Wolf's Curse

by Kelley Armstrong

  “I think so.”

  “It must not be. Otherwise, we’d never be standing here chatting about nicknames.”

  “Your fault. Your nerves of steel are contagious. But there’s obviously a door. I’m just jumpy.” He walks toward the wall. “They’ve put a shelf on the back of the door and hidden the frame, so when it shuts behind you . . .” He waggles his fingers. “Whooo, the door, it is gone!”

  He steps in front of the shelf I indicated and gives it a tug. The jars jangle, and he stops, frowning.

  “It was partly open,” he says, “but we had to push, right?”

  “Yep, and you gave it a he-man shove, which means if it was that shelf, we’d have heard a mighty crash.”

  I tug on another shelf, and one massive jar topples, both of us jumping back as it crashes, shards of glass and . . . stuff flying.

  “What . . . is that?” he asks.

  I crouch beside the contents of the jar, scattered across the floor in a puddle of formaldehyde. They’re sacks of skin, smaller than a fist, tied at one end. A naturally occurring sack, each with two cherry-sized lumps in it.

  “Tell me those are from a pig,” he says.

  “Well, considering what I revealed earlier, you might have guessed that I lack up-close-and-personal experience with that part of the male anatomy.”

  “Hey, just because you haven’t had sex, doesn’t mean you haven’t . . . Er, so, there’s a jar of ball sacks on the floor, and we’re going to pretend they’re pig scrotums, okay? Because otherwise, I’ll run through the halls, screaming.”

  “First you need to get out of the room. Then you can run screaming. Don’t worry about castration, though. Considering all the other body parts here, our resident witch is doing a full postmortem harvest. You’ll be too dead to worry about your balls.”

  “Not helping,” he grumbles. “But this shelf seems like a better candidate since only that jar fell.”

  He grabs a shelf with both hands and wiggles it, only to have all the jars give a dangerous clatter.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s not bust any more ball jars. A scientific approach is needed. Step one, examine all the shelves and see if any move easily. Step two, if they don’t, we’ll remove jars. There is a door here. We know there is. We came through it.”

  He nods and starts reaching for a shelf, only to see more floating sacks in it. “You can do this one, ’kay?”

  I sigh, shake my head, and we set to work.

  We find the shelving unit with immobile jars. They’ve been glued onto the shelf, so it can be moved. Makes sense, right? You can’t throw open a door with jars on the other side.

  What makes far less sense? It’s on the opposite side of the room from where we came in.

  “We obviously got turned around,” Elijah says.

  “Both of us?”

  He throws up his hands. “I have zero sense of direction. Why do you think Mom taught me the left-hand trick for mazes?”

  I bite my tongue. We both know “got turned around” is not the answer, but if this opens a door, we’ll take it. We tug on the shelving unit and stagger backward as it topples. We both slam forward, grabbing it fast, and then stand there, holding the heavy shelf on an angle as we glance at each other.

  “Nice catch,” Elijah says.

  “Ditto. Saves us from ending up covered in glass and formaldehyde.”

  “I was a little more worried about eyeballs and ball sacks.”

  I scrunch my nose. “That’s just flesh. It won’t hurt you.”

  “Nerves of steel, KitKat.”

  I laugh, and on the count of three, we put the shelf upright. As we do so, we realize it’s not attached to the wall or the floor. Another count of three, and we lift it with extreme care and move it two feet. Then we test to be sure it’s secure in its new place. It is.

  “Bingo!” Elijah says, lifting a hand for a high five. “We have revealed a door . . .”

  “For toddlers,” I say.

  “Uh, yeah. I was going to say little person, but that works, too. Huh.”

  The door is barely two-feet high. There’s no knob, so I have to bend and wedge my nails into the frame, flush against the wall. When it doesn’t swing open, Elijah does the same on the other side, and we wriggle and tug until he says, “Hold up! Found something.”

  There’s a nail jutting from one board. Seems normal until I realize I don’t see nails in any of the other boards. Elijah pushes it, and there’s a click, and the door opens a half inch, making it easy to pull and reveal . . .

