Wild Magic (5 page)

There was fur.

Long, coarse, red fur. All over his body but especially around the neck, where it formed an immense shaggy mane.

The Piper's body didn't seem to belong to him anymore. He couldn't control it. He was being thrown this way and that. An elbow was forced up here, a knee gave way there. He was thrown to the ground and still the convulsions went on. A hundred fists seemed to be punching him from the inside. Marianna could see the flesh on his body bulge and sink as muscles formed and tightened. Then came a terrible sound, like someone crunching beetles underfoot. But it wasn't beetle cases cracking. It was bones. The Piper moaned and growled, but still the torment went on.

His face was changing now. Stretching, stretching, longer, longer. The moans became almost unbearable and Marianna couldn't help wondering why he had to suffer so. When she had turned into a fox, there was no pain, just a strange tingling sensation. But the Piper was in agony—anyone could see that—and she could smell his fear in the stench that continued to pour from his body. It was washing over her in waves and, for one terrible moment, she thought she was going to be sick. The Piper would hear her and know she was there. But what difference would that make? Why should he care about a fox in the bushes? He had better things to worry about.

Marianna swallowed hard and the feeling passed. She took a deep breath and started to feel calmer and, when she next looked, the Piper seemed calmer too. No trace of his elven form remained. He was a beast: lean about the legs like a wolf, but with a great barrel of a body like a wild forest boar. His muzzle was long and tapered, filled with fangs like a wolf 's. But he had boar tusks, sharp and deadly, one on either side. His eyes were round and golden. His body ended in a fine sweeping tail and his legs, slender as they were, looked like they could outrace the wind.

All things considered, Marianna decided the creature was more wolf than boar. But then the Beast raised itself on its back legs in a way no wolf could ever do. It stood there, bent but upright, then raised its shaggy head and howled at the moon:
owwwww!
Marianna felt the fur rise on her back, running in a terrified ridge right down to her tail. She sank lower, made herself small, and hoped it wouldn't see her.

It didn't. It was busy sniffing the wind:
FFF-FFF-
FFF!
And soon it found something. A scent— surprisingly close, much desired. Its great golden eyes began to shine like lanterns.

Marianna sniffed the wind too. She couldn't catch the scent, but she could guess what it was from the gleam in those golden eyes.

It was the scent of a human. A boy. Karl.

Before she realized what that meant, the Beast had disappeared into the wood, bounding between the trees with the speed of a dozen foxes. Marianna knew she couldn't catch it, let alone overtake it. She had to forget her plan and face the truth.

The Beast would hunt down Karl. There was nothing she could do to save him.

CHAPTER
TEN

Marianna sighed and rested her head on her paws. Now that the excitement was over, she suddenly felt incredibly tired. Today she had done nothing but walk and run, from midday to midnight. Her legs were aching, her feet were sore, and she was starting to feel hungry. She didn't want to think about that, but she knew she would have to eventually.

She closed her eyes. What a day it had been! And what about tomorrow? What on earth would that bring? It was too huge to think about. “I'll just have a little snooze,” she told herself. “Things always seem better after a sleep.”

Marianna curled herself into a tight ball, her tail wrapped around her like a muff. She felt safe and warm, despite the woodland on all sides. She felt her breathing get heavier and slower . . . Soon she was fast asleep.

Fff-fff-fff !
She woke up with a start. How long had she been asleep?
Fff-fff-fff !
Her nose was twitching all on its own.
Fff-fff-fff !
She could smell damp leaves and peat and pine needles . . . and the cloying stink of the Beast. It was coming back.

Marianna felt her hackles rise. She scanned the woodland, waited and watched. Soon she heard sobbing and shouting. Karl was being dragged through the trees by the Beast. He was begging for mercy. Pleading for his life. Marianna could hear the fear in his voice, the desperation in his cries.

The Beast crashed into the clearing, walking upright with Karl slung over its shoulder like a sack of apples. Marianna shrank into the ferns. Prayed she wouldn't be noticed. Mercifully, the Beast passed her by. But she saw Karl's face: gray with fear, eyes like coal, mouth wet with pleading.

Marianna was so terrified, she couldn't think straight. Half of her wanted to run away but the other half wanted to follow the Beast. Wanted to see things through to the end, however horrible that might be.

Suddenly the wood seemed very dark, pressing in on all sides. There wasn't a sound to be heard. Not an owl, a rabbit—nothing. She couldn't even hear the Beast anymore. But she could smell it. Its stench lingered in the air like an evil spell. And even without the smell, she knew where it was taking Karl.

The Standing Stone.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

By the time Marianna caught up with the Beast, it was bounding up the mound toward the Standing Stone. When it reached the top, it grabbed hold of Karl with its front paws and hurled him to the ground.

Ooof !
Marianna heard the breath leave Karl's body. She stayed in the shadows, not daring to move, waiting to see what would happen next.

