Nadia's Children

by Steven E Wedel

  Skandar

  Skandar paced in the darkness, his head swiveling as he walked so that his eyes remained fixed on the house and outbuildings of the little farm. His stomach rumbled and his nostrils flared. Even in this strange, nearly forgotten man-shape, he could smell food. But this food was different, unlike anything he’d known since the dawn of history.

  “Fire … Cook,” he muttered in a forgotten tongue.

  Lights burned within the little house. Sometimes he’d see a human shape walk past a square of light in the side of the house.

  His instincts told him he could go to the building, enter it, kill whoever was inside, and eat whatever he wanted. But something else told him no, that would not be acceptable now. The memory of Nadia the witch, though centuries old, was too strong in his mind. The needless killing of another human could bring down a fresh curse. He turned his attention to the outbuildings.

  Stealthily, Skandar left the cover of the trees growing along the edge of tilled ground. He moved as quickly as his still-unfamiliar gangly limbs would allow and was soon beside the largest building. He slipped around the corner of the building to the large metal door. Looking around, Skandar determined he was still unwatched, so he turned his attention to getting inside the building. He found a simple latch, dropped it, and pulled the door open. The smell of large, live animals wafted out. Skandar listened, heard the grunting of swine, the stamps of a cow and the grinding noise of a horse eating grain. With a spear, he could kill one of those animals.

  As a wolf, he knew, he could easily have brought down any one of them.

  No wolf.

  His nostrils twitched. There was another smell. Another animal’s smell, but it did not come from this building. Skandar left the open door and ran, doubled over, toward a smaller building, the odor of poultry growing stronger with every step. Inside, he found many chickens settled in for the night. The domesticated birds did not even stir as he stood gazing at them.

  It was not until he snatched one hen from her nest that the entire building became a cacophony of clucking and beating wings. Skandar turned to flee, but ran into the closed door and fell backward. Chickens were on him, around him, blinding him with their wings, scratching him with their feet. His fist tightened around the one he held. Its squawking could be heard above all the others for a moment, then it went limp in his hand. Skandar scrambled to his feet and attacked the door, throwing himself against it several time before remembering he’d had to push it inward to get into the building. He found a handle and threw the door open.

  He was faced with two roaring mongrel dogs with slobbering jaws and fierce eyes. Forgetting himself for a moment, Skandar roared back at them, but the sound of his weak, human voice reminded him that he was no match for the animals. He retreated into the chickens and slammed the door on the dogs, throwing his back against the door to keep it closed.

  He sank to a sitting position. The live chickens were still agitated, but were slowly settling down, though their small, black eyes remained fixed on him. Skandar raised his prize to his face and bit into the fresh meat with teeth not made for this work. Still, he tore at the raw, bloody meat while the dogs jumped against the door at his back, barking their rage.

  Then came the sound of a man yelling in a language Skandar could not understand. More pressure was applied to the door behind him, shoving repeatedly while the man’s voice became angrier, more threatening.

  Confused, Skandar moved away from the door, remained crouching, holding his meal in one hand while watching the door with wide eyes. It burst open and a short, stout man in a white shirt, black pants and gray jacket fell into the building, a shotgun in his hand. Though he’d had limited interaction with humans over the centuries, Skandar knew a gun when he saw it. He leaped over the fallen man, through the door, and landed between the two dogs. They were on him instantly.

  Skandar fought, losing his grip on the dead chicken as he punched, kicked, clawed and snapped at the heavy, stinking dogs. Teeth tore into his skin, but the mongrels could not get a firm hold on him. In a brilliant flash of will, Skandar wished he was still a wolf.

  Then the agony was on him again. The air filled with the sounds of popping and stretching and his painful screams as his body contorted. Frightened, the dogs backed away, whining, their tails curled under their bodies. Behind him, Skandar was aware of the farmer getting to his feet, his gun momentarily forgotten as he watched the man become a monster.

