Defying Destiny (2 page)

against the wooden door. That man, Nash,

was out there amongst the monsters. And

just who did he think he was? Locking her

in a shed. Who else could be responsible

this madness?

There was no way the man would

survive a battle with a pack that size. With

fangs longer than her fingers, Wolves

inflicted mortal wounds. Maralee wore

gauntlets when she fought them for a

reason. Circulating anecdotes suggested if

bitten by a Wolf, a human would transform

into one of the mad beasts. Maralee knew

better. Multiple scars on her right arm

proved these rumors false.

Another howl. Wolves panted and

sniffed beneath the shed door, but the

scratching stopped. Another howl, a yip,

and the beasts moved away.

What was going on? Had the Wolves

overpowered Nash? Were they invading

the villagers’ homes even now? That

couldn’t be the case. Things were too

quiet. No screams of terror and pain. No

growling, snarling chaos. None of the

sounds of slaughter that had haunted

Maralee’s nightmares for fifteen years.

She had to get out of this shed before it

was too late. She struck the door with her

sword. The blade was too thin and the

metal too soft to do more than scratch the

wood’s surface. Using the hem of her

cape, she wiped the blade clean of blood

and sheathed it before searching blindly

around the pitch-black interior of the shed

for a more effective tool.

Her hands found a rake in the darkness,

followed by a hoe. A shovel. An ax. With

a self-satisfied smile, Maralee took the ax

in both hands and approached the door.

She lifted the ax over her head and struck.

A board splintered, leaving a crack. A

band of moonlight crossed the floor. She

pulled the ax free and hit the same

location. The board broke off, leaving a

space large enough for her arm. She

dropped the ax on the floor, stuck her arm

through the opening and lifted the slab of

wood barring the double doors.

Maralee pushed the doors open and

rushed out into the frigid air. She drew her

sword, searching for signs of the Wolves.

Other than paw prints in the snow, all

traces of them had vanished.

Maralee caught sight of Nash kneeling

over the Wolf she’d slain. Long fingers

stroked the dead animal’s fur and eased

the Wolf’s blank eyes closed. The man

lifted the animal into his arms and stood,

cradling the Wolf’s massive body against

his broad chest. Its head lolled against his

shoulder.

Nash headed for the woods. He glanced

back at Maralee just before disappearing

into the trees and she recognized the

shimmering on his cheeks as the

moonlight’s reflection on the paths of his

tears.

Before the cursed full moon set, Nash

buried his older brother, Cort, beneath the

colossal tree that marked the graves of his

father and grandfather. Their mother, a

pale gray wolf, and his brother’s tawny-

furred widow, leaned against one another

for comforting support. Cort’s two young

sons, both purest white, and his only

daughter, the same gray shade as her

recently deceased father, howled forlornly

as they watched their uncle complete his

unsavory task.

That woman!
Why hadn’t she just

listened to him? Cort would still be alive

if she had simply done what Nash had

asked of her. And what kind of wicked

sword did she possess that could slay a

powerful being so effortlessly? It couldn’t

be the same one used to murder his father

and grandfather. The last of the Wolf

Hunters had died fifteen years ago. How

could another have arisen to prey upon his

pack?

As soon as Nash smoothed the rich soil

over his brother’s grave, his mother

approached and looked up at him, her

large, amber eyes full of questions and

pain. She whimpered and Nash sank to his

knees to wrap his arms around her broad

neck.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he whispered. His

fingers burrowed into the thick fur at the

back of her head as he tried to comfort

her. “I was able to control the pack, even

in their frenzied state beneath the curse of

the full moon, but that woman…” Nash’s

eyes narrowed as he remembered her

wide, innocent-looking silver eyes, so

contrary to her true monstrous demeanor.

“There was no controlling her at all.”

As the moon sank behind the distant

horizon, his mother’s fur became smooth,

warm skin and her arms moved to circle

her youngest son’s waist. “You know who

did this?” she asked.

“I do not know her name, but I spoke

with her. She couldn’t be dissuaded.”

“But how did she do it? Nothing but

silver can kill one of us.”

“It only makes sense if her blade is

silver. She claimed to be a Wolf Huntress,

but I don’t see how she can be,” Nash

said. “The Hunters are all dead. Our

secret died with them.” None of this made

sense. They’d had fifteen years of peace,

and now, some silver-sword-wielding

Huntress invades their territory. How had

she discovered their weakness? Chance?

Cort’s widow, Rella, wrapped a thick

robe around his mother’s shoulders.

“Here, Stacia, you’ll catch cold.”

Stacia accepted the robe to cover her

nakedness and rose from her crouched

position. She stared down at the grave of

her eldest son for a long moment. “It is

your responsibility to do something about

this, Nash,” she said in a wooden tone. “I

will leave the method up to you. You have

twenty-seven days until the next full

moon.”

Nash nodded. As a Wolf Guardian, it

was Nash’s responsibility to ensure the

safety of his pack. He’d been the first in

over five hundred years to be born into the

pack without the curse of the full moon.

