Playing With Fire

by Adrienne Woods et al.

  “What do you know about God, then, Patrick?” she snapped, pulling her hands from his. “If you no longer wish to be with me, why not simply tell me?”

  “You know that is not what this is about,” he pleaded as she stood up.

  “No? What is it about? You talk about sin, and only sinners being killed. Am I in danger, Patrick? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  Angelica’s petite body trembled as she backed away towards the stairs.

  “You are safe with me, my love, I promise.” He reached out to her, taking her hand. “Please, come here, I did not mean to frighten you. I love you.”

  A sob escaped from Angelica’s throat, and her dark eyes threatened to overflow with tears. Gently, he pulled her towards him, cradling her in his arms. As she cried into his shirt, Patrick stroked her hair. He hummed a tune to calm her, and to erase the vision of the black veins that had crisscrossed her face moments before the tears came.

  The town hall buzzed with voices as Dorien and Richard entered. Lord Alaric, as well as all the other lords of Ashford, sat in the front row, waiting for the mayor to arrive.

  Lawson and Doctor Roy stood to the side; as well as several others Dorien planned to call on to speak.

  “Citizens of Ashford,” Dorien began, “I have called you here today because we are making a mistake hunting Patrick Blakesley.” He thought he might as well come straight to the point.

  Alaric stood in a rage, as did several others, but he could not hear Albert’s words over the noise the crowd made at his statement. He waited for Richard to order them to silence before he continued.

  “Most of you have lived in Ashford all your lives. Your families have called Ashford their home for generations. Can anyone tell me if there was ever in the history of Ashford an event where a werewolf attacked a citizen of our town?”

  “Last week, and this,” Alaric shouted, eliciting more clamour from the crowd.

  “The recent attacks were not made by a werewolf.” Again, Dorien had to wait for Richard to restore order. “Even as a man, Patrick would not have been able to do what happened to the five men out in the woods, neither could he have put the others into such a state of shock that they cannot speak, even to this day.”

  “Then he had help,” Alaric said.

  “No, my Lord,” Dorien said, raising his voice, “this was not the work of a werewolf, nor a man. We are dealing with something else altogether here.”

  “If it is, how do we fight it?”

  The comment came from one of the men Richard had brought; asked to speak the line at the right moment.

  “Where are the elders of the town?” Dorien asked, looking around. He saw some hands raised, and he addressed them now. “For those of you who remember, and for those of you who have heard the stories passed down through the generations, have the people of the wolf not always protected this town?”

  Alaric’s mouth gaped open, but one of the elders in Richard’s group stepped forward before he could say anything.

  “We have been a part of Ashford since its inception,” the elderly man croaked. “You all know me; you know my son. We have protected you for longer than most of you have been alive. Will you persecute our kind now because of one man’s accusations?”

  “These are not just my accusations,” Alaric yelled. “Men are dead.”

  “Not by our kind,” Richard cut in.

  “Albert, you may have forgotten our history, but Ashford was built on the backs of the werewolf families. Five of those families remain. The Blakesleys, the Lowells, the Wolfdens, the Clells, and the Randels. We are all that’s left that now stands between you and whatever is out there hunting your kind,” Dorien said.

  “We have let you lead long enough, Lord Alaric,” Richard continued, “but it is obvious that your methods are futile.”

  Alaric stared at them as the families of the wolf assembled on the stage, showing themselves to the people of the town. Edward came to stand next to Dorien, holding his head up high.

  “Did Lawson find Patrick?” Edward asked under his breath.

  “No. Your son has an incredible ability. I have never known a better tracker than Lawson, yet Patrick manages to evade him every time.”

  Edward laughed. “That’s my boy.”

  “We need to bring him in, Edward. I believe he could be of help. He has been monitoring our every move and, more often than not, he has been one step ahead of us.”

  They waited a moment while Richard answered some questions for the crowd, Alaric still glowering at them from the first row.

  “I will see what I can do, Dorien. I may have a way of finding him. Come to the manor tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, Edward.”

  “No, Dorien, it is I who is in your debt. The town may be slow to believe that Patrick is not the killer, but you have known all along. Thank you for revealing the secret of the wolf for my son.”

  Dorien took Edward’s hand. “Eleven times in our history has the secret been revealed to save the town,” he said. “The people are quick to forget, and they will do so again after this is over. We do what must be done.”

  “Aye.”

  “Get me your son, Edward.” Dorien nodded towards the packed town hall. “I have this lot to convince and assign into new patrols. I shall see you tomorrow night.”

  Edward nodded and left the hall through the rear exit. Dorien turned back towards the townsfolk, joining Richard in his debate with some of the nay-sayers.

  “You will regret this, Dorien,” Alaric threatened him. “You do not know what you are meddling with. Mark my words, you will come to rue this day. And, when this day comes, do not come crying to me, for I will not be able to help you then.”

  Dorien observed the manic glint in Albert’s eyes until the man turned and pushed his way through the crowd. He was glad to be rid of him, but his words had sent a shiver of warning down his back. Not because the lord intended such, but because of the way Albert had looked when he had uttered them.

