The Wolf Witch

by Kara Jorgensen

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she ducked into her bedroom and shed her gown, which had become damp at the collar and armpits from cold sweat. Leaving it for Price, she slipped on her nightgown and robe and shook out her hands. If she was going to do this, she had to calm down. Emmeline wrapped her arms around her middle and closed her eyes as she squeezed. Sinking to her bedroom floor, Emmeline pulled several heavy tomes out from under the bed frame. Ever since the Corpus Grimoire had been confiscated by the Interceptors, she had sought out other books that might aid her in her pursuit of magic from every country she traveled through. Speaking to the dead was all well and good but it wasn’t a power. She had seen people summon creatures from beyond, paralyze the body, and suck the warmth from a room. A tangible power was what she wanted, and she had found it eventually in fire.

  Opening each book in turn, Emmeline searched for anything that could help her. She could have sworn she saw something about werewolves in one of the books she found in Paris. Most of the books were obscure texts she could only read in short stints before her head began to ache from the strain of deciphering the convoluted calligraphy, but as she shuffled the pages of the largest tome, her eyes widened at the sight of a painted beast. The creatures in the book all looked as if they had been drawn by someone who had only been given second hand information as to how they looked. The werewolf stood on two legs with a body covered in thick muddy brown hair that did little to hide the shape of a man beneath. It’s face, while it had a wolf’s snout and sharp teeth, had the crossed, dull eyes of a sheep. If the medieval practioners were trying to scare someone away from becoming a werewolf, they were doing a terrible job.

  Unlike reading modern French, the cross between Norman and French caught in Emmeline’s mind like a hangnail. Emmeline skimmed the passage, ignoring the exaggerated bits about gods and devils that the authors had probably put in to keep them off the pyre. Squinting, she translated it into something palatable. Werewolves are the result of a man consorting with a devil. The wolf demon infects his bloodline and turns him and his offspring into wild beasts. The werewolf is not dependent upon the moon for metamorphosis as some have thought. It is but with a change of will that man abandons all humanity. Their strength is double that of a normal man and wolf, and they are resistant to the use of holy water or holy symbols. Emmeline rolled her eyes, secretly wishing she could have merely anointed her door to keep Bisclavret out. As her eyes traveled lower over the boring bits about Christ and hell, her heart echoed in her ears. The wolf is the friend of the witch. Often seen cavorting together under the devil’s moon, the demon spawn of a witch and a werewolf can raise the dead, ride wolves, speak to devils, and charm all manner of beasts.

  The spawn of a werewolf and a witch.

  She had never thought of herself as a witch. The Jardine women were mediums. Emmeline’s heart sunk. Neither of them were Jardine women. Her mother was a Hawthorne, and she was— Emmeline frowned. If she could be a Bisclavret, then perhaps she could be a witch, too. Pushing the books aside, Emmeline turned down the lamps until the shadows rose along the striped blue wallpaper like wraiths. Her pulse thumped against her wrist. She had to do this. For a long moment, she merely stood staring at her jewelry box. Without looking into the box, she opened the lid and withdrew an enamel pin shaped like a sprig of forget-me-nots. She released a long breath and loosened the walls surrounding her mind with the exhalation. Keeping her eyes closed, she called to Madeline Jardine, to the mother who loved her more than anyone, to the famed medium of Oxford. The sounds of the city dissolved bit by bit until the air grew pregnant with anticipation.

  “It has been far too long, my darling.”

  Emmeline froze at the sound of her mother’s voice, joy and sorrow turning over one another so quickly the only thing she could do was blink the tears from her eyes. From the center of a glen lined with twisting yews, Madeline Jardine rose from a throne of onyx with vines of holly trailing up its legs until the entire chair gleamed with rubies and emeralds. She was radiant in a spring leaf gown that brought out the flecks of green and gold in her eyes that Emmeline had only ever noticed on sunny days. Her long black hair hung down her back, not a trace of grey or a hint of age. Before Emmeline could take a step, Madeline swept her daughter into her arms and held her tight. Her fingers slipped into the familiar curls of Emmeline’s hair as the girl cried softly into her mother’s breast. She was there and whole, and Emmeline hadn’t realized how much she had missed her until her mother had her in her arms as she had the morning of the Samhain ball that had separated them forever. In an instant, Emmeline was a child again, held tight in her mother’s lap.

  Madeline slipped her hand beneath Emmeline’s chin and raised her daughter’s gaze to hers. Pinning her with the tender warmth of her smile, Madeline stroked Emmeline’s arm and swept the hair from her tear-sticky cheeks. “You have grown into such a beautiful young lady. You were stunning at your debut.”

  “I miss you so much, Mama,” Emmeline peeped, her voice tight as she bit back all she longed to say that would do nothing but make both of them feel worse.

  “I missed you, too. Tell me, why have you come to visit me?”

  Pulling back just far enough to wipe her snot on her sleeve but not escape her mother’s grasp, Emmeline said, “A Mr. Bisclavret came to London looking for you.”

  “Silas?” Despite keeping her voice level, Emmeline had seen the light in her mother’s eyes brighten. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth, that you had died. Then, he told me he was my real father. Is that true?”

