Page 18 of The Howling
Not only is his fur exceptionally soft, but it’s so dense it means my injured ribs are cushioned from any further bumps.
I guess Reavely doesn’t want to actually eat me. Although what he wants, I’m not sure.
Provided he doesn’t want my body in the same way as Lord Guyzance, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to find a way out of the Yeavering and away from this terrible place once and for all.
REAVELY
Ihad no choice to move into my were-wolf form, the one most of the inhabitants of the Yeavering fear. The one which streaks across a moonlit skyline and ensures all who see it know…the Reaper is coming for them.
But for Wynter, this form means something else, something I can’t quite put my claw on. It was the right form for her as she sat with salt water coming from her eyes. Water I lapped away because I wanted to taste her, but I wanted to help her too.
Lord Guyzance will not be hurting her again, of that I am absolutely sure. No one will ever touch a single hair on her head while she is under my protection.
Or they won’t have to worry about losing their souls because I’ll rip them to pieces and piss on the remains.
Then the Reaper can have them.
I slow my pace as we reach the winding path up to my ancestral home. A place I haven’t visited in a long time, but a place which called to my blackened heart the moment I saw Wynter.
She belongs here. I don’t know why, but she does.
“Where are we?” Her voice is weak but her grip on my fur still strong.
I’ve always struggled to speak in my dog form, but I manage one word. “Home.”
As I approach the heavy iron banded doors, they swing open for me into a courtyard long unused. The Duegar who used to share this place with my pack have long abandoned it, and weeds grow in every nook and cranny of the empty castle yard.
It has become a mausoleum.
I drop my forefoot and allow Wynter to dismount before I force myself back into my were-form. Becoming anything else is beyond me while she is injured because I need to be ready to tear the Yeavering to nothing for her. She leans against me, clutching her abdomen.
“This is my pack’s castle,” I say. Or I try to. Fangs make this sort of thing difficult. I think I might have growledcastle.
Wynter is shaking, her legs barely holding her up. I offer her my hand. “Rest,” I say. It’s a much easier word for my were-hound form. “Heal.”
“What about…” She gasps a breath. “The Redcaps.”
I shake my head. “No Redcaps.”
“Lord Guyzance?”
“No.”
This time she does not make water come from her eyes, nor does she demand an explanation from me. Instead she puts more of her weight against me. I lift her from her feet. She groans, her body going rigid.
I carefully carry her into the great hall. The banners sway in the breeze we create, blood red, hardly faded by time. The mark of my pack, a crescent moon and howling Barghest, stands out in white. I ignore the empty hearth and make my way to the stairs, taking them two at a time until I reach the bedroom. Fora moment I debate where she should go, but then she moans again, and I shoulder open the door to the nearest room.
The inherent earth magic of my former home has kept the room fresh and the dust minimal. I place Wynter on the bed and step back from her.
She curls up on her side, her back to me and her long hair covering her shoulder.
I stare at her.
She doesn’t move.
I stare some more.
Is she breathing? I do not detect the presence of the Reaper, so her soul is safe. But I dislike the way she does not stir.