  Albert Alaric was afraid. Deathly afraid.

  Sin. Therein lay the root of all evil. For God had created man with a free will, and man had used it for evil. It had corrupted his mind; twisted it, bent it, tortured it.

  The hearts and souls of mankind were now so corrupt; even God had turned his face away, unable to bear the sight any longer. His creation had abandoned Him, forsaken Him, renounced Him.

  The evil that emanated - nay, pulsed - from the world was like a black veil of smoke straight from Hell. There would be no absolution for mankind; no salvation. Every stained soul had to be purged from this place.

  Such as the quivering blob that once was a man, but was now a melted mess after falling into a vat of acid. He had deserved it, for it was how the man had disposed of all the animals he had captured, skinned alive, and then made clothes from their pelts.

  The names of the sinners did not matter; only their actions. There would be too many names to remember. As it were, some of the acts were so heinous, they could not be given names, either.

  One man, in the great town of London, thought himself so moral as to purge the streets of prostitutes. He lured them to his house, where he killed them and then ate them. That man saw a most slow and agonising death; he ate himself to death, starting with skin and meat from his legs. He continued to other, non-essential parts, until eating his own intestines eventually killed him.

  It mattered not that the punishments for the sins were cruel, for the sinful acts were cruel themselves. The sinner reaped only what he had sown. It was his own doing … or undoing.

  Had the pigman not killed all those people, and then fed them to his animals, the same fate would not have befallen him. Had the iron man not flayed his son, he, in turn, would not have been flayed. There was a clear basis for crime and punishment, and for those that had sinned, judgment day would not be far behind.

  The shadow paused, looking down upon the men below — vile creatures; every one of them. Oh, but to have the streng
th to punish them all at once. But, no, the time was not right. The shadow was young, weak, and not fully formed, and knew not its real purpose. It would have to satisfy itself with seeking justice one man at a time.

  The world of men was full of sinners and kept it occupied while it grew and learned - but the more it learned, the more it came to hate the sins committed. The shadow became desperate to reach its full potential; to wield justice as it was intended. Had it not been set free for this very purpose? Why, then, was it not given its full power at once?

  Frustration boiled through it, and burst forth in a mighty roar, rushing through the forest around it. The men below stirred, screaming and running, but the shadow did not harm them.

  Not today.

  Patrick sat up in his makeshift bed and listened. Something had woken him, but all he heard were the crickets and the frogs down by the river.

  He lay back down, but could not return to sleep. Shrugging on his jacket, he left the shed and looked out across the river. The rising sun made the trees cast long shadows over the water.

  Cursing under his breath, he paced the dock. He could not ignore the restlessness he felt, yet he did not want to obey it. Could he trust it? Did he want to?

  With a shout of frustration, Patrick ducked under a bush, and onto a narrow game trail into the forest. It followed the river for a while, before parting ways. He knew every part of these woods; which paths were safe to take without discovery. He now took those unerringly to his destination. Only when he came close to Blakesley Farm did he slow his pace and approach with caution.

  Patrick circled the large property; saw the workers, their wives, the animals. The manor sat on the low rise, peaceful in the morning light.

  The woods around the farm were quiet and empty, and Patrick found none of Alaric’s men or any other kind of trap. Carefully, Patrick made his way to the thicket and the entrance to the tunnel.

  “You summoned me, Father.”

  Patrick derived only a slight bit of satisfaction from the fact that his father twitched at the sound of his voice behind him, before answering.

  “I did, my son. Thank you for coming.”

  “Your alpha call is still strong. I had no choice.”

  “Ha, I am glad to hear it,” Edward laughed. “I was worried I had lost you. Come,” he beckoned, “I have good news for you.”

  “You found the killer?” Patrick asked, soon sitting down at his father’s desk.

  “No, unfortunately not, but Dorien has convinced the town that it’s not you.”

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “How did he do that?”

  “He called on the wolves to stand together. There was a meeting, and Dorien has declared you innocent. The werewolves will now lead the hunt for whatever is out there killing our people.”

  “Does that mean I can come back here?”

  “Indeed, my son.”

  “What about Angelica?”

  Edward’s face grew grave. “Albert’s views differ from ours,” he hesitated. “He has it in his mind that you killed those people, and nothing anyone says can change his mind.”

  “Even now?”

  Edward nodded. “Now that Albert knows I am a werewolf, too, I doubt I am still welcome at his manor.”

  “Father, what will you do?”

  “I have investments, Patrick. We will be fine.”

  “What will happen now?”

  “Dorien will come tonight. There are forces at work here beyond our understanding. This is no human killing humans. This is something different altogether. Something much worse. After Dorien has spoken to you, we will call the wolf council.”

  “You think it is of a magical nature?”

  “We see no other way. No man could have been strong enough to do those men what was done. You saw for yourself, I believe.”

  “I saw,” Patrick said between clenched teeth.

  “Witches, maybe. Dark magic, probably. Only our elders have ever dealt with anything like this, so we need to heed their advice. There has been no magic in these parts for nearly two hundred years.”

