"There Are Wolves 2" by Shelby K. Irons

There Are Wolves

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CHAPTER II

"Now he goes along the darksome road,
thither whence they say no one returns. "

-Catullus-

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Corey dreamed. It was an easy thing to simply let her soul drift, to let the watercolor washes of translucent images ebb and flow all around her. There was no pain, no sense of a physical self nor urgency to be anywhere in particular. Time was meaningless and fluid. She was consciously aware that this was a dreaming place, but was unable to control the tide of unfolding events. This was not her drama to particpate in. She merely watched, a captive audience member. The images blurred together into a smooth, endless, unbroken ribbon.

***************

Winter. Eerie, blue light filters through the boughs of bare trees. The large oak grove is deserted and lonely. A thin layer of powdered snow covers the ground, just enough to make walking treacherous. Desolate. The wind is ruthless, lifting ice particles into the air and letting them dance briefly before slamming them back to the ground. A boy, thirteen, wanders through the cold. He is blue eyed with golden blond hair. A child of the summer, he does not belong here.

Footprints. He found the faint outline of footprints in the muddy lane leading to the garden. He followed them, past the garden gate into the wild moors, beyond the stone wall at the edge of the great property into the forgotten oak grove. Strangely, the footprints suddenly disappeared in the midst of the quiet oak sentinels. But, there is a disturbance in the dirt and snow here, like there had been a scuffle and several careless movements had destroyed the pristine layer of snow.

And look here, more prints in the snow, but they weren't made by a human foot. Instead, they are paw tracks. Large, and if he isn't mistaken, canine. He was close.

"Bastien!" he yells into his cupped hands, the sound lifting up into the howling wind. "Bastien! Where are you?"

A movement in the corner of his eye makes him turn to the right. He is just in time to see a sleek shadow dart between the trees. Panic. He crosses his arms protectively around his chest, clutching his goose-down coat tight to his body. The sky grows dark, and there is the silence that precedes a storm; as if the wind is gathering its strength before battering the earth with water and ice. When the storm does hit, he is trapped in the open. Tree limbs groan under the strain as they are whipped savagely by snapping winds. He squints through the icy chaos and sees the shadow again, but its closer. A black blur.

Snow sticks to his eyelashes and he shivers violently. Something is watching him, he can feel it. He wants to run. He turns sluggishly and stumbles, his muscles attempting to heat his body by drawing warmth from his extremities. It is difficult to move. He can't feel his legs.

Growling. He hears it in his bones first, chilling in ways that snow could never be. It makes him cold on the inside. He thinks it's a figment of his imagination, but no, he can hear it now, low and menacing. His lips are blue and chattering, but he manages to say, "Please." He can't finish. The rest is lost in shivering.

A form appears from the surrounding swirl of white, lower to the ground than he, but huge for a four-legged creature. He stumbles backwards as the animal stalks forward. Silver eyes. Feverish and glowing. Hungry. Frightened. He sees the wolf is starving. Its ribs stick out predominately from its sides.

"Bastien," he says gently, holding his shaking hands out in submission. He can't breathe. There is no air, just fear. "I've been worried. I'm your friend. You are human, remember?"

The wolf regards him suspiciously, like an uncooperative piece of carrion. Saliva drips from its jowls, its breath steams hot in the frigid evening air. Finally, after several minutes of horrific suspense, the boy is relieved when the wolf bows sadly, inching forward on its paws with a high-pitched whine.

Exhaling with a whoosh, he kneels down and he tenderly strokes the wolf's head with numb fingers. "I knew I would find you. Where have you been?"

The wolf whimpers and nuzzles his hand, its soulful silver eyes filled with tears. Obviously exhausted and malnourished, the great animal can only lay still in the protective shadow of his human friend, too weak to move or communicate an answer to the question.

The boy hears it before the wolf, the faint "click" of a gun being cocked. He whirls around and gasps. A man stands a hundred feet away from him, leaning against a tree atop a snowy embankment. He is tall and barrel-chested with a dark mustache. His red flannel coat provides a dramatic contrast in the surrounding whiteness. A hunting rifle is lazily propped up on his shoulder. The boy recognizes the man. So does the wolf. Staggering to its feet, weary but alert, it begins to snarl, baring its dripping fangs.