  When it was over, Skandar rolled to his four feet and glared at the dogs. He snarled, showing teeth longer and more deadly than any their ancient ancestors had possessed. Then he turned on the human. The farmer fell backward into his henhouse and slammed the door. From within Skandar heard words that even he could recognize as praying. He scooped up his dinner in his strong jaws and raced away, into the safety of the forest.

  * * *

  An hour later, the chicken gone except for the head, feet, and some feathers that had not fluttered away in the night’s breeze, Skandar lay on the cool grass under a tree and stared at nothing. He missed his pack now that he was a wolf again.

  His mind wandered. He knew there were others who were like him now. After Nadia’s curse he and his friends had run through forests and villages, killing and wounding other humans. Many had lived and they had become animals, too. But those had not been truly cursed. They had the ability to change back into their human forms. Skandar had known several descendants of those who were called First Generation, those bitten by the Old Ones who were originally cursed. They had come and gone in the forests he’d roamed, sensing he was different but usually unable to determine why.

  Eventually he came to question his own ability. After countless years and decades as a wolf, he had again become a man. Now he was a wolf once more. Could he now change at will? He thought about it, thought about how he had willed himself into this form in fear for his life in a way he had not known in centuries.

  He focused his thoughts again, telling himself he wanted to be human. Nothing happened. There was not so much as a muscle spasm. He tried again, and failed again.

  After several failed attempts, Skandar got to his feet, lifted his head and let forth the long, mournful howl of the wolf. Two days as a human and all he had to show for it was sore feet, dog bites that were quickly healing, and one chicken. He snorted, then turned to the west and set off at a trot toward a destination that was no more clear in his mind now than it had been when he’d suddenly found himself a man again. Now, at least, he had a full belly and the wolf could move faster than the man.

  Kiona

  Kiona Brokentooth sat at the table inside the east Texas cabin. Behind her, Joey assembled twigs in the fireplace in hopes of starting the evening fire. The child, only eight years old, was bored. This would be their second night in the cabin. Kiona had not planned to stay that long, but the howling outside kept her and her companions in place.

  Across the table from her, Chris Woodman scratched shapes into the rough wood of the table with the blade of a small pocket knife. His face was distant, sad. He could be a problem if he did not focus on the present situation.

  “Are they talking about Mom?” Joey asked.

  Kiona pressed her lips together. It had taken longer than it should have, but still, she’d hoped the boy would not understand the message of the howling wolves. She turned to face him and smiled. “What do you think they are saying?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together as he concentrated on the sounds. “Something about a mother. They want us to come with them.”

  “Your mother chose Thomas over you and your father,” Kiona reminded. “Remember how she stood with him when your father asked her to get in the truck with us.”

  His eyebrows became an even firmer knot and his lower lip protruded a little as his eyes found the floor. He nodded.

  “Don’t say that,” Chris scolded without conviction. Kiona turned on him.

  “What? You would forget it? You�
�d have him forget it? Forget how his own mother abandoned her husband and son for another man? Another child already growing in her belly?”

  “Shut up!” Chris shouted, finally showing some emotion.

  Kiona got up from the chair. “We have to go soon,” she said. “We’ve been here too long.” She paced the length of the cabin, looked out the front window.

  “Where will we go?” Joey asked.

  “Arkansas,” Kiona answered. “The swamps.”

  “Why Arkansas?” Chris asked.

  “It is harder to track us in the swamp,” she said. “The swamp is old and hides things.” She turned away from the window and looked at Chris’s back. He was still scratching on the table. “First, though, we have to get out of here.”

  Kiona took three steps from the window to where Chris sat, letting herself transform to her in-between stage where her appearance was most frightening, her strength its greatest, but where she was also at her most vulnerable. Chris never heard her coming, but she was aware of Joey’s eyes growing bigger as he tried to warn his father. Kiona sank her teeth into Chris’s shoulder.

