The mansion was seething like an anthill with last minute ball preparations, so Bernard avoided it. Instead he fetched a horse from the stables and rode into town.
The sun glanced through the perpetually cloudy sky, and the wet streets glistened silver. People shouted and children ran about, almost under the feet of riders and carriages. The air was warm and smelled of spring. Bernard smiled and relaxed in the saddle, allowing his horse to choose its own pace through the crowds.
After a while he reached the more affluent neighborhoods on the wall side of Lyedyn city. He cantered through their grassy yards, his horse flinging chunks of turf from its hooves. The werewolf pens lay inside the gates.
His horse snorted and slowed to a walk, tossing its head. He patted its neck. "Easy, boy. We're still a good distance from them."
But even Bernard could smell the werewolf pens ... like filthy dog kennels. After a while they came into sight, thick double-braced wooden enclosures, the tops of the fences studded with sharpened stakes and jagged metal. Guards encircled the walls, gripping their muskets and looking nervous.
As Bernard watched, something hit the wall from the inside and the entire enclosure rocked. There was a wet snarling sound. The once strong fences had been assaulted so much that their supports in the ground had weakened.
Bernard jerked his horse around and galloped for home. The horse laid its ears back, glad to obey. "They should all be destroyed," he muttered.
What if the monsters escaped soon? Even tonight? The elixir's protection lasted only a few hours. Perhaps he'd carry them on his person at all times, the way some men carried flasks.
He arrived home at noon, and resigned himself to the ministrations of his servants, who were under orders from Charlotte to apprehend Bernard and make him presentable. He submitted to a bath, had his hair combed and powdered, then dressed in stiff, formal clothes. He made sure to transfer the precious elixir bottles into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
By the time his manservant pronounced him presentable, it was mid-afternoon and guests were arriving. Bernard peered out his window at the drive below, which was packed with carriages and footmen ushering brightly-dressed women and somberly-dressed men up the mansion steps.
He sighed. Off to an evening of fake smiles and pretending to be pleasant to people he disliked. He patted the elixir bottles in his pocket, and strode out the door.
Chapter 3: The Bite
Charlotte was busy greeting guests, and smiled as Bernard appeared at her elbow. "About time," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.
"I was otherwise engaged," he murmured back through his smile.
That was all the conversation they managed. Guests arrived intermittently for the next four hours, and Bernard's feet ached in his good shoes. Charlotte looked ravishing in layers of white and red silk, with a train that fell five feet behind her. She wore a bouquet of white carnations pinned above her left ear. Bernard admired her, with an ache in his heart. They were married, after all, and he had never once touched her.
Once the guests had arrived, Charlotte sailed into the ballroom, and Bernard trailed in her wake. The worst was over. All he had to do was hobnob with the other men and enjoy the buffet. He eyed the table of spirits and soda water, but helped himself to punch instead. He wanted his head clear tonight. That wobbling werewolf fence hovered before his mind's eye.
The band started a spirited waltz. Dozens of pretty dresses and crisp suits swirled onto the dance floor. Charlotte danced with a tall, handsome lawyer in the thick of it. She never danced with Bernard. Jealousy plucked at his heart. Then he wondered why. Their marriage was all but name only. But after a moment's consideration, he decided that loyalty mattered deeply to him. He wondered if Charlotte felt the same, and watched her twirl and dance with the lawyer. Possibly not.
As the dances continued, Bernard browsed the buffet. Plenty of spiced ham, roast beef, and fowl. Tiny sandwiches clustered under silver covers, and multicolored eclairs graced platter after platter. He visited with the other men, as he was expected to, and flirted courteously with the ladies. But thoughts of werewolves prowled through his mind. If only he could check his scrollstone for a return message from Kryn.
Near midnight, fatigue laid its soft influence upon Bernard, and he rested in a chair near a window. Thus he heard a strange sound outside--an animal howling. Then the sound of breaking glass.
He rose to his feet and gazed at the ballroom entrance. The servants hurried out in alarm, closing the ballroom doors behind them. But people kept dancing and the music kept playing in surreal ignorance.