  “A pitch-black crawl space,” I mutter. “Because pitch-black walkable spaces are too easy.”

  “Wait!” Elijah says. “There’s a note.”

  I follow his gaze, certain he’s joking, but nope, there’s a dusty piece of paper on the floor just beyond my flashlight beam. We both lunge for it, and I come up victorious.

  “If it’s treasure, we split it fifty-fifty, right?” he says.

  “Yep, and if it’s a promise of agonizing death ahead, we split that, too,” I say. “You can take the ball donation part.”

  I open the paper, which has been neatly folded into quarters with H.T. written on the outside. It’s a sheet torn from a notepad, with faint gray lines that the writer ignored, scrawling a nearly illegible missive, the cursive writing growing smaller as they realized they were running out of space.

  H.T.

  Hey, babe. If you’re getting this, it means I didn’t come home and you’ve come looking for me. Turn around now if you can. Please.

  You did warn me this smelled wrong. I thought it’d be easy $. Find a witch living alone in a forest, how hard can that be? Remember joking about gingerbread houses and really big ovens? Well, I could go for a little gingerbread myself right now.

  I found the cabin where you thought it’d be. Got in easily enough. Place was empty, but there was an escape hatch. Typical old-lady witch, right? Hiding in her cabin with a basement exit where she can flee into the night.

  There’s something fucked with this tunnel. I’m sure you know that if you’re reading this. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you found my note right away, and you’re immune to whatever magic mojo this bitch has cast on this place. I sure as hell hope so.

  I’ve been down here for four days. Got trapped in this room on day one. Found this crawl space quickly enough, but with all the fuckery going on in this place, I wasn’t stupid enough to use it until I ran out of food and water and the horrors on these shelves started to look tasty.

  Only one way out. I’m taking it because I don’t have a choice. If you do, run back the way you came. Just run. Let them send in the big guns for this job. We were told to expect a silly witch playing at being naughty. This bitch is hardcore. The darkest of the dark. Get the hell out. Please.

  I hope you never read this note. I hope this tunnel I’m about to enter really is her escape hatch, and I’ll end up in that demon-haunted forest. I hope this note rots into the earth while I’m basking on a beach somewhere with you.

  All my love,

  P.R.

  “No treasure,” Elijah says, thumping back onto his haunches after reading over my shoulder. “Just proclamations of doom. Figures.”

  “It’s bullshit,” I say, waving the note. “Part of whatever game this witch is playing.”

  “Scare the shit out of two teen werewolves?”

  “Scare the shit out of whoever steps into her lair. I agree that whatever magic she’s using is hardcore, but this note is planted. Designed to scare us shitless like you said. Keep us from taking the escape tunnel. And then . . .” I shrug.

  “Film our terror and stick it on supernatural YouTube?”

  “I have no idea. And, yes, I’m not rushing into that tunnel just in case, but I do think we’re being played. First, let’s make absolutely certain there isn’t another exit.”

  He nods, and we begin our search.

  So, there’s no other way out. There must be, right? Witches can create illusions, but they can�
��t restructure reality. An apparently solid wall that actually contains a door? Sure. A solid wall where a door used to be? Not possible.

  Or that’s what I want to say, but then I keep remembering the human bones nailed to the door upstairs.

  The darkest of the dark.

  If the witch wrote that note, it’s obviously scare-tactic hyperbole. I use the same thing myself all the time. You want to mess with me? You have no idea what you’re getting into.

  The baddest of the bad.

  Of course, I’m not that. Far from it. But I’ve taken a page from Dad’s book. He has a carefully cultivated and curated reputation as a savage psychopath. That doesn’t mean he’s the wizard behind the screen, projecting his voice to look so much more powerful than he is. He has earned his rep. But he’s not going to rip the head off some mutt for giving him side-eye. It just makes his job easier if they believe he will.

  I’ll never match his rep. I don’t think a woman can, no matter how dangerous she is. Mom certainly hasn’t managed it, and if you gave me the choice of who I’d rather face down, I’d pick Dad any day.