  The man jerked upright, the little folding knife flying out of his hand as he yelped in pain. His hands swatted at his back, slapping Kiona’s neck. She shook her head once, twice, not violently, just enough to work more saliva into his wound, then she released him and stepped back, letting her body return to its human shape. A shower of wolf hair fell away from her as she stood back and watched Chris bleed.

  He jumped out of his chair, sending it clattering behind him as he spun to face her, one hand covering the wound as best he could. His face was a mask of rage. “What the fuck was that all about?”

  “You’re slowing us down, human,” Kiona said, slowly raising a hand to wipe the blood from her chin. She sucked the glistening red fluid from her finger. “Now you’ll be one of us and can run as fast as we can.”

  The full implication of what she’d done settled around Chris Woodman like a shroud. He pulled his hand away from his neck and looked at the bright red blood. Slowly, his eyes moved from the blood to the Indian woman standing a few feet away, wiping blood from her chin. Chris felt his hand curling, hardening into a fist. He took a step forward, the fist rising, his eyes fixed on the woman, who stood still, waiting for him.

  “No Dad!”

  Joey’s scream stopped Chris in his tracks. He couldn’t stop staring at Kiona, though, wanting to pound his fist into her passive face.

  “Don’t hit Aunt Kiona,” Joey pleaded, and now he ran across the room and threw himself against Chris’s legs, pulling at him.

  Finally, Chris looked down at his son. “She bit me,” he said.

  “Don’t hit her,” Joey repeated. “Now you’ll be like us. You can turn into a wolf, too.”

  Chris tried to think about what the boy was saying. “You wanted that?” he asked. Joey nodded. Chris’s fist sagged, wavered, then dropped to his side.

  Kiona reached out a hand to Joey. “Let’s help your dad get cleaned up,” she said.

  Chris watched Joey take the woman’s dark hand and they went to the cabin’s sink. Kiona ripped away the bottom of her shirt and held it under the water. Chris found himself gazing at the smooth, reddish skin of her back, then she turned and he saw the tight, toned flesh of her stomach. He shook himself and looked away, but he knew she’d noticed him looking.

  “Sit down,” Kiona said, motioning toward the table with the dripping piece of her shirt. Chris sat, and she dabbed at his wound. “You’ll be sick for a while. You’ll feel like you’re dying. That’s normal. I’ll drive.”

  “When?” Chris asked.

  “As soon as we’re finished treating this,” she said. “We can’t stay here.”

  “No. When will I change?”

  “Probably twenty-eight days from today. That’s how it is for men. About a month from the day they were bitten,” she said. Chris noted a difference in her tone. Her voice wasn’t as harsh or condescending as it usually was. It wasn’t exactly tender, but it was almost caring. The cold water wasn’t taking the sting from his wound.

  “Will we last that long?” Chris asked softly.

  “If we’re smart,” she answered.

  Chris took the cloth and pressed it against his wound with one hand while he gripped Kiona’s upper arm in his other, forcing her to look at him. “What are our chances?” he asked. “If those are the wolves on Shara’s side, I’d almost rather deal with them than Fenris and his friends.”

  “We can avoid them all,” she said, her gaze steady.

  “What if you’re wrong?” Chris demanded. “I don’t want …” He looked at Joey, sitting on his pallet across the room, tying knots in a piece of rope. “We have to do what’s best for him. I don’t want to fail because of your pride.” He saw the fire light in her dark eyes, and he expected her to rip her arm away from him, maybe curse him and tell him he was being stupid. She didn’t.

  “I’ve waited almost one hundred forty years for a son,” she said. “Nobody’s taking him away from me. We’ll go to the swamp. If they come after us, if they find us, we’ll deal with it.”

  “You think you can talk our way out of it again?” Chris asked. His shoulder was beginning to burn. “Like you did with Fenris last time? He’s a killer. If we don’t go to him – and I don’t think we should – he’s not going to listen to you again.”

  “Then we have to make sure he doesn’t find us. He isn’t as well connected as Ulrik. There are a lot of our kind who believe like he does, but few who trust him. He wants what we have to draw others to him. He won’t risk too much.”