Bernard stood frozen, heart beginning to pound. The wolves had escaped their pen at last. Had they already invaded the city? Or had they targeted the outlying manors in the countryside? He had expected this, yet had no idea what to do. He lacked fighting skills or magic ability--his only talent lay in potion making. Surely someone would stop them! The footmen owned various muskets and fowling-pieces used to enrich Halfmoon Manor's table. Surely they'd use them in defense of the manor. Surely--
Then the screams began.
Terrible screams, dying women mixed with an animal howling. The music stuttered to a halt, and the roomful of handsomely dressed people turned to stare.
Something struck the closed ballroom doors. They rattled in their frames.
Bernard's dread turned to panic. The werewolves were coming, bringing their fury and their curse. He fingered the elixir bottles in his coat pocket. Who among this vast assembly might he save?
He scanned the beautiful, frightened women, and their elegant men. But it was a shallow look to convince himself of his own altruism. There had only been one choice in his heart, and he'd made it in his subconscious as he'd filled the vials.
Charlotte rose from a chair across the room, where she had been resting her feet in the young lawyer's lap. Bernard hurried toward her, shouldering past staring people. A heavy body struck the ballroom doors again. Several men rushed to barricade them with chairs.
Bernard reached his wife and laid a hand on her arm. "Charlotte."
She gasped at him, face white under its powder. "Bernard, what's happening?"
He pulled the elixirs out of his pocket and pressed one into her hand. "Drink this. It might save you."
"What is it?" She tilted the bottle sideways and watched the blue liquid swirl.
"Drink it!" he commanded, uncorking his own vial. He drank it in one gulp. It tasted strongly of cloves. Charlotte sipped hers, made a face, then finished it and laid the vial on the table. For a second Bernard's panic eased. She'd taken the dose. Theoretically the curse would not touch her mind. But it would not keep a monster from tearing out her throat.
The ballroom doors crashed and one swung open, pushing the assembled furniture aside. A snarling lupine head forced its way inside, followed by a pair of broad shoulders covered in filthy gray fur. Then it slipped inside. More werewolves followed it, pushing the doors open.
They towered head and shoulders over the humans, all shaggy gray fur, long canine faces with bared fangs, and burly arms ending in dagger-like claws. Bernard barely glimpsed them before they dove into the crowd like true wolves into a flock of sheep.
The ballroom erupted into pandemonium.
People ran in all directions like a sack of rats upended on an open floor, seeking hiding places. They collided and tripped and fell and shouted and screamed. Worst were the women in their choking skirts. They fell, tangled in their gowns. The wolves leaped on them with savage hunger and many screams ended suddenly.
Some people reached the windows, flung them open and leaped out. Bernard considered took three steps after them, Charlotte in tow, when fresh screams erupted outside. A feral shape rushed by the glass. Charlotte shrank behind him.
"We can't get out!" Bernard bellowed over the noise.
"This way!" Charlotte tugged his arm. She led him to a small door that was painted to match the rest of the walls. Bernard wrenched it open and pushed Charlotte throug
h, then closed the door behind them. It was a small room with a vanity and three chairs, and shelves of powders and scents. Oh yes, one of the rooms the women used for freshening up between dances. Leave it to Charlotte to seek shelter inside a powder room--Bernard had never set foot in one.
He held the door shut and listened to the bedlam outside. Charlotte sank into a chair and raised both trembling hands to her face. The only sounds were their labored breathing. Charlotte's breath shook with barely-suppressed sobs. Bernard wished he knew how to comfort her--a kind word, an embrace--but he didn't dare release the door knob.
The screams and howls outside quieted. Heavy footsteps galloped past the door toward the window. Deadly silence fell.
Bernard waited one minute, five, ten. No sounds. Everyone must be dead or gone. When did he dare to look outside? What if a beast lingered outside, waiting? How would he know unless he looked? Dread built inside him until he thought he'd snap.
He turned the doorknob and eased the door open a crack. A slice of ravaged ballroom met his gaze. Bodies and blood, broken glass and splattered food. The air reeked of death. He opened the door wider. No humans lived. The wolves had abandoned the ballroom in favor of living prey.
