by Ethan Proud
Inside the house was even more amazing. The wood paneled floors were made of pine and whorled with the blue fungal stains of the pine beetles’ symbiotic partner. A spiraling staircase lined with bookshelves worthy of Alexandria wrapped around the foyer. Ruckstead knew that the study was full of incredible animals that no one in Northgate would see in their lives unless they were invited to the Hartschoff Manor; the pelts of zebras, giraffes, lions, and flamingos adorned the room that was completed with a cigar box, a mahogany desk, and furnished chairs.
The sheer amount of blood was enough to distract the officers of the law from the pleasures of the house. It had run down the stairs, spread across the walls, stained the spines of books, and spattered the ceiling. Following the signs, Ruckstead headed upstairs before his assistant could direct him towards the first of the bodies. The adult Hartschoffs were found in their bedroom, the four- poster canopy nothing more than splinters and feathers. The lovers were naked in the middle of the destruction. Only their hands, feet, eyes, and genitals had been taken by their murderer. An animal was indeed responsible for the killing. The teeth marks were evident. What appeared to be dog hair was all over the room, as well as flecks of blood, as if the creature had shaken itself clean after its prey had been devoured.
“How did it get inside?” Ruckstead asked James.
“The solarium. None of the glass is intact.”
“Where are the Hartschoff girls?” The sheriff’s question went unanswered for a long moment.
“We found parts of both of them in the field out back. Enough to confirm that both are dead,” James answered and his face blanched.
“I’ll need to see it.”
“Sir, there are two left hands in a field. That’s it,” James said, but Ruckstead leveled him with a glare. “Yessir.”
The deputy led his superior outside. Directly behind the Hartschoff manor house were three ponds adorned with naked cherubs and larger than life goldfish statues. Behind the carefully manicured lawn of brome and wheatgrass was a field full of gorse and bindweed. The sharp thorns served as a warning behind the gentle allure of the pale morning-glory doppelgangers. The lawmen carefully picked their course through the thicket until they entered a clearing scattered with hair. Ruckstead pinched a clump of fur from a nearby bramble and inspected it. Some of the strands were blond while others were dark brown or nearly black. More than likely it came from a pair of creatures. The fair and darker hairs were segregated and there were enough thorns in the thicket that it wasn’t improbable for two creatures to get caught in the same place. The trail was overgrown, but well-worn enough that the only offenders were from the greedy branches of the sharp evergreen shrubs. No grass grew on the path.
At the center of the clearing there were indeed two left hands. They appeared pink in places and brown in others, not a speck of skin stood unblemished by blood. A fairy ring of little brown mushrooms ensorcelled the last remains of the Hartschoff daughters.
Paw prints littered the ground and exited the tiny meadow southbound. The Hartschoffs owned every inch of ground between the manor and the foothills of the Coprinia Mountains. Wherever the creatures had descended from, a mountain cave was as good a guess as any.
“Why the hands?” James asked, snapping Ruckstead from his reverie.
“Hmm?”
“What kind of animal takes the hands of its prey?” James reiterated.
The sheriff took a moment as he recounted the day’s events. “One that isn’t of this world. It looks like I will be making another house-call today.”
“Artemisia.” James Kerfield had a sour expression on his face.
“Artemisia,” Ruckstead lamented, as if today hadn’t been tragic enough. The witch would not be pleased about two visits in one day.
Chapter Three
The smell of sage, lavender, and mint mingled in the air as they burned in a shallow basin on the table. A larger bowl was set directly in front of the witch as she used a phial to drop a precious little amount of anise oil into the water. The reaction between the water and oil created a thin membrane that would keep her protected from whatever she saw in her divination. When peering into the past, it was important not to let your discoveries come into your present. Artemisia withdrew the cow eye from her purse and stared at it for a moment before placing it, iris down, into the water. The surface of the water bubbled and spat as if boiling, though no steam was released.
The witch still held the eye by the optical nerve, but soon it turned into jelly and broke apart as soft blebs which dispersed across the water’s surface. The rest of the eye followed suit, peeling open like a blossoming flower, turning the water opaque. It became still for a second, but a pinprick of green appeared at the center of the basin and flourished to paint the image of the Cronley’s pasturelands. The colors were muted, and the green was hardly the vibrant color that Artemisia had seen earlier, but after years of divining through animals she had become used to their limited color palette.
Knowing that she could only see the last twelve hours of the animal’s life, she stood from the table and grabbed a wooden bowl. Filling it with thimbleberries and currents from a wicker basket, she poured cream over them. At the merest scent of milk, a mewling came from the window as a large gray cat with tufted ears leapt back into the house from the garden.
“These aren’t for you Volker,” she chastised. He was undeterred and began weaving between her legs, forcibly rubbing his head against the tops of her boots in an effort to persuade her. “Go back outside and chase the voles away from my plants.”
Volker’s eyes glowed angrily for a second, then turned into the saddest, most pitiful face he could muster. When he saw that Artemisia would not relent, he leapt back onto the window sill and lay down, stretched out across the length of the frame. The meager amount of sun beating down lulled him into a peaceful sleep. His whiskers twitched every time Artemisia’s spoon lightly touched the bowl. The hours stretched, yet she still stared intently into the bowl.
