Anthony was awoken by tossing and turning; not his own, it felt like the whole bed was shaking. He bounced and slid violently from the sheets and hit the floor, hard. The room was spinning and in his half-delirium of sleep seemed vast, alien, and unknowable. It took his mind a moment to orient and a moment longer to conceive of his personal condition. Everything around him—the bed, the walls, the ceiling, the sheets, the pillow he’d knocked to the floor—was growing. A dark shadow loomed over him, getting bigger with each passing tick of the clock. His stomach felt empty and fluttered as if falling. It was a sensation he barely remembered from his childhood.
He was being reduced in size.
The enchantment was unsettling at the best of times; more so to come out of a sound sleep to encounter it. Despite being covered in a shaggy coat of fur and possessed of sharp claws and fangs, his wolven constitution was no match for the sensation. He couldn’t stand, despite his attempts. The shadow seemed to know this and reached for him. Vast hands, supple and long-fingered, reached for him and gathered him up as if he were a mouse.
He got a vague impression of a hooded figure but that was all. Then he was gripped in giant, fleshy hands and tossed unceremoniously into a small cage. It was cramped; he barely fit inside. And then the cage, itself, was clasped by a chain to a leather belt beneath those robes and the earthquake began again.
He was tossed about as the giant moved with strident purpose. The length of chain was not long—he could tell that much—but it was long enough that when his abductor walked, he was bounced about like a rag doll. He had to brace both hands and feet against the bars to keep from having his head smashed against the metal. He found it easy, his relative strength much higher than it was at his normal size, but the trip was still disorienting. The smell of leather, musky animal hides, and floral perfume assaulted his sensitive nostrils. He tried calling out, but his shortened vocal chords barely issued a high-pitched squeak. He could hear himself but he doubted anyone else could.
All he could do was hang on and hope he came to a stop.
The travel was long and disorienting. It felt like hours but was probably only thirty or so minutes. He smelled the cool air of outdoors without seeing it. All his night eyes could tell him was that the cloak concealing him against the waist of his abductor was heavy and made for outdoor travel. Its course threads and titanic stitches made were reminiscent of those worn by castle guards with faint embroidery of the Alabaster Throne’s crest along the hem: a white heron against a golden crown. At his size, the designs were almost a third his height.
Finally, he was brought from the outdoor air indoors once more. He smelled hundreds of conflicting aromas in the interim: a cacophony of scents he’d never had the experience of smelling before. It was all so intense but it reminded him, vaguely, of the surrounding city of Talismere. Had he been brought out of the castle to the tangle of streets, below?
The cage was mercifully pulled free from the belt and the giant, cloaked figure set it down within a much larger cage. The ceiling, spanned and supported ed by beams the size of California redwoods, stretched away in the distance over his abductor’s head. Once on the floor, the figure withdrew a small scroll and unfurled it. A few whispered words that were as harsh as sandpaper followed and the small cage door popped open.
The sensation of falling returned.
He staggered out as he realized the spell was fading. He was returning to his former size. Not wanting to be crushed within the tiny rodent’s cage, he got free just in time to be caught within the bars of the larger, surrounding cage. Soon, he was standing at his full height, captured within a large, iron cage only a foot-or-so taller than himself. The robed figure walked to the corner of the room, keeping an eye on him.
The small hovel was probably in one of the poorer sections of Talismere if within the city walls at all. While is perception of time had been skewed by his reduced stature he was certain they couldn’t have gone too far. The room was decked out in furs hanging from the walls and all manner of cages and traps set on shelves and a workbench that ran next to a staircase that descended into what was probably a basement.
In one corner a heavy crossbow had been mounted to the wall, aimed at the center of the room … aimed at Anthony. The figure made some adjustments to it and set the bolt in position. Then, working deftly, looped a strap of leather around the trigger. The other end was attached to the door of the cage and was pulled taught around a series of pulleys. The inference was clear.
The figure picked up another bolt and turned to the cage. Anthony couldn’t pull back very far. Like the small container that had brought him here, this trapper’s cage was barely big enough for him. He couldn’t pull away and didn’t dare jostle the bars lest he trigger the bolt. The figure approached.
The tip of the bolt glistened and shone brightly. Anthony could feel something in the air as it got close. Like a shiver of pain that had not fully manifested itself, the crossbow bolt’s tip sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he instinctively shied away from that metal. He could feel it from a foot away: it was silver.
Beneath the hood, he caught a glimpse of a smooth cheek; of a pointed chin and soft features. The woman who had taken him, however, was no one he’d ever seen before. She reached forward through the bars and gripped a heft of his fur. She was careful to not be between the mounted crossbow and Anthony.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled. “Get off—!”
“Hush! Cease your profane prattle!” With that, she stabbed the bolt forward, piercing the flesh on his shoulder.