  So, if the witch wrote the note, she’s pulling the same shit I do.

  Oh yeah, I’m bad. Just take my word for it and turn around before I need to prove it.

  But if the note is real? Whatever I told Elijah, I’m not convinced it’s fake.

  If it’s real, and if this witch really is that hardcore, then I honestly don’t know what she’s capable of. I’m not my brother. I don’t read treatises on supernatural theory for fun. Legends, yes. Biographies, yes. Those are stories, which I love. Or give me a book, even theoretical, on the quirks of supernatural physiology, and the future doctor in me is all over that. Also anything to do with werewolves, I’ll devour.

  But books on the spellcasting abilities of dark witches? Not my thing. So I have no idea how much power you get from human sacrifice. Even if you’re interested in that kind of power, there will be people hellbent on stopping you from getting it, and if this note is real, that’s what I think this guy was—someone sent to stop the dark witch from doing dark witchery.

  There is another, more prosaic explanation for the seeming lack of a door, and when we don’t find one, I suggest it to Elijah.

  “She could be hiding it under an illusion that we can’t break even by touch. It might also just be simple camouflage paired with technology. Or an illusion spell paired with technology.”

  He nods. “A door that exists, but we can’t get it open. I was just thinking that. We see wood over concrete, which is why we can’t just break through. But inside that concrete, there could be solid metal. A metal door that we aren’t going to bust open even if we somehow find it. We’re sealed in.”

  “Except for that crawl tunnel.”

  “Yep.” He exhales. “Shit. This is nuts, right? Very clearly, that tunnel leads nowhere good. It’s like being trapped in a maze on a Greek island and, oh look, is that a door ahead? What could be on the other side? Surely not a ravenous Minotaur.”

  “Alternatives?”

  He sighs again. “None. Which is the problem. We’re about to do something that is very obviously a bad idea, but I don’t see another option. If the note is real, then there’s no light at the end of that tunnel. If it’s fake, though . . . ? Does that make sense? Keep us too scared to use the exit? What for?”

  “Shits and giggles?”

  “At this point, I don’t doubt it. None of this makes sense.”

  “We don’t know for sure that the guy who wrote that note—if it’s real—didn’t get out. If he did manage to escape, he wouldn’t come back to retrieve the note.”

  “If it’s real, KitKat, I think we’ve already met the guy. Or his bones, at least. Nailed to a door.”

  I shake my head. “The note and his use of old lady suggest he’s young. The bones I saw were mostly from older people. You can tell by the wear.”

  “Well, that helps, but even if we’d seen this dude’s head on the wall, it wouldn’t change the fact that this is the only exit. We need to take it.”

  “I’ll go first,” I say. “I have better night vision.”

  “Says who?”

  I hand him the flashlight. “Also, nerves of steel, remember? You follow me. Keep this in your mouth and your hand on my ankle, and we’ll stick together.”

  It’s a dirt tunnel with everything that a dirt tunnel advertises. Worms and other creepy crawlies winding through roots and fungus, everything a pale, slimy blob against the rich earth, so you try to avoid touching it all, but as soon as you go to brush something dangling in your path, certain that it’s a root . . . it wriggles.

  As requested, Elijah keeps a hand on my ankle. That must be an awkward way to crawl, especially with a penlight clamped in his teeth, and I call back, offering to take the light, but I get an “Ungh-ungh” in response, which I take to mean “I’m good.”

  It does help that he’s projecting light into my path while letting me keep my attention focused on my surroundings.

  At one point, he taps my ankle, and I stop. He takes the flashlight out and says, “Just need to flex my jaw.”

  “I could carry—”

  “Nope, you keep your eyes on the path. I’ll keep my eyes on your ass.”

  I sputter a laugh. “Be careful back there. I might seem to have nerves of steel, but my stomach’s jumping around. I’ll try to warn you in the event of an imminent gas attack.”

  “Sexy.”

  “I know, right?” I grin back at him. “I’m kidding. I’m just trying to lighten our potential crawl-o-death with a fart joke.”

  “I thought only guys did that.”