The life of a cow seemed so simple. Eating, sleeping, and frolicking in the field. Sometimes she envied the basic animals. Just as she was thinking that, the livestock she was channeling began to retire for the evening, before it started with alarm. The divination only showed images and Artemisia deduced that the cow had heard something. The rest of the herd began panicking as well. Amongst the chaos Artemisia had to peer dangerously close to the bowl to make out the dark shapes moving from within the forest. She was able to discern two creatures among the boughs before they broke from the cover of the trees and leapt over the buck rail fence into the meadow. Wolves. One was a pale blond color and the other almost as black as the inky sky behind it. The creatures exchanged looks of ecstasy before plunging into the herd. Artemisia had seen enough. She didn’t need to watch the entire morbid display to know what the demon dogs were. Above the trees the full moon leered down and watched her children play in the blood of innocents.
A knock at the door startled Artemisia just as she was about to cancel the divination. She stared at the basin for another long moment, considering whether or not to leave it running. The witch knew her guest was the sheriff once again, and he had arrested her for less. He would probably want to see this with his own eyes, however. Ruckstead was not likely to believe her explanation either. Skeptics always required more proof than what was available. Whatever excuse they could come up with to save their small world’s status quo. The unknown was simply not a possibility to them.
Artemisia strode across the room and swung the door wide and allowed Sheriff Ruckstead to enter without saying a word. Volker yowled and darted into the garden as soon as the man’s boots crossed the doorjamb.
“He doesn’t like you,” Artemisia mused as she indicated for the sheriff to sit at the table.
He remained standing. “Takes after his owner.” He grunted rather than said it.
“I do not own Volker, he comes and goes as he pleases. But it seems that he enjoys coming rather than going.”
<
br /> “I didn’t come to talk about your errant cat,” Ruckstead said gruffly, though it was not intended to be as brusque as it came out. “There was another murder.”
“Your culprits are there.” Artemisia pointed at the basin. Ruckstead warily pulled out a chair and sat down. A muscle in his jaw clenched at the blatant witchcraft, but he resisted the urge to comment on its foul use. He watched as the wolves tore the cattle into pieces and at the tails of the six animals that escaped.
“Wolves… do not break into manor houses and slaughter an entire family.” Ruckstead ran a hand through his hair.
“They do when they cross into our world at the bidding of their goddess.”
Ruckstead snorted derisively. “I do not believe in your gods.”
“Ah, but they do,” Artemisia said and indicated at the creatures feasting on the still living, but hamstringed cows. “It was a full moon last night.”
“Werewolves are not real. They are tall tales to scare children into staying in their homes at night.” The sheriff paused. “Have you ever been to this other world you speak of?”
“I have visited many planes, but this one does not allow mortals to pass. The master of these beings is also the master of the tides. There is little we can do to stop her, but her servants are another matter.” Artemisia no longer looked into the divination bowl, but at Ruckstead. She was surprised that he had even inquired of the astral planes and pantheons. It showed tremendous growth. Or it revealed just how afraid he was.
“How do we kill them?”
“First we must discover who they are. There are no werewolves here to have turned them, no other witches to petition the goddess, so we must assume that they came from somewhere else. They won’t turn until the next full moon… we have few leads.” Artemisia began pacing as she thought.
“So, they would have had to arrive within the last month?” Ruckstead asked.
“No, if they have been turned for several moons at least, they may have been able to exhibit the self-control to only feed on wild animals and to stay away from the towns inhabitants. They are not newborn lycanthropes,” Artemisia explained.
“Then why attack the livestock and families now?”
Artemisia smiled, though it was grim. “Don’t you hunt for sport?”
Chapter Four
“Then a hunting we must go,” Ruckstead answered.
“We would need to find a sign first. Which the creatures were careful not leave, lest it reveal their whereabouts at the Cronley Farmstead,” Artemisia argued.
“The Hartschoff Manor backs directly up to the Coprinia Mountains. If they have a den, it will be there.” Ruckstead’s eyes gleamed dangerously. He thought it would be a mere afternoon jaunt.
“By now they would have transformed and made the journey back to their human residence.”
“But if we find their den, we can head them off before their next transformation.” The sheriff’s logic was flawed, but not entirely incorrect.
“I’ll saddle Newt.” Artemisia sighed and stepped away from the table.
***
Saddlebags packed, the two horses started off at a canter down the road they had traveled only hours before. The town of Northgate became a spot shrinking into the horizon as they passed through the gates of the manor. The servants no longer toiled in the garden or swept the porch. No doubt a hungry proprietor would snatch up the investment before another day had gone by.
The witch and sheriff navigated through the thicket and began ascending the foothills. Rocks riddled the hillside and orange, green, and black lichen spattered the boulders. Tall bunch grasses swayed in the breeze and songbirds whistled amongst the shrubs. Sage and rabbit brush dotted the landscape. A horned lizard scuttled out of the way of the horses. Aspens and evergreens marked the beginning of the insurmountable obstacle before them. Other than the bloodstain in the thorny meadow, there had been no sign of the kurtadams. Like ghosts they left no trail. The still full moon hung in the sky, though its power had lessened with the rising of the sun. As the hours passed and the moon continued its orbit, a sliver of it disappeared.