  Emmeline stared up at her mother. While the dead could no longer lie, they could evade more deftly than the living. She watched her mother’s face and caught the subtle blanch of her cheeks and the tightness in her throat. Her tell in life followed her in death.

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Even she had seen herself in his features. Anger bubbled to the surface, tugging with it hot tears. She had a father. She still had one parent, a man who loved her mother as she had, who could have helped her and maybe even loved her, too. Had she known, they could have grieved together. Instead she had been cast to relatives who could be as cold as corpses with nothing of her old life but ghosts beyond the veil.

  Caustic anger climbed her throat until she snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Emmeline,” her mother murmured with a tired sigh.

  “Mama, why?” In life, she would have shaken off her mother’s touch, but it was far too precious to lose, even in anger. “I could have known him. I could have had siblings.”

  “Because it was a long time ago. And because we never expected our time to be so short. He had his family, I had you, and we were happy that way. I didn’t want to ruin that. If Silas came around too often, people would talk, and I didn’t want you thinking less of yourself.” Her grip tightened around Emmeline’s trembling shoulders. “You were created with far more love and purpose than most children. If I had known my time was short, I would have told you and he would have come to meet you properly.”

  Of course he would have, she nearly scoffed. He crossed oceans for his children. Once upon a time, being a bastard would have eaten her alive, but not now. How she came to be wasn’t important. Who she was, was a far greater question. The air shifted in the forest. As a breeze broke through the trees, the faint smell of furniture polish and old parchment wafted from her bedroom. Emmeline leaned closer to her mother, relishing the weight of her arms and the familiar scent of her hair. Their time was short.

  “Mama, is— is he really a werewolf?”

  “There are things in this world far more dangerous than werewolves, Emmeline, and it is his duty to destroy them. Don’t ever worry that he would harm you. You’re his child, and it is not their way.”

  Emmeline squinted as light broke between the branches. The forest faltered as a sob leapt in Emmeline’s throat. Her mother’s grip tightened in a final embrace before slipping fr
om her grasp.

  “I love you, Mama,” Emmeline whispered, staring into her mother’s face one last time.

  Before her mother could speak, silence fell heavy around them and in the space of a blink, the glen was gone and in its place her bedroom. Tears blotted Emmeline’s vision as she curled in on herself against the cold boards. Clutching the forget-me-not pin, silent cries rocked her form. Mama. Her jaw and head ached, but she couldn’t stop. No matter what she saw, her mother was gone and she would always be gone. The person who loved her most could never be there for her wedding or children, yet if she closed her eyes and tried very hard, she could see her again for a few minutes. It should have given her peace; after all, it’s what she did for customers at the Spiritualist Society, but they couldn’t feel their loved one’s embrace or inhale their scent. Then, it was never her person, but this was her mother and each parting tore the scar of grief anew. After each visit, Emmeline found herself at the edge of an open grave wanting to step in to be with her mother for good. But Mama would never agree to speak to her again if she knew her thoughts.

  Sitting up slowly, Emmeline listened in the stillness, hoping to hear her mother’s voice again, though she knew no one would come to comfort her. Each morning she hoped she might awaken in her canopy bed in Oxford to find it was the morning of the Samhain ball and it all had been a nightmare. That perhaps this time, she could save her mother from the fire, that she would be smart enough to avoid Lord Rose, that she would never end up in London. But that would never be. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Emmeline walked down to the parlor to stand before the picture of Madeline Jardine and her siblings perched on the side table. Her mother wasn’t much older than her, then. Was that the girl Silas Bisclavret fell in love with? Emmeline kissed her finger and touched it to her mother’s face before fishing Silas Bisclavret’s card from her abandoned reticule.

  Heat crawled up Emmeline’s neck and face at the thought of how she behaved at the restaurant. For the longest time, all she had wanted was family she could relate to, yet she had practically run out of the Cafe Royal like Mr. Bisclavret had set her petticoats on fire. She had at least one sibling, whom she hadn’t even asked about, and a father who was still willing to speak to her after her less than flattering reaction to his true identity. Emmeline rubbed her arms. Could she be one, too? No, that would be foolish. Blinking away the lingering pain behind her eyes, Emmeline turned over the card in her hands as she settled into the chair nearest the fire. It was time she learned who she truly was.

  ***

  Standing in the lobby of the hotel, Emmeline shifted uncomfortably in her walking dress and pulled her cloak tighter. For once, she wished Nadir had come with her to distract her with his constant antagonistic prattle. At least his gaudy suit would have distracted people’s attention from her sore eyes and puffy cheeks. In her months of solitude after fleeing London, she had seen more of the continent than she had ever imagined, and in her travels, it had been so easy to play the grieving young widow and be given space to test her independence. She had never had such freedom before, and only then did she realize why her mother never married again.