Bernard extended a hand to Charlotte. "Come, we must get to safety."
Charlotte saw the ballroom and cowered in the doorway. "Bernard ... oh, Bernard!"
He looped an arm through hers and guided her out of the powder room. "Don't look, darling. We'll take horses from the stables and ride to Marshal Sterling's up the road. He'll know what to do--"
A werewolf reared up from behind the buffet table. It licked its chocolate-smeared jaws and snarled. Bernard and Charlotte froze, Charlotte with a small scream.
The wolf leaped over the table and ran toward them on all fours, ears pinned back and teeth bared. Bernard flung Charlotte behind him and raised his fists in a pathetic defense against the monster.
The werewolf caught his left arm in its jaws and bit down. Its teeth pierced through his coat sleeve and deep into his flesh. It worried his arm and jerked Bernard sideways. He landed heavily on one knee and held up his other arm to shield his throat. But the wolf sprang upon Charlotte and bit her arm, too. She screamed--a long, horrible sound worse than any of the shrieks of that night.
But the wolf released her and paced around them in a circle, tongue hanging out like a pleased dog. Was it laughing at them? Its eyes flicked between them with human cunning. Bernard watched it and horror struck him like lightning. It knew it had cursed them.
The wolf bounded to the buffet table, where it resumed working its way through an entire roast ham.
"Why did it leave us alone?" whispered Charlotte.
Bernard scowled at his bleeding arm. "It inflicted its curse on us."
Charlotte gaped at the bite wound. "We're ... going to turn into one of them?"
Yes, there was no avoiding the transformation. But the elixir coursed in their veins, working against the mind-altering state of the curse. Despite the pain and what was coming next, a tiny flame of hope burned in Bernard's heart. "Let's return to our rooms. Can you stand?"
He helped Charlotte to her feet, and pulled up one layer of her crimson dress to wrap around her wound. She colored at the impropriety of this, but said nothing. There was no one left to see.
The pair made their way out of the slaughterhouse that had been the ballroom. The entrance hall was strewn with the servants' bodies. Charlotte moaned and covered her eyes with her good hand. Bernard shot her a glance. Was she sickened at the sight of more death? Or genuinely sorry for people she had known?
They turned from the sight and climbed the stairs to their personal rooms. Bernard made for his own room out of habit.
As he opened his door (in relief, as his rooms were untouched by wolves), Charlotte whimpered. Bernard smiled in self-conscious embarrassment. "I know you've never been in here, but it's all right," he started to say.
But Charlotte gazed at her hands. Fur sprouted from her smooth skin, and her perfect nails lengthened into hooked claws.
Fresh horror struck him like a cartload of bricks. He pulled her into the room and closed the door. Beneath his clothing, pain lanced through his bones. Would the elixir preserve his mind, or would he become a monster inside and out? Would they attack each other once they transformed?
Charlotte groaned and slumped forward, pulling at her dress. "Bernard," she gasped, "I can't breathe!"
A spasm of pain locked his jaw, and he nodded. As she pulled her arms out of her dress, he glimpsed her corset, laced tight as a noose around her torso. She shot him a pleading look. Her eyes had already turned yellow.
Bernard forced his trembling body to step behind her and raised a hand to the laces. But his fingers had thickened and gone rigid with muscle, and his fingernails had become claws. He'd be as likely to stab his wife as free her. But the curse was forcing her to transform anyway. Fur grew between the corset laces. Charlotte clawed at it with a gasping cry.
Bernard hooked his claws through her corset and ripped downward, peeling it from her like the skin off a banana. Charlotte fell to the floor as her body transformed, but she drew great breaths and her ribcage heaved. Her fur was creamy white.
Bernard's pain increased and his vision blurred. He tore at his restrictive clothing, desperate for air. His shirt ripped and buttons pinged across the room. His trousers came off anyhow.
The pain drove him to the floor, a burning, crushing pain in every bone and fiber. He groaned and it wasn't his voice anymore--it was a bestial sound. His limbs spasmed and he clutched his head. Anger and hunger rose up inside his mind and clamored for rule. No! He'd taken the elixir! He'd keep his humanity, no matter what happened to his body!
