likely yes, but still better than shooting you like a dog on the side of the road.” I retrieved my musket from the wagon.
“It looks like we are making camp here for the night. Do your best to set a fire and try to stay warm. Now, pass me my shot, please. You say you are hungry; I hope you mean it.”
1. In case you are wondering—yes, my body is indeed susceptible to starvation, exposure and injury like anyone else’s.
While Sarmodel’s presence prolongs my life and makes me somewhat more resilient than the average person, I can (theoretically) still be killed, my heart being the most obvious point of weakness.