“I cannot say the same for you.” I thrust the rountree branch into its face.
“Wood nymph, don’t—”
Thomas’s protest was cut short by the sound of sizzling, and a hiss of protest from the beast. The wolf’s inky fur smoked, though it did not yelp, flee, or attack like an ordinary beast. It stared at me with those unnatural eyes, hackles up, slavering, while a scent rose of moss and musk and something innocent turned hideously profane. In a voice half growl, half the Fool’s seductive tones, it spoke. “That scepter is not worthy of you, my queen.”
I nearly dropped it once again.
You mock me. You lie, seek to throw me off my guard.I pressed my vantage, continuing to prod with the tree branch as I widened my stance, let my lungs fill with air. The wind tossed my skirts about and my plaits, lashing my face with wayward tendrils, but I paid it no mind. I drew strength from the earth, and felt as though I grew larger, and far more menacing, facing the ungodly gaze of the beast with my own.
“I know what manner of creature you are,” I told it, as I pushed it back, “for we are the same, you and I.”
“Then claim your power.” All at once it leapt at me, lunging for my shoulder, while the shepherd shouted in alarm.
My kirtle tore, and its fangs scraped against my flesh. Its breath was cold enough to burn, and the scent of my own blood nearly made me gag. Even as my gorge rose, so too did the storm inside me, my blood turning to flame in my veins.
I raised my hands in the air, sizzling with power. “Off!” I commanded, with the rasp of a banshee. And I slammed the rountree branch into its face.
The branch burned; with no flame it seared its fur and flesh, branding the wolf with a mark like a handprint. It backed away, and the forest grew silent, eerie silent, as if listening to what would transpire.
I wrapped the forest stillness around me and spoke with an assurance that had never been mine. “You may wander lawless through the woods of man,” I said. “But you shall not claim this mortal life. He is mine.”
Everything seemed to stop. The crickets and the nightbirds went silent. The uncanny wind died down, and I could only hear Thomas’s breath, heavy with fear.
The wolf bowed its head and spoke, inaudible words that I heard with some other sense deep inside me. “So you have said. I shall hold you to that.”
And then, so faint I could scarce trust my senses, it added, “My liege.”
All at once, the wind stirred up, whipping my garments around me, and raising a soft grey mist that obscured my view.
When it cleared, the wolf had disappeared.
“Bess,” hissed Thomas. “What was it?”
I stared at the space where the beast had been, where not even a footprint remained behind.
A better question to ask would be “who?”
And why did he hail me as his liege?
Twelve
I stared in the wake ofthe beast, breathing heavily. Sweat beaded on my forehead, while my heart pounded in my breast.
That was no earthly wolf. Ten times larger, I would warrant, with those uncanny eyes and that shimmering fur.
And the scent of the Dark Fool.
I had beaten it off with a mere tree branch, burning it with no flame. In a daze, I looked at the branch I still held, whose delicate white flowers belied the damage it had done. I had wielded the branch of the rountree against my own kind. My limbs trembled and shook as the strength propelling me to do so left my body, leaving me fragile and wracked with guilt.
The wolf called me its queen.
Those of Faery cannot lie.
A soft moan drew my attention to Thomas as he lay wounded upon the ground. One of his legs stuck up at an awkward and concerning angle. By all the wights of Faery, it looked broken.
I could set it for him if I had the time.
Thomas grinned weakly up at me. “Glad I am to see you, wood nymph.” And he winked.