  A shudder passed over Patrick as his father spoke about dark magic. He had experienced dark magic before, but he could not remember it now. Frowning, he tried to recall the incident, but it would not come to him. The more he thought about it; the more his skin itched - a hundred thousand ants crawling over it, biting, stinging. Patrick wanted to shed his skin; climb out of it; discard it.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  “What? Yes, I’m sorry, Father. It’s just the mention of magic has me thinking.” He rubbed his arms absently. “Are we equipped to deal with such things?”

  “More so than the humans, Patrick. We are what stands between the human world and the darkness. It has always been thus.”

  “Then, so it will be.”

  “Are you in contact with Angelica?”

  “I am, Father.”

  “Then I suggest you let her know you will not be able to see her until this is over. If for nothing else than to keep her safe.”

  “Father, I …”

  “No,” Edward’s voice deepened, settling in Patrick’s chest, “that is an order. We need your absolute focus on this. You can go now if you like. Go tell her, but be back by sundown.”

  Inhaling a steadying breath, Patrick replied, “Yes, Father.”

  It took all his willpower to walk out of his father’s office with composure, but once out of the house, Patrick sprinted to the stables to saddle his horse.

  It took him half the time to get back to the boatshed on his stallion, and he set the animal free to graze while he made his way on foot to Ashford Manor. By now, he knew how to get in and out unseen, and he was beside Angelica’s window before anyone could notice.

  “What are you doing here in the middle of the day?” she whispered, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “Has your father not spoken to you?” Patrick asked. She shook her head. “The mayor has halted the hunt for me. I am no longer a wanted man, but,” he took her hand when he saw the hope in her eyes, “your father still believes me to be the killer.”

  “So we can still not be together?”

  He shook his head. “Dorien has called a council, and a new hunt will begin. I have been ordered by my father to let you know that I will not be able to see you until the killer has been found.”

  “Ordered? But why?”

  Patrick reached up and wiped the single tear from Angelica’s cheek. “It is for your safety, my love. We believe there to be unnatural forces in play, and I cannot risk involving you in this. I need you to be safe.”

  Angelica tilted her head and looked at him with ever-darkening eyes. “No,” she said, her voice settling in Patrick’s chest, “you will still meet with me in the boat shed whenever you are not hunting.”

  Chapter 11

  Patrick ran his finger along the inside of his collar, hoping it would alleviate some of the tension he felt.

  Alpha connections developed between members of a pack, depending on rank. Edward was Patrick’s father and alpha, and should Edward ever give him a command in the alpha voice, Patrick would have to obey it. The alpha voice was a deep-rooted, telepathic bond, formed either by birth - like Edward and Patrick - or passed down through the generations. It could also be taken by force with a physical battle for leadership.

  The wolves of Ashford crowded into his father’s study, waiting for Dorien to begin the meeting. Patrick watched them, taking note of the relationships within the families.

  The Randel family still had their elder as their alpha, whereas the Clell elder had abdicated and passed on his alpha to his son. The Blakesley family was the only one with only two generations present; all other families had at least three.

  Even within their casual, private conversations, Patrick could establish rank amongst them, and he wondered if it was this clear to see between him and his father, too. Patrick could feel the call of the alpha vibrating within his chest; and when it happened, there was no
denying it. He hoped his father would not use it tonight.

  “You look pale. Are you all right?”

  Patrick turned towards his father, seeing the worried look on his face.

  “I am only concerned, Father,” he said. “If it is magic we are dealing with, how will we know how to fight it?”

  “That is why we are here tonight,” Edward replied, “to discuss it. Dorien is about to start. Come, sit with me.”

  Patrick took a chair and placed it next to his father’s desk, seating himself beside his father, waiting for Dorien to begin. The crowd quietened.

  “I have spoken with those that lived a hundred and two hundred years ago,” Dorien began, nodding towards the Randel and Clell elders, “and neither has ever seen anything like this before.”

  “Are we sure, then, that this is magic?” Dale Wolfden, Richard’s younger brother, asked.

  “This is where we enter into dangerous territory,” Dorien replied. “I will allow my cousin to explain.”

  Lawson stepped forward. “The wounds inflicted, and the methods of murder, point to a human killer. However, the way it was done would imply strength, such as only a werewolf possesses.”

  The men gasped, and some eyes travelled across the room to settle on Patrick.

  “We did not want to mention this to the rest of the town, for they would have crucified Patrick on the spot,” Dorien cut in.

  “Indeed,” Lawson continued, “but we know it wasn’t Patrick because those seven men are still under whatever spell was cast upon them, and that could only have been done by magic.”

  “What is wrong with those men?” a Randel family member asked.

  “Nothing that we can see,” Richard answered. “They are in the doctor’s care, where they lie in bed all day, staring at the ceiling. He has to feed them and help them drink. They won’t speak or acknowledge anything.”

  “Magic,” Dorien confirmed. “We are dealing with something bigger than us, and probably more dangerous than all of us put together. We cannot ignore even the smallest of signs. I have spent the day convincing Lord Alaric to put his men under my charge. He is not happy about it, but he has agreed. There are eighteen of us wolves. I will split us into groups of three; each leading a team of Alaric’s men as a back-up.”