Page 6 of The Howling
I will find it, limping forwards until I reach a blank wall. The scent I crave is mixed with that of magic.
It causes me to growl. I don’t want magic involved. I don’t want it polluting what is so pure and right. I slam my working hand against the wall and dig in my claws. They sink into the stone as easily as if it was wood.
This is an enchanted door, not a wall.
My claws go deeper. Deep enough I can wrench at the thing. It should open. If iron bars are no match for me, then a door made of wood should be simplicity itself.
Nothing keeps out a Barghest. The Yeavering knows it.
Even as I wrench at it, as it cracks and splinters under my touch, the scent grows greater. Until the door opens and I see it.
I seeher. The tiny creature, her hair glowing in the light, part dark, part a deep blue which is both unnatural and perfect. Hereyes are huge for her face. They glare up at me as if she has no fear.
I can only think of one word. I can only say one word. It’s a word I’ve never used before.
“Mine.”
This female belongs to me. I want her more than anything I’ve ever wanted. Not so I can help the Reaper take her soul. That is hers until she surrenders it.
I reach out, my hand and claw looking like they’re from hell itself as I grasp at her. For one instant, I think she’s going to stay where she is, to let me take her, to let me have her.
But instead, she moves to one side, away from my terrible, grasping claws, away from my form which has shifted easily, far too easily, into that of my were-hound. One more step and I will be the black dog completely. He pulls at my insides, wanting to be out, to press his nose against this female and to lick at her skin, sink his teeth into her…
“I want to eat you.” The words rasp out.
“Not a chance,” she responds, her hand grasping at something long and wooden.
I am fast. I am faster than death itself, but I do not expect what hits me in the side of my head.
I do not expect what pokes me hard in the chest, sending me reeling back.
And I do not expect to fall into the oubliette in the floor.
WYNTER
I’m shaking so hard I can’t hold onto the broom any longer. It clatters to my feet as a long, low howl comes from the opening in the stone floor which I’m sure wasn’t there a second ago.
“Barghest.” Lilburn appears out of the shadow shaking her head. “Hates everything,” she says, then looks me up and down. “Except you it seems. Nice work with the broom.”
I take a step back, hit the wall, and slide down it, my breath coming in stuttering rasps. Those eyes, those dark pools of danger. And the teeth. The jaws.
I’m not sure, given how much I’ve seen in the Yeavering, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened in my life.
I still can’t believe I had the presence of mind to use the brush against him. And I certainly don’t care where he has gone. I have to hope it is a long, long way away from me.
“The jailer will put him back in his cell.” Lilburn looks over at one of the iron cages, where the bars are bent and twisted. “And fix it,” she adds. “He won’t get out again.”
I shake my head, hardly able to trust my voice. “That was a Barghest?”
“That was the Barghest. Reavely is the last of his kind.”
“Reavely?”
“The Barghest has a name.” Lilburn chuckles.
She holds out her small hand to me. I take it, and she lifts me to my feet with a strength I wouldn’t have thought she possessed.
“Are you sure you’re not the jailer?” I eye the hole in the floor again, the one I know wasn’t there before.