  “You’re talking about me,” Joey said. “Why don’t you ask me? Why can’t we go back to Mom? I want to go back to Mom. Why can’t we all be together?”

  “Joey,” Chris said, but was unable to complete his thought. He fell off the bench and crashed to the floor. The fire in his shoulder was racing through his blood and he could feel it like an army of needles charging toward his heart while at the same time waves of nausea and the taste of bile rose from his stomach. He reached for Joey and his hand was a desperate, clutching claw.

  “Your dad’s going to be sick for a while,” Kiona said, going to Joey and squatting beside him. The boy stared at his father with large, scared eyes. Kiona took his chin and turned his face so that he looked at her. “It’ll be all right, though. You were born with the ability, but every other shapeshifter has to go through what your father is feeling now.”

  “I don’t like it,” Joey said. “I want my mom.”

  “She doesn’t want you anymore,” Kiona said.

  “Stop,” Chris tried to say. His voice, though, was only a croak of agony. Kiona didn’t even look at him. Don’t tell him that. Don’t turn him against his mother. Shara betrayed him, her husband, but there’d been no doubt she wanted her son. Chris, however, could not speak. His knees pulled up to his chest almost of their own volition and he moaned with pain.

  “Can you help him feel better?” Joey asked.

  Chris opened his eyes and saw they were both looking at him now. He tried to drag himself toward them. “The song,” he gasped, glaring at Kiona. “Ulrik’s song.”

  “I never learned the words,” Kiona answered.

  Another wave of pain caught him, pushed him into a tighter ball and pressed his body against the hard wood of the cabin floor. Tears, snot and drool ran from his face as a high, keening sound came from his throat.

  “Joey, roll up your blankets,” Kiona said. “We’re going to load the truck, then get your dad in it so we can go.”

  The boy did as he was told, while Kiona gathered the food they had left, blankets and ammunition. She put all the blankets under her left arm and gripped her Colt .45 in her right hand.

  “I’m going to take these to the truck,” she said. “I’ll come back for the other stuff, then we’ll get him in the truck.” She looked from Joey to Chris. “You stay in the house. Understand?”

  Chris opened his eyes
. Through the moisture and pain he saw his son nod his little blond head. Joey’s big eyes were still watching him. Chris tried to smile, but felt strands of slobber hanging from his lips and knew it must be a scary thing for a boy to watch. Kiona stepped around him, opened the door, hesitated, then slammed it shut and cursed loudly.

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Kiona?” Joey asked.

  She cussed some more, then turned away from the closed door and came back to kneel in front of Chris. “They slashed the tires. All four of them. We’re stuck here.”

  Outside, the wolves resumed their howling.

  Shara

  Shara stood to one side, waiting, not caring about the tears running down her cheeks. She’d been crying since the gunshot filled the house with silence and death. She no longer knew where the tears were coming from; she felt empty and shriveled and wasted inside … but she knew she wasn’t. Her left hand rested on her stomach, where she could feel the slightest swell of the life growing within her.

  To her right, Thomas stood tall and strong and firm. He’d hardly known Ulrik, but Shara could feel his sadness. She wondered at it, considering Ulrik had killed Thomas’s cousin, but she didn’t question it. Thomas was sad he was gone, and if his only reason for grieving was that Shara mourned, that was enough. His arm was around her, not pressing her against him, but assuring her that she was not alone.

  Shara sniffled and tried to get herself under control. It almost worked for a moment, then the four men came through the back door of the big house, carrying the makeshift stretcher between them, and the sight of Ulrik’s lifeless body was too much.

  “Noooooooo…” Shara wailed, and now she sagged against Thomas, felt his arms around her, heard him saying something, but there was no understanding him. There was no understanding anything anymore. Ulrik gone. Chris gone. Joey gone. Ulrik … dead. Dead. She buried her face in Thomas’s shoulder and sobbed. “Ulrik,” she cried. “Why? Why?”