“We have no trail. We will have to trust instinct,” Ruckstead said as he surveyed the peaks before they were lost behind the height of the trees.
“How poetic.” Artemisia too stared at the peaks from east to west. The three most imposing summits were Horned, Mimbry, and Northgate Peak. Horned was named due to its crown shape, while Mimbry was named for Dale Mimbry, the first to ascend its summit, and Northgate was named as it was the highest that overlooked the town.
“My gut says Horned or Northgate,” Ruckstead said.
“Well, those are good, but an educated guess says Mimbry.” Artemisia expected Sheriff Ruckstead to argue but instead he sat silently.
“How come?”
The witch was shocked by the genuine nature of the question. “The full moon’s path had just taken it directly over Mimbry. If I were a lycanthrope, I would make my den there.”
“So next moon they will choose another location?” Ruckstead said, feeling a sense of despair. “But if we do find their lair, can we predict their next move?”
“In theory. Let’s find this cave first-and hope it is unoccupied.” Artemisia spurred Newt and they broached the wall of trees after a hundred yards. Oldman’s beard, wolf lichen, and mosses hung from the boughs and clung to the bark of trees. Beneath the pines, forbs struggled to grow through the thick mats of needles. Fireweed and checkerbloom grew in thick stands intermingled with thistles.
The horses snorted in the cool air. The sun never reached the soil here, and the temperature was ten degrees cooler. With each foot gained in elevation the temperature dropped by minute increments. Before long, it was the same temperature as the Cronley Farmstead had been that morning. The path they were taking became littered with boulders as it jutted from a gentle slope to a steep incline. The tree-line was still a thousand feet above them, but the werewolves would not make their den so high. The duo turned their horses on a lateral path across the mountainside and combed each outcropping for signs of a being residing nearby. Sheriff Ruckstead hoped that they would find the newly transformed humans within, still weak from the rigorous metamorphosis. Artemisia knew better. A recently turned man was just as dangerous as the creature he had been hours before. As the moon weakened, so did the beast.
***
The man ate the breakfast before it had even cooked. The eggs were runny, the bacon chewy. Gristle and hair stuck out from underneath his fingernails. His body felt slimy and stiff at the same time. In some places the blood that stained his skin was caked, while in others it was still sticky. He had barely pulled on a pair of breeches, and his feet were bare and dirty. His usually coiffed blond hair stuck out messily. His dark-haired son sat next to him, devouring his food, which was even rawer than his father’s plate. They ate enough to satiate a hunting party of fifteen men but still demanded more food.
“More,” he croaked, as he sopped up the liquid on his plate with a hunk of bread. His daughter dutifully brought her father and brother another heaping helping. She pitied them after transforming back into men, all while envying them in their wolf forms. She longed to feel the presence of the goddess as powerfully as they did.
“Thank you.” Her brother’s words were marred by the mouthful of food, but his sincerity came out with the crumbs. He messily ran a finger over the once pristine saucer and sucked the nearly cold yoke from his finger. His canines were still longer than usual, but they would recede back to human size in a few more hours. They were always the last telltale sign, other than the hair on the knuckles, to disappear. Once their bellies were full, they would bemoan the pains in their mouths and go to the cupboard in search of brandy. After they had drunk themselves drunk and out of pain, they would sleep for the remainder of the day.
The daughter stared at her family as they finished the last of the food before them and one last time questioned her goddess: why not me?
***
“That’s it.” Ruckstead pointed. The cave was ten feet across, but only four feet tall. Dried roots of the cedar tree above it reached out into the air, desperately searching for the nutrients its kin had found in the soil. The ground leading to and from the den was marred by tracks, some belonged to wolves, while others were obviously man.
“After you, good sheriff.”
“A witch afraid of the dark?” Ruckstead said sternly.
“A man willing to let a woman do his work for him?” Artemisia countered.
The sheriff grumbled but dismounted and pulled a lantern from his saddlebag along with a matchbox. A moment later the smell of phosphorous and kerosene drifted on the wind. With the tiny flame leading the way, Ruckstead crouched past the cave lip. Inside the cave it stank like wet dog and the iron tang of blood. The cave was sticky with the substance and covered in hair. It appeared that the two beasts had exploded. Had he not seen the footprints leading back into the forest, he would have believed that his problems had been solved.
Artemisia followed behind him and reveled in the scent of earth, ignoring the other smells that fouled the air. Above her, a centipede wriggled its way into the earth to avoid the bright light held by the sheriff. Amongst the shreds of clothing, stray hairs, blood stains, and footprints were two bundles of fur, each carefully rolled and bound with a belt. Ears stuck from both of the bundles, while still fresh blood ran in rivulets across the hair. Ruckstead caught sight of them and reached out a hand as if to push one of them. Artemisia grabbed the corner of his coat to stop him.
