Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (16 page)

Her water broke in an alarming spray of fluids, shocking against the natural sterility of the environment we occupied, the odd plants arranged about the bed, the high humid temperature my wife insisted upon. She gripped my hand and held it vice-tight as the midwife began the procedure. I watched with great disquiet as her face fell into an agony of contortion and pain and fear. I could only return her grasp and offer false hopes of reassurance.

Screams abounded: my wife producing noises like nothing I’d ever heard. The pain of childbirth, I thought. It must be nearly unendurable.

It happened so quickly, her bloated stomach shifting, our baby slipping free from the womb.

My breath escaped me. I fell back in utter loathe, dizzied at the sight of him. I could see my wife’s stomach undulating, pumping fluids and matter free from her womb, surrounding the infant in a moat of steaming gore. The placenta-shrouded newborn twisted madly on the bed amidst its afterbirth, the head and arms rupturing the tenuous veil, emerging forth. Wicked claws brushing at the dermis with feline-like consideration, wiping the matter across its face as its tongue lapped urgently for nutrition.

Its gaze found mine, primordial eyes with diamond pupils set in blue irises. A brown gelatinous fluid purled from its throat and fled down its sodden torso. My wife reached desperately for the infant, moaning and still fraught in pain. The midwife bustled madly, assisting in the action. She cradled the infant to her breast as it writhed and convulsed in her arms, seeking freedom from her grasp. She toweled its fine hide, the umbilical cord whipping about like a snake, possessed with a life of its own.

And I could only stand silent and watch the horror of a baby that seemed to defy all that I expected this moment to be.

When the baby quieted I walked over, took it from my wife’s arms. Its eyes shined green with a luminescence that I knew bragged sight in the darkest and dampest of places.

I asked myself,
Do you love him?

No
, I answered.
I don’t
.

I returned the child to the midwife, and left the room.

Three days later, my baby died.

* * *

I sit in a chair on the porch of a rented cabin that exists deep in a wooded area, far from civilization. There is a special tranquility about this place, one that I cannot put a finger on, yet it is where my wife wishes to be. Somehow,
this
feels right.

The environment was all wrong
, my wife had explained.
It is why our baby died
.

Had my wife not seen the state in which our offspring had been born? Had she not seen its deformations? And, had she not seen me shun the child unlike a father should do?
This is why our baby died!

My wife exits the cabin and stands next to me. I gaze into her eyes and I know at once it is time. The midwife follows, assisting her down the three steps to the clearing before the cabin. She removes my wife’s clothing, first her shirt to reveal the pendulous breasts and a distended stomach that have endured yet another fourteen months of agony. She then peels her skirt away––a wash of fluid is evident between her thighs.

The midwife soon follows the procedure, removing her own clothing. The task now accomplished, the two slowly disappear into the woods.

* * *

I have waited for nearly an hour, staring into the black woods. My fear grows as every minute passes.

Suddenly, I hear a cry. Could this be my cue? I walk to the perimeter of the woodland and gaze into the sea. Nothing graces my sights. I step further in. I hear a constant moan. My gait is strangely hesitant, for fear of what I’ll find. The sounds of nature abound, yet I still discern the familiar echoes of labored breathing. Shadows engulf me, I press farther ahead. The painful sounds grow as I near its source, concealed somewhere amidst the tangled knots of branches, leaves, and twigs. Shards of broken moonbeams illuminate pockets of spicy foliage. At an impasse, I reach my hand out, pull aside a thicket of nature, and step forward into a hidden clearing.

Here, I find the answer to the question.

Do you love me?

A shaft of moonlight escaping through the forest canopy shines across the two wolves. I see dampened fur upon them both, the copper tang of blood thick in the air, the matted grass beneath them soaked thick with crimson life. One wolf lies on its side, panting, a trail of blood seeping from its womb. The other gently licks the leg that dangles from it.

The leg is human.