  She had walked down ancient paths and sat in coffee shops and looked at art in Versailles and nothing terrible had befallen her. Aunt Eliza had sent letters accusing her of being hysterical and demanding she come home. Emmeline read each letter and burned them with little ceremony. For the first time in her life, she felt fully awake, as if Lord Hale’s death had snapped some tether within her, but Aunt Eliza would never understand that when all she saw was a girl in need of supervision. After returning, she showed up every week for a mandatory Sunday dinner with her aunt and her uncle, if he showed, to prove she was behaving and tonight would be no different. In the hotel, she felt London’s accusatory eye upon her. Harlot, whore, the immoral girl who dared to be alone. Words she feared hearing from her aunt’s lips.

  “Miss Jardine.”

  Emmeline turned to find Silas Bisclavret coming toward her from across the lobby. Despite being well into his forties, Mr. Bisclavret appeared strong. A few women lingering in the lobby turned their attention to his broad shoulders and quick gait. It certainly wasn’t the cultivated, clipped posture of a nobleman, but he moved with certainty and grace, which gave him an air of confidence that only enhanced his good looks. His great coat hung open to reveal a tidy herringbone suit and a white cravat that made her think of a dog’s ruff. As he approached, he drew in a few deep breaths that were nearly hidden beneath a cordial smile. For a moment, Emmeline swore he had been sniffing for something and hoped no one had noticed. Wolf, the little voice at the back of her mind whispered. She had missed a predator in Lord and Lady Rose, and she vowed she would never make that mistake again.

  “I see you didn’t bring your bodyguard today.”

  “He isn’t mine to bring. Mr. Talbot is merely a friend.”

  Standing before her, Silas moved as if to embrace her or kiss her cheek but settled for her hand and a bow. “I honestly didn’t think you would come.”

  “Neither did I.” She sighed, sagging slightly. “But I spoke to Mama last night, and she confirmed your story. I thought I should give this a second chance.”

  And I have always wanted a family, but she didn’t dare say so.

  A smile soft as sunshine lit his eyes. “I’m honored. So what would you like to do today? I thought perhaps we could talk before I go looking for someone.”

  “Your son?”

  Nodding, he opened the door for Emmeline. Bracing herself against the rush of cold, she clamped her hat to her head and pushed against the eye-searing wind. Silas’s hair blew about his cheeks, but the miserable damp didn’t even elicit a shudder. It was then that Emmeline noticed he didn’t wear a scarf and hadn’t bothered to button his coat all the way.

  “That’s what I wanted to speak to you about,” Emmeline began. “You wrote to my mother because your son was in trouble. What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  Silas’s eyes dropped to the pavement as he and Emmeline fell into step. “I think he came here on a case for the Pinkertons a few weeks ago, looking for information, and he hasn’t been heard from since. I found where he was staying and the innkeeper said he hadn’t been back in some time. I collected his things and brought them back to my hotel. He wouldn’t leave all of his possessions behind.”

  “Have you gone to Scotland Yard?”

  “We don’t like to get the police involved in matters of our kind, especially here.”

  “Why? You said your kind are forbidden. What did you mean?”

  Silas slowed his pace as they passed a park. Frost clung to the grass, coating it in a haze of sparkling white and turning the pond within to a mercurial silver. Inclining his head, he led her to a bench where they could overlook those around them without being seen. Emmeline grimaced as the cold burned through the fabric of her gown and numbed her bottom and thighs. As her father lowered himself to the bench, Emmeline stiffened at his presence looming beside her. Even if he appeared to be a small man, it felt as if the wolf lurked beneath the surface, watching her with eyes the color of canyon shadows.

  When he was certain no one could hear them, he said, “Werewolves have been outlawed in England for centuries. If we shift on the British Isles and get caught, the punishment is death. That’s how it’s always been.”

  Emmeline’s mouth dropped open. “Death? Isn’t that a tad extreme? You don’t lose all of your faculties when you’re… you’re like that, do you?”

  “No, we’re in our right minds, sometimes more so than when we’re human. It goes back to a ridiculous feud between the king of England and a well-off family of werewolves. The king realized how much of an asset werewolves could be to a rival power. Instead of trying to regain their favor, he decided to kill them and every wolf in England for good measure.”

  Nodding, Emmeline wondered how awful
it must be to be in constant fear of capture. Then again, she had been on edge her entire trip through Europe in fear of what women might say and men might do.

  “And you’re afraid your son may have shifted and been caught.”

  “At the least. Wesley is a clever boy, but he is brash. He thinks the rules are meant for breaking and his employer only encourages that. If he forgot and scared someone, he would be a public nuisance and they would destroy him to avoid a panic.”

  “But would he really be stupid enough to do it if he could go to gaol or worse?”

  “Yes.” His mouth set in a grim line as he reach in his pocket for a piece of bread wrapped in a handkerchief. Ripping off small bits, he tossed them at the ducks and geese lingering at the water’s edge. “I tracked him to a house.” When Emmeline looked at him with a cocked brow, he continued, “Wesley had marked the spot, and I stumbled across it. I tried following the scent to wherever they took him, but with all this rain and fog, it’s nearly impossible.” He paused as if choosing his words carefully. “There has been word that werewolves are returning where they were once eliminated. Our governing body, Les Meutes, may have asked Wesley to investigate. No one would tell me anything.”