Author's Notes: This is the first fanfiction I ever wrote for public consumption and I didn't do it alone. It was a joint project with my friend Vivian. Although the writing is almost exclusively mine (except the prologue, one dream sequence, and all verse), the tale is mostly Viv's, as are all the new characters except Samantha (the end of the story is mine, however). The prologue and dream sequence she wrote were also re-written by me (from the first) so the entire story sounds as if it came from a single voice. We completed the story in late 2001, after nearly 2 years of writing.
PROLOGUE
In a small clearing of the spruce and hemlock forest, stood a tiny, snug fieldstone house. At the windows hung white lace curtains, and each was further ornamented by a window box, which in late spring was now planted with yellow and purple pansies. Just beyond the side door lay a small kitchen garden, the bare earth of which had just recently been turned, and which was surrounded by a wooden rail fence with fieldstone posts. Beside one of these posts, on the side of the garden nearest the path, rose a three foot wellhead with a pump handle. Pale grey slate flagstones paved the ground just beneath the spigot, though the path between the house and garden was of pink granite gravel. Behind the house, to the north, several animal skins - three rabbit, two beaver and a deer - were stretched onto racks to dry.
Two children, a girl and boy of preschool age, were laughing and playing tag in the meadow-yard beyond the garden. A dark-haired woman parted the lace at the kitchen window, leaned her head out and smiled. Her luminous hazel eyes appeared huge in her narrow, finely boned, slightly pointed face.
"You two need to wash up and come in!" she called. "Dinner is almost ready!"
The children had been smelling their favorite, lamb, for quite a little while, but they hated to interrupt a good game. After her mother's announcement, however, the girl, who was the oldest, started eagerly for the well, her mouth already watering. But the boy hung back - after all, his sister was 'it' again, and she'd fooled him into getting in range before.
"Charlie, you better wash up or you won't get your dinner!" she called with that bossy manner common to many little girls, "Now come on!"
She pushed a lock of light brown hair behind her ear and began to pump, then bent over to wet her hands in the stream as the water splashed down onto the flat rock paving, forming a little pool. Beside her, a single black and gold butterfly fluttered down for a drink. The girl's eyes tracked it's progress in delight until it came to rest. Smiling, she caught her own rippling reflection beside it, and leaned over farther to make it look as if it were ornamenting her hair. It was then that she saw the red-coated man standing just behind her.
His hand lunged out for her as she whirled around, screaming in horror. The soldier's blood-red uniform was encrusted with filth, his slack mouth full of broken brown teeth, but it was his beady, reddish, pig-eyes that frightened her the most. Still screaming, she ran for the kitchen door just as her mother came running out. Growling low in her throat, her eyes flashing fiery yellow, she launched herself at the soldier.
Charlie hadn't seen the soldier until the man was almost upon his sister - he'd been too engrossed in watching a preying mantis he'd found devour a grasshopper. He wouldn't have even looked up at all if he hadn't heard her scream. When he did, his first instinct was to run at the man yelling "You leave my sister alone!" but he remembered in time that his daddy had taught him not to make any noise when he was stalking prey. So he said nothing, just ran as fast as his little legs could go (he thought he was faster than anybody), every bit of his attention focused on the soldier's dirty, red-coated back.
At the she-wolf's fury, the soldier had taken a step backwards. He'd come out on his own, leaving his mates to drink themselves into a stupor at the inn in the village while he singlehandedly intended to exterminate another pocket of vermin. He'd gotten quite good at recognizing them for what they were, he thought, even though they were always very careful to keep their tails hidden. He'd seen the bitch go into the butcher's shop in town - clever ruse, he thought - everyone knew wolfs always poached honest folks' livestock! But even if he hadn't been attuned to the slight wildness in her appearance which gave her away, he'd have known by watching her two skinny cubs. No human child had a nose that twitched like that. He knew very well about their sharp sense of smell and had been careful to approach the house from downwind, wanting to get in close enough to dispatch the bitch before she had a chance to call her mate. Failing that, he wanted her and her cubs already taken care of before the male arrived. From her scrawny appearance (he liked his women with a good amount of meat on their bones), he hadn't expected her to put up much of a fight. But when he saw the madness in her eyes, he realized it had been a mistake to go after one of the cubs first.
Charlie jumped on the man's back in nearly the same instant that his mother reached him from the front. The soldier didn't know it, but the boy had done him a favor. With his balance thrown off, he wheeled around unpredictably, and the mother didn't dare attack for fear of harming her son. The child clung to the man's collar and swordbelt tenaciously, until he was finally able to sink his small teeth into the back of his neck. Cursing, the soldier finally managed to pluck the boy from his back, throwing him violently down onto the stone base of the wellhead where his head struck the adjoining fencepost. Blood splattered with the impact. Some of it swirled down into the water his sister had drawn just moments earlier, and he lay still.
In that instant, the mother's features contorted as she began to change, growling and snarling, her teeth becoming sharper, her fingers lengthening into claws. Mesmerized, the soldier watched the metamorphosis in horrified awe for the few seconds it lasted, his sword barely clearing its scabbard before she was on him, biting and clawing at his flesh, seeking the vulnerable spot on the side of his throat. The weapon being useless in hand to hand combat, he let it drop, fending her off the best he could with his free left arm as he fumbled at his belt for his hunting knife. Down they fell, onto the sharp gravel and stones of the path. At last his knife came free, and he plunged it frantically up to the hilt into her stomach.
She yelped once, sharply, then convulsed. The fangs and claws receded. He yanked the blade free and shoved her still quivering form roughly off of him. Panting heavily, he stood up, nursing his ragged and bleeding left arm.
Filthy bitch, he thought. Filthy bitch!
She lay curled in a tight ball, little whimpering noises gurgling from her throat as blood foamed on her lips. He gave her a savage kick, once, then again. Filthy bitch! He was about to kick her for the third time, when a small gasp behind him made him turn.
Charlie's sister had witnessed the entire fight from just inside the kitchen door. Unable to move, she'd watched helplessly as the soldier had hurt first her brother and then her momma. She was crying and breathing very fast and shallowly, but she didn't know she was doing those things, so that when a louder sob escaped, she had no idea why the soldier suddenly stopped and looked straight at her. Her eyes, already huge and green in the chalk-white face, grew even larger with terror as he began walking towards her. She knew she should run, but couldn't make herself move. Then, as his foot reached the first step, at last she darted out the door.
He caught her easily. She shrieked once, sharply, as he grabbed her from behind by the hair. After that she couldn't seem to breathe, just looked up in terror at the knife he was holding, still wet with her mother's blood. When he cut her throat, she didn't make a sound.
Grinning with satisfaction, he watched the blood spurt from her neck, soaking her dress and dripping down onto the gravel path. Quite a bit had also splattered on his hands and onto the front of his jacket, but he only marveled, not for the first time, at the convenience of wearing red in battle. As he examined it more closely, however, it seemed to him, for just a moment, that there was suddenly much more blood than there had been. The sharp blade of bloody metal which suddenly thrust from his chest at an upwards angle registered with his brain at about the same time as the searing fire of the impalement. With a gout of blood bursting from his lips, his legs gave way and he toppled down onto the small body of the dead child he still grasped by the hair.
The mother's hand fell away from the hilt of the sword the soldier had dropped during their struggle, her strength exhausted. For a moment, she lay gasping on the path at the end of a trail of her own blood, sword arm outstretched, her breathing whistling and shallow. Then she lifted her head and made the call: a slow, thin, keening howl. It echoed back to her from the surrounding trees. Afterwards all was quiet.