"Good work m'lad. Ye found the beast," the man says darkly, "Should have done away with the monster when I had 'im locked him in the cellar. Starvation makes 'em crazy, you know. Easier to track."

"Hensley!" The boy shouts, "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Hunting," the man says casually, a sharp shadow moving over his eyes.

"I t-t-think you've made a mistake. You're after the wrong animal!"

"Nah, I'm finishing the job. Now step aside boy. Ye're in the way," he replies, aiming the gun in the wolf's direction.

Quickly placing his body between the rifle and its intended target, the boy yells, "Are you crazy? This is Bastien for gods sake! You've known him since he was born!"

"I know they think they're better than the rest of us peasants!" Hensley spits bitterly, "Ah, but the perfect St. Claire's have a nasty secret! They are cursed by the gypsies!"

"Cursed people are still people! You can't kill someone for being different!"

"Aye, but I can kill an evil demon child for a handsome amount of money. More money than he's worth for ransom," Hensley says with twisted smile.

On his dignity, the boy tips his chin up with quiet disdain and says, "He's not a demon nor is he evil. You are."

The wolf growls in agreement, stalking forward to stand beside his human friend, eyes feverish and wild as they glare upon the enemy.

The man sighs dramatically and clucks his tongue, adjusting the sight on his weapon. "Evil's not a bad thing ta be, Master Thierry. It's a profitable sport. The suffering of other people is a beautiful thing. So pure and wretched. I magnify anguish. I like it. I'm good at it. It's a very powerful feeling, that."

"You have gone mad, Hensley. His Grace did the right thing when he fired you," the boy scoffs.

"His Grace, the Duke of Devon, will regret the day he did," Hensley sneers, his index finger tightening on the trigger, "He'll also regret that he sent a boy out to do a man's job."

"NO! Bastien run! NOW! GO!" the boy orders. He turns and stumbles, shoving the startled animal into action. "Run away, damn you!"

A deafening crack shatters through the howling of the winter wind. Pain explodes in his chest. The world tilts sickly on its axis, and becomes strange jumble of biting cold, wet fur, crystal snowflakes and silver eyes. It is like his senses are clashing with confusion, each vying for the chance to be in control.

He turns his head and it flops to the right side limply, his skin burned by the freezing snow. He is laying on his back. He doesn't remember when he fell down. There is pain, an agonising throb and a dull ache all at once. It hurts, but even hurting makes it worse.

Blood. In his mouth, metallic and warm. His blood. It seeps from between his lips. His heartbeat is a frenetic drum-beat in his ears. Blood spurts from the open wound in his chest. So much blood. One doesn't realize how much blood he has in his body until its pumping out of him like a river. Red. Red rivulets of liquid snake outwards from his body, soiling the pristine white of the snow.

He hears the growling again, the vicious sound of an animal attacking. Brutal teeth. Clothes ripping. A man screams. Another gun shot. Teeth digging into flesh, scraping to the bone. The gun drops. More screaming, savage and filled with rage. Snow crunches under heavy boots. The man limps his retreat blindly into the swirling distance.

A warm breath is on his face now, and a tongue licks his forehead. He peers beneath his lashes and blinks. The silver eyes morph from the face of the black wolf onto the face his handsome black-haired friend, then back again.

"Bastien," he says, spitting up blood, "its you."

The wolf answers with a sorrowful whine. It nudges his arm gently.

"Its not your fault. Don't be sad," he whispers. Blue eyes lock with silver, filling with tears, tears that spill onto the snow. He feels like he is glowing, euphoric. A bright star burns through his soul. "You must be strong. Don't let them find you weak. Go now."

Shaking its head weakly, the wolf crouches on its front paws and rests his head on the boy's shoulder.

"N-not your time to die," he says, each breath a struggle. "You must leave."

Whimpering, the wolf licks the boy's pale face. Blood is everywhere. The pungent smell of it fills his nostrils. Desperation fills his eyes as he watches the human's small body die. He is helpless to save him.

"She...is waiting..." the boy gasps. "Find her."

The wind ruffles his blond curls. Tendrils of air carry away the pain. His chest rises and falls one last time, his breath catching in the frigid chill. Buoyant, he follows the compelling pull that draws him outside of his body.

