The Wolf in the Cloister

by Emily Leverett

  He took two more steps toward her. One lunge and she would be able to touch the muzzle. He sniffed the air like he was trying to figure her out.

  “I’ll show myself out,” she said and slowly moved her hand to point toward the open door.

  She eased out of her crouch and sidestepped around the tree and the bush. The wolf didn’t move. She shifted, rotating as she moved toward the door, never turning her back to the animal. When she got to the doorway, she grabbed hold of the frame, steadying herself. She’d have to turn around eventually—she couldn’t back her way to the castle.

  “It was nice to meet you,” she said and meant it. Provided he didn’t attack her, this would go down as the unique experience of her young life. She didn’t think there were any wolves left in England—apparently, she was wrong. Or maybe she was being overdramatic, and he was just a large dog.

  The creature—dog, wolf, whatever—sat down but still stared at her.

  She took her cue, turned away, and with as much confidence as possible, walked from the church back to the path—prey ran because of fear, so she pretended she was not afraid. She held her breath, straining to hear its paws’ pursuit. She knew she never would. The soft dirt and grass, the grace of the creature, surely he was as stealthy as he looked.

  She made it to the tree line and around the first bend, where she finally let out a deep breath. She glanced back and saw nothing. As fast as she could, she made her way back to the wall, into the walled hedge maze. She breathed easier when the stones closed behind her.

  Perhaps the wolf was a companion to Lord Clavret, like her Asta.

  After grabbing the rock safely wedged in the door, she stepped inside, easing the door shut behind her. The candle she had left behind had gone out. There was almost no light, as before, but the steps were smooth, and she didn’t need the help of the candle to climb. Her hand on the wall would be enough. When she finally pushed the door to Lord Clavret’s room open, the dawn rays were filling the room with light.

  Chapter Ten

  Bleiz paced back and forth, waiting for dawn to come, for the moment he could change. He saw the clothes on the altar, knew that she had found them. He sniffed all over, but there was no scent other than hers. She had come alone. Reckless and brave.

  He had been a fool to tell her not to open that door! He might as well have issued her an invitation.

  There was no way she would put the two together, would she? Figure out that he was a man cursed with an animal’s form? What would she think, having found his clothes there? That he was running around naked in the woods? That made more sense than his turning into an animal. He continued his frustrated circle around the tree and altar, never pausing, until the first rays of dawn flickered in.

  He lay down on his side, closed his eyes, and willed his body to change.

  The shift to human was always more disorienting than the shift to wolf. When he became a wolf, his senses opened, broadened. His eyes sharpened, and his nose filled with dozens of things that, moments before, it could not have detected. Going the other way was like being closed in a box—the scents faded to nothing, and his eyes dimmed like his own light was extinguishing.

  He rolled to his back and cast his arms out to the sides. He drew in deep breaths and gazed up at the tree. He wanted to spring up, grab his clothes and cloak, and go find that woman, discover what she knew or suspected. But if he moved too fast, too soon, dizziness would overwhelm him. It seemed to take longer each time he shifted back. He needed time to reacquaint himself with walking on two legs, time to relearn the dexterity of his fingers.

  The first time the magic had washed over him, he had wailed like a frightened child, screaming in pain.

  The man who had been with him, Faris Al’Asad, had been dying, and still he comforted Bleiz. The pain will pass, I promise. The words, spoken in Arabic, did little to comfort Bleiz, though he believed his friend. They had fought together, side by side, against an enemy far worse than any man, than any knight. Bleiz still had the scars to prove it. He survived with a gash at his collarbone and a slash in his belly that, had Asad not been there, would have gutted him. A diagonal line of claw marks raked down his back, and a dozen other small scars dotted his body. Only the wound to his belly had hurt more than the transformation.

  He wouldn’t have believed it was possible if he hadn’t seen Asad transform. The man’s hands and feet grew into huge padded paws, and his body shifted, his hair growing long, and his body sprouting tawny fur. A muzzle of sharp teeth and a whipping tail behind him, and he was a lion. A lion who flung himself roaring at the demon, fearless. So Bleiz charged in, too, and together they drove it back through the portal into Hell.