The mother-wolf’s eyes spot me, its green eyes telling a primordial tale, that
this
is the way it’s supposed to be. It turns its head and howls a lupine cry into the night, its efforts echoing wickedly throughout the forest. The baby slips free from the womb, the midwife-wolf immediately licking away the afterbirth to cleanse it from infection.

I walk over and pick up my baby boy, elated, overjoyed. My human baby boy. I smile and pace to my wife, the mother of my child.

Yes, I love him. And I will not reject the child born in human form
.

I kneel down and place the baby next to her, by her nipples. He instinctually latches on, lips sucking voraciously for his mother’s milk. This child will be loved, will live. My dreams shall no longer be haunted by the soul of the dead child.

I hold my wife close, my child.

And I
love him
.

HAIRS AND GRACES

WILLIAM MEIKLE

Dog tired.

I’d heard the phrase, but never understood its true meaning. I was about to find out.

The bell above the doorway rang at two after noon.

The man who entered was big money, through and through. He wore a thick serge tunic, his sash was draped just right, and his shiny leather boots squeaked as he walked across the room. He was in his sixties, but held his back ramrod straight. And although his mouth smiled, his eyes told a different story. He strode into the chamber as if he owned it and thrust a hand at me that I couldn’t refuse to shake.

“Gwynne Ericsdochtir?” he said, “I’m Lord Colwyn of Eyr, and I believe there’s something you can help me with.”

He smelled––of perfumed soaps and rosewater, and underneath that, the faint but unmistakable odor of liquor.

“I’m Gwynne. And all investigations can be undertaken if the fee is right. And I am surprised. When a Lord comes to a place like this, it’s usually about a woman; and usually a wife, lover, or whore. They mostly want a man to investigate cases like that.”

“It’s been a while since I had any of those three,” the Lord said.

For the first time I saw him for what he was––an older man, proud and keeping himself together, but fighting the same constant battle against boredom and booze that I recognized only too well in myself.

I motioned him towards the chair opposite me. I half expected him to dust it down first, but he sat without a second thought, falling into its depths. I leaned back in my own chair, feeling much more comfortable––now I had him where I wanted him.

Time for business.

“Before I start,” he said, “I must tell you, this is strictly confidential. Word of this must not leave this room. It could seriously damage my reputation.”

“Very dramatic,” I said. “Just tell me what you need––we can discuss the security arrangements if I decide to take the case.”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” he said. “I need your word on the matter.”

“And I’m afraid
I
must insist,” I replied. I gave him a big smile. “I can’t give you my word before you tell me what you want me to keep quiet about. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.”

I watched him squirm. He wasn’t used to being refused, and his red face told me he wanted to take my offer and leave, but he stayed in the chair. Whatever it was that bothered him, it was big enough to override his pride.

Finally he sighed, and relaxed back into the chair.

“I need you more than you need me? Is that it?” he said.

I smiled again.

“Well, I suppose I’d better tell you,” he said. “But remember––”

“I know––the local economy will collapse, the future of the citadel depends on it, all that happy-crappy.”

It was his turn to smile again, but once more his eyes would have nothing to do with it.

“You don’t get to be in my position without stepping on a few toes over the years. I made an enemy recently.”

He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it over to me. I checked it over. It had been written with a thick quill and by someone whose touch was none too light. There was a single statement.

“The belt is mine.”

It was signed,
The Dubh Sithe
.

I turned the sheet of paper over in my hands, but there was nothing on the other side.

“That’s all?”

He nodded.

“The
Dubh Sithe
?”

“Loosely translated, it means
the Black Elf.
”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He handed me a belt, made of thick course black hair. It felt dry and dusty in my hands. It had a buckle attached; brass clasps, cunningly wrought as wolf heads, that linked together at the jaws.

I examined it from all angles.

“So what’s the big deal?”

“It’s a
Lougrou
belt. It allowed the sorcerer who fashioned it to turn himself into a wolf. I bought it last week from a trader from the badlands.”