  “You don’t hang out with many girls, do you?” I pause. “No, I’m sure you hang out with plenty of girls. Just not under circumstances where they’re comfortable making fart jokes. Now if you’re ready to continue . . .”

  “I am.”

  He grips my ankle again, and we continue on. It’s slow going, and I see nothing ahead except dirt. I try not to think of that dirt—the sheer amount of earth packed above us, enough to easily suffocate us if this tunnel collapsed. We should probably be quiet. I don’t know whether that applies to dirt as much as snow, but I won’t take the risk—

  “Kate!”

  I open my mouth to shush Elijah. Then I stop, every muscle freezing.

  “Kate!” My name echoes through the tunnel, and it is, beyond any doubt, Elijah’s voice, but it’s coming from far away, his voice spiked with panic.

  “Kate! Where are you?”

  I blink. Auditory hallucinations now? I know Elijah is right behind me. I can feel his grip on my ankle.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask.

  Silence.

  “Elijah?” I say, and as I glance back, I see nothing but darkness.

  He shouts in the distance, my name echoing all around . . . and the hand on my ankle tightens.

  Chapter Ten

  Logan

  “Yeah, no,” Mason says, stepping between me and the demon. “We aren’t falling for that. If you’re a demon—”

  “If?” She braces one forearm against the window barrier and leans toward the hole. “Come outside, and I will prove myself to your satisfaction. Your kind are notoriously difficult to kill. Decapitation is such messy, strenuous labor . . . unless one is a demon, who can pop off your head like a daisy.” She flicks her finger.

  “Even if you are a demon,” he continues, “don’t expect us to fall for this she-wolf bullshit. Is that supposed to catch his attention? Claim some kind of kinship?”

  Her lips purse. “Not kinship so much as progenitorship.” She smiles. “I’ll wait while you fetch a dictionary for that one.”

  “Progenitor,” he says. “One from whom others descend or originate. You want me to spell it, too? So now you’re claiming you’re responsible for werewolves?”

  “I gave them their gift of transformation.”

  “Curse,” I say.

  She looks at me, brows arching. �
�You consider it a curse, cub?”

  “No, but Marchocias did.” I look at Mason. “Legend says that Marchocias gave her human followers the ability to transform into wolves as effortlessly as pulling on a new shirt. When their descendants tired of serving her, they told her she could rescind her gift. Instead, she cursed them by making the transformation agonizing and forcing them to undergo it regularly. That, however, is just one of a handful of legends that supposedly explain werewolves. Marchocias is known as the she-wolf because she can transform into a wolf herself and leads a pack of demonic wolves.”

  “Two of whom you have already met,” she says.

  “We met hell beasts,” I say. “Maybe they’re your wolves, or maybe they’re just garden-variety monsters. I know who Marchocias is. That doesn’t mean you’re her. And before you offer to prove it, I don’t actually care. You’re a demon, and you are threatening us.”

  “Threatening?”

  “You accused us of trespassing.”

  “Which you are. This my forest. I live here. I hunt here. You humans have endless tracts of wilderness, yet you keep tramping over mine. Oh, look at this lovely forest. I wonder why no one lives here? Let me find out. Which they do.” That wolf’s smile. “In blood and tears, soaking the earth. Those native to this land learned their lesson an eon ago, but your kind seem incapable of learning. Or incapable of humility. I’ve known demons with less arrogance. They come. They die. They try again.”

  “The legends,” Allan murmurs. “Settlements empty except for bloody wolf prints.”

  “You’ve heard of my deeds?” Marchocias says. “How thrilling. Yet you come anyway.”

  “If you’re responsible,” Allan says, “explain how that works. Bloody footprints without bodies?”

  She grins. “When my pups feed, they do not waste an inch of skin or bone.” She lays a hand on the shimmering air beside her. “They can be terribly messy eaters, though.” She looks at him. “Does that answer your question, Iphis?”

  Allan frowns at the name. He doesn’t recognize it. I do, and a moment of confusion clears with a lightning bolt as I see Holly glare at the demon. She knows what Marchocias is implying with that mythological name.