Page 11 of The Wulver's Bond
When he pulled out Logan’s radio, he nearly added it to theburnpile. But the prospect of contact with someone, anyone else held an allure. Weed fiddled with it for a while. He’d never been allowed one of his own. It was a long-range walkie-talkie, with atiny screen and a frequency dial, and several buttons that made no obvious sense to Weed. He’d seen Logan use it, of course, but aside from holding it up to his mouth to speak, Weed had no real idea how it worked.
He heard the Wulver’s claws approaching behind him and quickly tucked the radio away. Better not let the beast see it.
‘You may stow your bag under the workbench. I shall make you a basket if you wish to store anything separately.’ The Wulver nudged the cup of tea closer with his foot, reminding Weed that it was there. ‘When you are ready, we shall go fishing.’
The wolfman stalked to the hearth, raking over the fire to quell the flames into red embers. Weed felt small beneath him. And strangely… safe.
He consciously shuddered, trying to shake away the deceitful feeling. It was just the sheepskins talking. All the soft and the warm—it was messing with his head.
But still, there was the tiniest, most miniscule seed of hope burrowing itself into his heart. What if the Wulver’s mild manner wasn’t a pretence? Could it be in his nature to be calm… even kind?
Weed scoffed at himself.In his nature.Everyone knew what was in the Wulver’s nature. Just as Weed knew what was in his. He was a duplicitous little snake, who would bite the Wulver’s charitable hand without a second thought, if only he had the freedom to do so. If anything, the Wulver was a fool for not beating him into submission from the get-go.
Weed would find his moment. A way to settle the score, if only for the most fleeting of instants. He’d make his new master pay for owning him, and Weed would be able to keep on going, to carry on his hopeless existence, for the sole purpose of realising that elusive promise of vengeance.
It was all he had.
* * *
The Wulver’s intended fishing spot turned out to be the bed of the same river that ran through the ravine hiding his home. They followed the rushing water until the channel became wide and shallow, and the water slowed its pace next to the sprawling willow thickets.
Weed could easily see every pebble under the water. He knew it tasted just as clean and pure as it looked—the willow trees told him so. His mouth watered at the sight of it, fuelled by nearby root-memories of its life-giving freshness.
As he hadn’t received any instructions, Weed lounged in the sun as far away as his chains allowed and watched the clouds pass overhead.
He had no idea he’d fallen asleep until he was nudged awake by a furry paw.
‘The sun is setting,’ the Wulver told him.
Weed blearily registered the dimming sky. He’d slept for the whole afternoon? He didn’t know it waspossibleto sleep that much.
He followed the Wulver back to the cave in a daze. His first meal of fried fish was a highlight of his experience so far, and he ate it so fast he nearly choked on the bones.
A few hours later saw Weed retching into a bowl with the Wulver looming over him.
‘I suspect your body is struggling to adjust,’ the wolfman said, all logic and no help at all. He reached out a paw to gingerly pat Weed’s shoulder, then snatched it back as Weed hurled again.
For the next few days, this turned into a pattern that Weed couldn’t break out of. His body felt weak as shit—weaker than it ever had after being driven by Elsie or beaten by Logan.
Each day he followed the Wulver to some spot in the ravine where the wolfman had tasks to fulfil, and each day Weed lay more or less face down on the ground and fell straight back to sleep. Once or twice, he woke up back in the cave, with no memory of having walked there himself.
The Wulver took it upon himself to moderate Weed’s diet, keeping his meals to plain hard tack and weak soup. Weed simply snuck out of bed in the middle of the night to raid the snacks from Logan’s backpack, and didn’t give a shit that the Wulver would find him throwing up again in the morning.
Finally, after more than a week of living in a dazed, sickly stupor, Weed woke one morning to find he felt, broadly… fine.
‘What’s the plan today, wolfie?’ he asked, tentatively nibbling some berries the Wulver offered him.
‘Do you think you could manage the walk to the river? I should like to gather more fish for smoking.’
Weed realised he’d been so out of it that he had no solid idea of what the wolfman had been up to, save for swapping out his sick bowls and steering him from one resting place to another. He had a loose impression that there were many other caves dotted over the ravine, and the Wulver had been checking the stores in each one.
Fishing sounded infinitely more fun than taking inventory.
Weed grinned sharply, flashing his teeth. ‘Sure thing. I’d like to see how you use those fangs of yours.’
The Wulver gave Weed a peculiar look, but said nothing. When they reached the river, Weed discovered why.
Rather than hunting fish with his teeth or claws as Weed expected, the Wulver’s preferred method turned out to be spearfishing. The spear was a dainty but vicious looking affairwith three narrow, barbed blades protruding from the end. Weed vaguely remembered it from the first trip, but hadn’t realised what it was for. This time, instead of finding a place to lie down, Weed watched the wolfman from the banks.