  The blow that would kill Asad didn’t come from the demon, though, but from a man, an Englishman. Bleiz never saw his face—the coward kept it covered—but his accent was unmistakable. He drove a knife into the beautiful beast and, the rest of his fellow crusaders slain, he fled. For the night, Bleiz nursed the lion, and in the morning, he nursed the man.

  When he finally woke, Asad had called Bleiz close, grabbed him behind the neck, and pulled him forward. He whispered Arabic words in his ear, and visions flashed in front of Bleiz’s eyes, running through forest and over dunes, sharp claws in fiery bodies, teeth sinking into the flesh of men, and the howling of devils at every turn. I am sorry, my brave friend, but someone must go on, must be Faris Al’Asad: the knight of the lion. He pressed a bloody lion’s head cloak pin into Bleiz’s palm and collapsed back into a fitful sleep.

  Asad survived a month, his body broken and twisted—long enough to see Bleiz through the first change. Long enough for both of them to learn that Bleiz was no lion. Asad had been startled, telling Bleiz that the men before him had always, as far as he knew, become lions. Bleiz was the first Christian to take up the mantle—perhaps that was the cause. The form mattered little—it was the power of the beast to fight evil. Besides, the pin had changed as well, now a wolf’s head; it must be evidence of God’s approval.

  Bleiz knew that Asad had made a poor choice. Killing in battle had thrilled Bleiz, and he had reveled in the blood, so much that his fellow knights had to stop him from slaughter even when a truce had been called. He was a cur if there ever was one.

  Asad could become a lion at will and shift back again, so long as the talisman was with him. Bleiz should have been able to do the same, but he couldn’t. The wolf came, unbidden, and remained for three days a week, no matter what Bleiz did. Unlike Asad, Bleiz felt like an animal—by the third day, his human self was far away, and he feared that if he failed to turn back, he would lose himself entirely.

  Asad’s last words to him were meant to encourage Bleiz. This is a gift from Allah, from your God and mine. I have faith you deserve the wolf.

  Bleiz didn’t doubt his friend—he deserved it. He was a wolf: mind, body, and soul.

  Faris Al’Asad was blessed with God’s gift; Bleiz Clavret was cursed.

  After a few hours resting in the church, he stood. He took a few unsteady strides to the altar and leaned on it. His leg muscles ached, but that would ease with use. He put on his clothes slowly and gingerly, his skin chafing at the cloth, even though it was fine and soft. His flesh resented the confinement of clothing after the days of freedom, of the wind and water, the sun and grass.

  At last he sat up on the altar—with a small apology to God—and put on his boots. Out of everything in the shift back to humanity, this was the worst. The final barrier between him and the earth, so he could no longer feel her pulsing beneath him, no longer touch the magic running from her though all living things. As if he needed more proof of his own wickedness, he preferred being a wolf. The hunt, the chase, the blood, running free and wild, he loved every minute of it.

  He swirled on his cloak and fastened it with his pin. The piece of jewelry sent chills running through his flesh as it always did. The wolf came whether he willed it or not. The wolf’s head was the only thing that kept his mind clear. If he lost it, he w
ouldn’t be able to turn back. Only the faint hope that his soul was somehow not yet damned kept him returning to humanity. That, and the ridiculous idea that Marie, that brave nun, might know what he was, and not be afraid. He could hold on to his humanity for that.

  He had always thought that the wolf’s head was safer in the church with his clothes. He feared losing it as he ran through the forest if he kept it around his neck. What a fool he had been! Marie could have taken it, even without malice, and then where would he be? No—though its touch kept the wolf close to the surface, he couldn’t risk losing it. The cloak pin, made of gold with emerald eyes like his own, had become a kind of symbol for him, and he doubted anyone would wonder at his wearing it.

  He shook his head once more to clear it and headed home.