The touch of the sharpened silver burned like nothing he’d ever felt. He howled in pain as the woman then produced a brass syringe with a somewhat thick needle and glossy black plunger. She pressed it into the wound and withdrew a full measure of his blood before stepping back to observe her handiwork. Withdrawing the hood from her head, she gazed at him coolly. “Now, my boy, my work can begin.”
Initially he had taken her for an older woman, possibly in her fifties. But despite the fine lines around her face and the tinges of white at her temples in her black hair, he suddenly got the impression that she was older. She had the physique of a very fit woman: toned and wiry with only the air of someone unused to nature and the wild. On her forehead, though, was a singular mark: a tattoo or a brand shaped like a black crescent moon. It was slightly off-center and looked roughly applied. Her golden eyes pierced him to his soul and he suddenly got a feel of power and authority from her. His mind made a leap of logic.
“You’re … Duchess Malgrave,” he said, slowly.
“Duchess no more,” she affirmed. “My title and lands were stripped from me leaving me nothing more than Calmina Malgrave. But what the actions of a rogue son removed, I plan on re-building.”
Her words carried weight. He didn’t know how, but with each declaration he felt the inclination to agree and obey. She was the alpha in the room, he suddenly realized: the head of the clan that had infected him. It wasn’t like mind-control but it was a very strong compulsion.
“I’d heard you were arrested and imprisoned.”
She scowled. “Do not think you can talk to me as an equal, cur. That you share my blood is an accident of my over-zealous offspring.” She turned away for a moment. Only Anthony’s heightened hearing could have picked up on the whisper, “of which you are the only one remaining.” She turned back, eyes afire. Anthony recognized her gaze as that of a wolf, despite her human form. “They branded me; buried the wolf within and exiled me far from the beloved lands of Kellen. But they did not kill me. That shall prove to be their mistake.”
Anthony furrowed his brow. “I thought there was no cure.”
“This is not a cure!” she shouted. “Every moment, even during the day, even without a full moon, I burn with the wolf within! She cannot escape; she paces and gnaws on the bars of my mind like a trapped animal and yet can never get free!” She stormed up to the cage, face twisted in rage. She glared at him for se
veral moments. Her pupils were dilated and nostrils flaring with deep, shuddering breaths. But propriety eventually won out over her rage and she composed herself. Forcing herself calm, she glared at Anthony down the bridge of her nose. “And in any event, why would you think me desirous to be free of my power? They neutered me, like a common animal, and banished me in eternal pain to walk the world beyond Kellen’s borders but the power...” She turned away once more. “The power still sings to me.”
Anthony didn’t know what to say. He felt fear welling up within him at the former duchess’ clear insanity. He licked his muzzle and tried to think of a way out of his predicament.
“I have been imprisoned,” she finally said, “just as you heard; but it is a prison I carry with me.”
“What do you need me for?” he asked.
Malgrave had circumnavigated the cage in the room’s center and paused near the boarded-up front windows. “I would have thought that plain,” she said. Her face took on a haunted look and her voice cracked as she responded. “They killed my children; murdered them. They hunted down the pack and put them to death with silver and flame. Were it not for my title and last vestiges of influence in the court, I would have followed them.” Her golden eyes grew cold and narrow. “My prison prevents me from creating any more of my line. What they cannot cure, they contain.”
Anthony understood. “But my blood—”
“Is of my lineage,” she finished for him. “I know not what invokes you to become wolf with neither nightfall nor full moon, but your blood is still of my line. With it, I can have a loyal family once more.” She slowly let out a long breath. “But on the off-chance your blood is not the same without the fullness of our Lady, the moon, I shall hold you; keep you alive until I know whether my prison is truly final or if it can be beat.”
“So, you’re just going to infect people? You know what this curse does to them; to us! How could you knowingly infect them?”
“It grants power, boy: freedom to do as you desire. Do not think to lecture me on the price of the wolf!” She stepped towards the cage and pointed at him, accusingly. “You know as well as I the song that sings in our veins. The hunger—the emotions—are but a small fee for the glory of youthful power and a beast’s fangs and claws.”
“It isn’t,” he lied.
He wouldn’t admit to her that she was partially right. He’d only felt the power flowing through him a handful of times. And although the driving hunger was gone and the rawness of emotions was somewhat dampened at the moment, he had to admit the energy and freedom he felt were unlike anything he’d ever felt when human. To be able to smell the world—to hear what no other human could hear—was like being a super-hero. He had to admit, to himself if not to Malgrave, that he understood the desire to pay that price.
“But you need not fear, peasant,” she snarled. “It won’t be just anyone. Only the strong; the aristocracy of the royals that shall receive my gift.” She replaced the hood over her face and strode to the door. “Starting with those very individuals who revoked my title and slew my blood.”
With that, she departed. The heavy, wooden door slammed behind her leaving Anthony alone in the dim cottage.