The pain faded. Panting, Bernard lifted his head. The room snapped into focus with amazing clarity. His nose identified Charlotte nearby, heaving deep groaning breaths. At least she was still alive. He rose to his feet and looked down at himself.
His fur was deep gray marked with brown, and the transformation made him huge. He stood on two legs, and touched the nine-foot ceiling with one paw. For the first time in his life, he was tall. His tongue felt enormous and floppy, and his teeth were a series of jagged spikes. Standing on two legs was tricky because his legs bent backward. He switched between four legs and two until he could walk a few paces without staggering.
Charlotte huddled on the floor, ears flattened, peering up at him. "Bernard," she whimpered. Her voice had deepened and become harsh. "You're a monster."
He dropped to all fours and bent over her, and she cringed away. "Don't hurt me!"
"Charlotte," he said softly, "it's all right. Remember the elixir we drank? It let us retain our human minds."
And their ability to speak. The mages had debated whether a werewolf could speak since the first wolf appeared. The human larynx remained intact, but the wolves only vocalized in barks and howls. There had been much debate about whether this was the result of a physical change or a mental one. Apparently the latter.
Charlotte pushed herself up on all fours and her ears sprang forward. "Will it let us regain our human bodies?" She looked over her shoulder at her fur-covered shoulders, then sank to her haunches and looked at her furry arms in dismay. "Oh! I'm a monster now!"
Guilt pained Bernard. He hadn't turned her into a monster. But he'd let her retain her mind, and perhaps that was worse--being aware of the condition and unable to alter it. Apologetically he said, "I was trying to preserve the mind. The body would have been the next stage had I ..." He looked down at himself. "Had this not happened."
He walked to his full length mirror and stood in front of it, examining himself. Slabs of muscle, keen yellow eyes. Thick fur that still smelled of cologne. There was no sign of the bite wounds that had inflicted the curse. But his hands were stiff, with none of the delicate motor skills of human fingers. He could never brew more elixir in this state.
After a moment, Charlotte rose and stood beside him. Her body was slim-wa
isted and feminine, but her claws and teeth were no less sharp. Her white fur was far more beautiful than his own gray coat. "Oh," she whispered. "I'm horrible!"
"You liked the way you looked." Bernard examined his teeth in the mirror, and then flexed his muscles, turning to look at his back. "I never did."
Charlotte stepped away, glaring in scorn. "You're such a boy, Bernard! Look at you, preening!" She turned her back and sat down on her haunches. "You don't have to like it so much."
Remorse struck Bernard. She was right--they were monsters now, even if his new body was more powerful than his old one. He sat down beside his wife in silence.
"What do we do now?" Charlotte said. "We can't stay here, can we?"
"We'll either be shot as monsters, or taken back to the werewolf pens," Bernard said. "Such a shame. If I could contact the Mage Society with my formula, they could perfect the elixir. It might let people who are werewolves at present regain their sanity. And perhaps their human bodies."
"Where should we go?" Charlotte's voice trembled.
Bernard thought for a moment. "To the forest. We can live out there until this dies down, then I might be able to contact Kryn."
They sat for a moment longer. Charlotte gazed at her muscled, white-furred forearms, and her long pink and brown claws. She raised a clawed hand in an old gesture to where her hair had been. Instead she touched her pointed ears and whimpered.
Bernard rose to two legs. "Sitting here does us no good. Let's see if we can salvage any food."
He shambled to the door, and Charlotte followed him. This body walked on two legs all right, but if Bernard moved any faster, he fell forward onto all fours, like an animal.
The house was quiet now. But with their heightened sense of smell, the mansion reeked of blood, death, and spoiled food. As they picked their way between the bodies of the servants, Charlotte whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," to each. So she did care about them.
The wild werewolves had been in the kitchen. Food lay trampled and ruined on the floor, but a good deal remained on the counters and in the pantries. Bernard picked up a box and began loading food into it, but Charlotte slapped his claws away and did it herself. Even though her hands were clawed, hers were daintier, better at handling small objects.