  Marie slammed the forbidden door shut behind her as she strode into Clavret’s room. In the church, with the great black wolf growling at her, she had been genuinely frightened. Making her way back from the church, in the very first light turning the black sky blue, she had been relieved. Now, staring at the lush bed, the stacks of books and quills, the fireplace, the rugs, all of the comforts of a soft and intellectual life, she was furious.

  Yes, the bishop had told her that Clavret knew magic and had warned her that it was dark magic.

  Yes, she showed up on the night of a massive, and potentially blasphemous, orgy.

  Yes, he wore a wolf mask. Yes, he had delighted in making her uncomfortable. Yes, he had shown up to her bath naked, unflinching, with a muscled chest and strong arms that caught her when she slipped, and green eyes that promised a lot more than research…

  Marie shook her head. Angry. She was angry, not…whatever else might be flushing her cheeks.

  Yes, she had been given a million warning signs, small and large, from all sides that he was a dangerous man, an evil man, but she hadn’t believed it. Not after the clear pain at the mention of his time on Crusade, not after the bright-eyed young man in the portrait in the bedroom drawer. And not after seeing this, his real room. Clearly lived in, unlike the red-and-gold-covered pleasure pit downstairs.

  But now? Now there was no way around the facts. He was no mere man. He was a wolf. Big and vicious, with clever eyes and a low, rumbling growl that shook her—in a bad way, she reminded herself—to the core.

  She huffed and moved to the window. The sun had continued its rise, and a gentle breeze fluttered her hair. She caught the scent of roses from those tucked behind her ear. She took them out and set them on his desk. There, too, was the book they were supposed to be seeking to read.

  What if Clavret already knew how to open the book and was simply distracting her? She picked it up and rifled through the pages again. As always, she caught, just at the corner of her vision, the flowing script, but never could see it straight on. She slammed the book down again. She turned away from the desk and crossed her arms, staring at the forbidden door.

  She drew deep breaths and sorted her feelings. The fear was gone. Her fury had not abated, not a whit, nor was it bred from her earlier fear. He had shared intimate thoughts, held her close, and seemed genuinely concerned about the crozier, about the monks at Kells. He knew the book was magically sealed. He himself knew magic. And that was the source of her wrath. He said he would be “away on business.” What kind of business, exactly, required running around naked, under all that fur, in the English countryside? Not any good kind of business.

  He had this power, the magic. He was a witch.

  And he hadn’t told her.

  He would be back today. She leaned against the table, arms crossed, and settled in. When he arrived, she would be here, and he would tell the truth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bleiz bounded up the stairs two at a time, the darkness of the windowless spiral not bothering him at all—his vision was always better in the dark, another product of the wolf. He cursed the time it took him to gather his balance, reel in his senses, before returning home. The sun was high in the sky already—it was well past dawn. Enough time for Marie to have returned to Sarum, gathered her things, and left. Enough time to head straight back to the bishop and tell him all about the demon wolf of Sarum castle.

  He flung open the door, one hand already pulling free the wolf’s head pin and letting his cloak fall. He was halfway across the room, cloak on the floor, tugging at his coat, when he saw her. She leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Her eyes glared, sharp and furious.

  Bleiz pulled up short. “I had not expected to find you here.” His mind reeled as he tried to regain his balance, his equilibrium. He forced a wicked smile. “I am pleased,” he said, teasing, “to find you waiting in my bedroom for me.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Though I admit, I was hoping you would be wearing fewer clothes.”

  Marie’s eyes narrowed even more, and she pushed herself away from the desk, striding toward him. Before he could raise his hands in defense, she slapped him, the crack of her palm on his cheek ringing through the room, and through his ears, and jerking his face to the side.

  “Damn it, woman!” He raised his hand to his cheek, burning from the sting. He opened and closed his mouth, rolling his jaw. “That hurt!” The sharp pain had done other things, too, sending a shot of adrenaline through him again, making his heart pound and blood rise.

  Marie winced and shook out her hand like she hadn’t quite expected the sting.

  He smirked. “Part of God’s plan, don’t you think? Hurting others hurts yourself, too.” He imagined she could do quite a bit of damage with a closed fist or a weapon. Thankfully there were none at hand. Or so he thought.