She didn't have to wait long. In a flash of fur and fang, the Beast pounced on Karl and bit him. Karl didn't scream; he hadn't seen it coming. One moment the Beast was looming over him, blotting out the moon, and the next—he was dead.

Marianna bit her tongue. Willed herself to keep quiet, when really she wanted to howl like a demon. She wanted to close her eyes but they stayed open. It was like being enchanted all over again. She couldn't tear her head away. She had to watch. She knew she would never be able to forget what she was seeing. The appalling image would burn itself onto her memory and scar her for life. But still she watched.

For one terrible moment, Marianna thought the Beast would behave like a wild, savage dog. Karl would be shaken like a rag doll, torn limb from limb, devoured. But instead it was calm, controlled. Once it had delivered the bite, it moved away from the body, sat on its haunches, and gazed up at the stars.

And suddenly Marianna couldn't help feeling she was in the presence of something magnificent. The Beast, silhouetted against the full moon, looked regal and powerful. Noble and dignified—yet strangely humble. For all its great size, it seemed small and insignificant, sitting as it was beneath the vast starry sky. Marianna felt her heart soften toward the creature—she couldn't help it—though the feeling disgusted her.

But this magical moment didn't last long. The Beast started to become agitated. It rose to its feet and began pacing, just as Marianna had seen the Piper do earlier when things were going wrong. Was the Beast waiting for something? Whatever it was, it didn't seem to be happening.

The Beast began to punch itself, hitting its chest and legs. It turned to the moon, snapped, and growled something in its bestial tongue. It ran back to Karl's body, poked and sniffed it. But still nothing happened.

And that was when something snapped inside the Beast. It raised itself to its full height, threw back its head, and gave a howl of such anguish, Marianna thought her own heart would break, as surely as the Beast's was breaking, there on the moonlit mound, in the shadow of the Standing Stone.

The howl died away. Silence came, wrapping itself around the scene like mist. The hawk flew in, cutting through the silence like a blade. The Beast glanced at it, and Marianna saw the golden gleam in its eyes had gone. And with a shake of its great head, the Beast leaped from the mound and disappeared into the night once more.

PART
TWO

CHAPTER
TWELVE

High on Hamelin Hill was the Piper's home. It was a complex of caves, cut directly into the hillside, with a sweeping half-moon ledge outside. Beneath the ledge there was nothing—just a sheer, deadly drop. And some mornings, Finn (as the Piper was known in this world) would stand on this ledge and feel like throwing himself down, finally bringing an end to his rotten, miserable life.

Today was one of those mornings. His body ached, as it always did after the Beast had occupied it for a night. His head throbbed from the wild energy that had surged through his veins and pounded in his ears. He felt sore and stretched. Wounded and bruised, though there wasn't a mark on him. There never was. The Beast's skin was tougher than bear hide.

No, this weariness was nothing unusual. Last night had been the same as it ever was. A mad, frenzied rampage through Elvendale, hunting and chasing. Always,
always
there was hunting and chasing. Then a return to the glade and his clothes. An endless wait while the sun fiddled below the horizon, deciding whether she would show her face to the world. Another transformation, from fur to flesh— mercifully not as painful as the opposite order. And then, finally, the long walk home, stopping only to bathe in the nearest pool. That was essential—the ritual washing away of the filth and shame.

Same as ever, then, last night. Except he hadn't eaten. That
was
unusual. There had been no killing—at least, not in the usual sense. That was why he felt so ravenously hungry now.

No killing . . . Finn didn't want to think about Karl. The Beast had never killed an elf or a human before.
Never.
It was the only thing Finn was proud of in the whole sorry affair. Now even that scrap of dignity had been torn from him.

Finn turned away from the ledge and trudged into the caves. Every room was richly furnished, with furs on the floor and tapestries on the walls. There were couches and cushions, crystals and candles. Musical instruments, magic books—it was all very civilized. Certainly not the lair of a wild animal. Finn never came home while he was still in his Beast form. Some things had to remain sacred. His home was one of them.

Finn fixed himself breakfast. Nuts and berries in goat's milk. Hot boiled pheasant eggs. No meat. That belonged to the Beast. Whenever Finn returned to his elven form, he found scraps of flesh snagged between his teeth. He tasted death on his tongue: a disgusting, rusty tang of old blood.

He could taste it now. Boy blood. The mayor's son. Come to haunt him.

Finn sighed and poured himself a cup of chamomile tea. He cut a slice of honey bread and buttered it, then cut it into four dainty squares. He concentrated on the action, finding comfort in the precision. Reassured himself that the Beast was gone. Everything was as it should be.

Except it wasn't. His head was spinning with questions.

“Why?” he said. “Why did it all go wrong?”

His knife clattered to the table. He pushed his plate away. Put his head in his hands. Started to talk, though no one was listening.