He had all the benefits of his species. He

could shift from Wolf to human form

effortlessly. He was essentially immortal.

Powerful. Long-lived. However, the curse

placed upon his people did not affect him.

He was the only Wolf who did not go mad

under the glow of the full moon. For this

reason, tremendous responsibilities fell on

his shoulders.

“I’ll take care of it,” he promised.

“Wolf Hunter or not, she won’t slay

another of our pack.”

His mother turned her back to him then,

walking slowly towards the village

hidden within the dense forest. He knew

she was dying inside, but as leader of the

pack, she was forced to remain strong. He

wished she would yell at him, hit him, hurt

him. Anything would be better than her

quiet acceptance and feeble demands.

“Uncle Nash.” His niece, Carsha,

tugged on the sleeve of his leather trench

coat. She was in her human form now that

the moon had set and she could control her

shifting. He squatted down in front of her,

stroking her dark gray hair from her cheek.

“Why did you put Daddy in the ground?”

she asked, amber eyes wide with inquiry.

“He’ll be all dirty when he wakes up.”

Death was such a rare thing in their

pack. Elder Wolves, those nearing three

hundred years in age, disappeared when

they felt they’d become too frail to offer

any value to the pack. The elders never

returned

because

they

poisoned

themselves with silver. His kind was

immortal, but they did age, albeit slowly.

Three hundred years was long enough to

grow weary of living and ritual suicide

was considered an honorable death by his

pack. Nash had no words to comfort the

young girl or to explain a senseless death.

He had only confronted its heartrending

burden himself once before, when the

Hunters had slain both his father and

grandfather fifteen years ago in a battle

meant to ensure the slaughter of his people

would end.

“Carsha,” he said, his voice hollow,

“your daddy won’t wake up.”

She looked confused. “But Uncle Nash

—”

“Come, Carsha,” her mother said

gently. She held her hand out to her small

daughter. “Let’s go home. It’s late.” Rella

refused to look at Nash or acknowledge

his presence.

“ I wanna see my daddy,” the little girl

murmured, her eyes filling with tears.

“Carsha!” her mother snapped.

Carsha trotted over to her mother and

took her hand, silent tears spilling down

her cheeks as the pair of them headed for

the village. Cort’s nine-year-old twin

sons, Lark and Lord, shifted from their

human forms back into white wolves and

followed behind—tails limp, heads low.

“I want to see your daddy, too,” Nash

whispered to Carsha’s small, retreating

form.

The scent of freshly turned dirt hung

heavy in the air. Nash looked down at

Cort’s grave. The black earth blurred out

of focus. Staring despondently, he was

unaware of the passing time until a new

day streaked the sky with orange and pink.

He stepped forward and used his

pocketknife to carve the name
Cort
into

the tree beside his father and grandfather’s

names. When he had finished, he traced

the letters with his fingers.

Brother.

He couldn’t really be dead. It wasn’t

possible. Cort had always been the

likable, outgoing one. Easy to smile. Easy

to laugh. Friend to everyone. Unguarded

with his love. An attentive husband. A

doting father. He had only been a hundred

and thirty, not even half way through his

probable lifespan. Nash had always felt

so washed-out beside his gregarious

brother, but he would gladly forfeit his

own life to have him back. He’d had a

wife. Children. Nash had no one. And

now that his brother was gone, he had less

than no one.

Unable to express the depth of his grief

in his human form, Nash removed his coat

and dropped it on the ground. The rest of

his clothes followed and once naked, he

took his other form. Fur blacker than the

night, with a white patch across his left

eye in the shape of a crescent moon, the

Wolf sat at the foot of the mounded dirt,

lifted his snout to the sky and howled his

anguish to the trees of the forest.

Maralee thrashed in her sleep, unable

to pull herself from the nightmare.

“Stay here, children. Don’t come out

no matter what happens. Do you

understand?”

“Yes, Mama,” Maralee promised.

“Leland?” her mother prompted

Maralee’s older brother.

“Why can’t I fight too?” Leland

asked, a sour look on his young face.

Smiling gently, his mother stroked his

blond hair. Leland twisted away from his

mother’s pampering. Mother and son

looked alike—blond hair, blue eyes.

Maralee resembled her father—raven

hair, gray eyes. She wished she looked

more like her fair mother. Mother was

like an angel. Radiant.

“You are still too young,” Mama said

with a gentle but firm tone. “Another few

years and you’ll be ready.”

Maralee gasped when a series of

howls carried into the house. The Wolves

were close. It seemed odd they had come

here, as if asking for death. The moon

was not yet full. The Wolves had never

made an appearance on any other night

of the lunar cycle before. Mother

glanced over her shoulder towards the

parlor door, and then looked down at her

children again. “Stay here. I’ll be back

for you soon.”

“I’m not a baby, Mother,” Leland

shouted. “I’m ten years old.”

She smiled at him again before

closing the trapdoor. Maralee heard the