  Marie backed away from him, from his grin, until she ran into his desk. She spun to face it. She grabbed a book—the one on the evils of witchcraft, he noted.

  “Going to read to me?” He should be quiet, let the woman get her bearings, too. He couldn’t stop himself, though, from pushing, just a bit more. “I’m afraid I’m quite incorrigible. Reading does nothing for my moral sensibilities.”

  She spun to face him, whipping her arm back. He barely had enough time to dodge, the heavy tome catching his shoulder, thankfully, instead of his face. She had excellent aim. “Stop—”

  Another book came flying, and he ducked this one. He glanced back to see it sprawled open, spine bent, on the ground. “Those are expensive—”

  “I don’t care!” she insisted. “Look at me!”

  He turned to her in time to catch an octavo to the face—thankfully it hit him cover first, not spine, as it might have broken his nose otherwise. He caught it as it fell, landing in his hands. “Romances,” he said, identifying it. “I thought you might like these,” he muttered.

  “How could I like anything from you?” she snapped. She grunted.

  He tossed his arms up even before looking to block, and catch, a large tome of Danelaw hurled his way. “That’s enough!” He rushed forward before she could throw another book, a gift from Faris, at him. When she saw she couldn’t throw it, she simply swung it at his face instead, both hands gripping it like a shield. He jerked back and grabbed it, yanking it from her hands and dropping it on the table.

  Marie gaped at him and then raised her hand again.

  “Oh no!” Bleiz lunged forward, much quicker than her, and caught both her wrists. “I think that’s enough violence for now.”

  “Unhand me!” Marie spat and then, unlike any nun he’d ever met, she lunged forward, raising her knee, and aimed right for his privates.

  “Gah!” Bleiz twisted as fast as he could, blocking, and causing her knee to land on his outer thigh.

  She squirmed, writhing in his grip. “Let me go!” She kicked at him, his shin doing more damage to her bare foot. She gave a squeak of pain and kicked again, shifting her form to slam her heel into his shin.

  He winced. “That’s enough!” he yelled. He jerked her wrist up and to the right, letting go, and before she could do anything, he ducked down and lunged, thrusting his shoulder into her midsection. As she gasp
ed and bent forward, he stood, wrapping his right arm around her thighs and propelling her over his shoulder. He settled her, making sure to pin her thighs to his chest with one arm and defending himself against her flailing feet with the other.

  “Put me down!” She flailed behind him, slamming her fists into his ass.

  “Not until you settle down!” he insisted.

  “Bastard!” she called out.

  “Indeed,” he replied, chipper. “That’s been well known for a long time.” He strolled to the window and looked out while she still struggled. “I can stand like this all day, you know. So you just go ahead and tire yourself out.”

  There was a pause in her movement, and she sighed.

  “Are you going to behave?”

  She said nothing.

  “Sister Marie?” he asked. Behind him, he felt her movement, but she was no longer flailing. She was clutching his tunic. He shifted her a bit. “I’m not going to let you fall,” he said.

  “I know,” she muttered.

  “Whatever this is,” he said, “we can simply talk. Sitting in chairs if you like. If not…” He patted her on the ass. He had to admit, whatever this was, he hadn’t felt this much excitement, at least in human form, in a long time. He had only a moment to wonder why he suddenly felt a breeze on his lower back before another sharp pain speared him. “Argh!” he cried out, jerking toward the pain and spinning them both around. “You bit me!”

  Marie gave some reply, but as she did not let go, he did not understand it. She bit harder.

  “Let go, you little fiend!” he snapped. He backed toward his bed and flung her legs over his shoulders, sending her tumbling onto the bed. Luckily, it startled her enough to let go. He spun to face her, and she had already flipped over onto her stomach and was on her hands and knees, heading for the far side of the bed. “Oh no.” He grabbed one ankle.

  “Stop it!” she insisted. She twisted again, rolling onto her back and kicking at him. She caught him in the shoulder, knocking him back, but not hurting him.