A sigh escapes his lips and there is a palpable feeling of release. Peace. A smile is curling the corners of his lips. Half-closed, his blue eyes stare forward, unseeing, into nothingness. The body that was Thierry now looks small and fragile, lifeless and cold in the snow.

The wolf tosses its head back and howls its grief. The sound pierces the night air, a beacon of haunted rage. The song increases with intensity; sadness and fury warring for control. It lingers and swirls around in the wind like a frenetic symphony before drifting up into the twinkling heavens.

***************

Bastien paced. Restless and worried, his agitation was a palpable entity that filled the small hospital corridor. He glanced at the black plastic numbers on door 302. His fingers twitched and he reached out, his hand hovering over the handle.

"Patience," he scowled, recalling the advice of Corey's doctors.

He'd grown to despise that word in these past five days. It was all that he could cling to, but he hated it none the less. Patience only made him more restless. Patience made every second seem like a decade. He couldn't stand the waiting anymore. He felt like a ninety year old man on the inside, weary and helpless.

Looking back now, these past five days had really slipped by in a blur of anxiety and sleep deprivation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd changed his clothes or had a bite of food to eat. He didn't even know what day of the week it was. Monday maybe? No, Tuesday. Or Thursday? He raked a hand through his tousled hair and sighed. It didnt matter. None of that mattered, nothing mattered, until she woke up.

"We can't predict when a coma patient will gain consciousness," her doctors explained to him with solemn faces. "We are monitoring her closely and her higher brain functions are alarmingly active. We are concerned that when she fell, she damaged the brain stem at the base of her skull. She may not be physically able to wake up because the brain stem has malfunctioned. We aren't sure. It's too early to say at this point. Only time will tell."

Bastien gripped the door handle tightly until his knuckles turned white. Time was never something he had in abundance. But he would be patient for her as long as she needed, even if it meant possibly endangering himself by staying in one location for an indefinate amount of time. The thought that there was a very real chance she would never awaken; the notion that the world could still exist without her in it made his heart ache so intensely he couldn't breathe just thinking about it. He'd give anything to see her open those haunting green eyes again. Corey was the girl Thierry had instructed him to find. He wasn't going give up hope so easily. Five days was nothing to him now.

When his fingers started to go numb, he drew his hand back. Stepping away from the door, he turned to pace the hallway again.

***************

Hensley waited. He tapped the gnarled stub of his index finger on the table. Normally a far more patient man than this, he'd been waiting for five o'clock on this day for ages. Or at least, since the last report. His mole at Scotland Yard was due to call any moment now, so where the devil was he?

Scowling at the puckered scars on the back of his hand, he grabbed the waiting glass of whiskey in front of him and swigged the liquid in one breath. It burned all the way down to his gut and with a grunt of satisfaction, he tossed the empty glass across the room. It shattered against the fireplace mantle and knocked a vase to the floor. The resulting crash didn't make him blink.

"You can't hide forever," Hensley said staring at the digital screen on his cell phone. 4:59 PM.

With all his vast knowledge and experience in hunting an elusive prey, he had found the hardest, but most effective tactic was to wait until the prey felt safe and finally surfaced from hiding. They thought he would go away, like a bad dream. Just when they felt comforterable, settled into a routine and vulnerable, he would strike. Foolish, pathetic creatures... never stood a chance.

Lovingly, he glanced above the fireplace to the wolf's head mounted there. He'd instructed the taxidermist not to change the fierce snarl the animal had died with. He rather liked it's hatred, even in death. Of course, this wolf, though a challenge, was just an animal. Not special. But he knew there were others that were different... sometimes human. Abnormal, cursed by gypsies. Like the St. Claire family. Like that savage freak Bastien.

Ah well, he could wait longer. He could wait forever. He'd find the wolf again. He'd find them all. For weeks now there had been no leads, nothing. But he felt a shift in the wind, a stirring in his blood signaling change. He knew something was coming. Soon.

He picked up the cell phone, such a fancy contraption, with buttons and features he didn't need or know how to use. All he really needed was the clock.

It lit up before it started to ring, a formal ring tone, once...twice...three times. Hensley smiled and flipped the cover, bringing it to his ear.

***************