I watched him closely, but he kept a straight face.

It was time for my token cynicism.

“I’m sorry––I’m having trouble with that,” I said.

“What? With the cases you’ve been getting recently?” He gave me a smile that was neither polite nor friendly. “You didn’t think I chose you at random did you? You’ve got experience in this area.”

“Word certainly gets around,” I said. “But I thought it was only among the
lower ranks
.”

He laughed.

“In this town, a lot of words get around. At all ranks.”

“So what exactly is it you want me to do?” I said, trying to look like I knew what I was doing.

“Keep the belt for me––protect it and see that nothing happens to it. And find out what you can about this
Dubh Sithe
––see if it really does belong to him.”

“I charge five gold pieces a day, plus expenses.”

“I can’t sanction that kind of payment.”

“That’s okay. You know where the door is,” I said.

He stayed in the chair. I watched him wonder whether to get angry, then think better of it. In the end he gave me another tight little smile.

“Are you always this hard to hire?”

“Only when I’m in a good mood,” I said.

He took out a purse and counted out the gold, laying them down on the desk, slowly, as if afraid to part with them.

After he left I pocketed the gold, spoke a few words to my mirror, strapped on my sword and went to work.

* * *

The Barrows area in the east-end is the delivery point for anything coming in from the Badlands. Legit and gray-area traders rub shoulders in a vibrant, heaving, market, selling everything from meat to ankle rings, silk gowns to armor plating.

Even this early in the day, the place was busy. Stall holders heckled, promised and cajoled while youths barely out of acne ran the three-card trick on street corners. Queues of women formed at a stall selling thick woolen undergarments, while queues of men snaked around a trader offering a gallon of liquor for ten groats. The smell of frying grease hung in the air, wafting from a score of caravans and someone offered a unique chance to buy an eagle.

And all that was just ‘The Barrows’ public face. I knew of at least two card schools in huts round the back where you needed ten gold pieces to get a seat. Down a side alley, just out of view of the main market, whores plied their trade and hard faced men sold sleep-weed to soft-eyed youths.

Then there is Paddy’s Market.

Rumor had it there was once a seaman who took small items from every cargo of every ship he worked on. When he came ashore he had walked a reasonable distance from the docks, then set up shop, selling goods from a rolled out blanket. That was back when the city was still making its money, when magnates scoured the world and brought it back up the river.

Paddy’s Market was still open for business. The merchandise no longer held the quality it once did.

“Hey, pretty thing,” a drunk said to me. “See anything you like?”

He had a rug stretched out in front of him. On it he had; one Queene Freda commemorative coin, a fake Wayland broadsword, a quill pen without a point, and a sheaf of bleached papyrus so thin that the sun shone through it.

“I’ve got some good stuff coming this afternoon,” he said, and cackled, until he started to wheeze and cough. “So what is it today? Buying or selling?”

I’d done business with Harold before. He knew everything that passed in and out of the Barrows, and was willing to tell all, for a price.

I passed him a gold piece.

His eyebrows almost raised through his hairline when I told him about the belt and he got visibly excited.

“The Djanto Belt,” he whispered, and I thought he was going to drool.

“You know of it then?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, “It was found in Djanto, two hundred years ago, and was brought back into the country by Lord Cantor, a shipping magnate of the time. It’s got a long history––something about black magic––hocus-pocus anyway. It caused quite a stir back in its day. There was a scandal, and Cantor disappeared in suspicious circumstances. The belt wasn’t amongst his effects, and hasn’t been seen since.”

A predatory look came to his eyes. “How did you hear about it?” he asked.

“From a client. Is it worth much?” I asked.

“It’s priceless.” Harold said, and this time I believe he did drool. “Scholars all over the city would be cutting off parts of their body for just a look at it. I suppose that if it ever came up for auction it would go for, say, a couple of thousand gold pieces. But, as I said, it is lost. Most probably there’s a rich private hoarder who sits and gloats over it during the long winter nights.”