The Wrath of Wolves

by Kelley York

  And, damn it all, I went through every combination, twice, and still the locks remain in place. The lid has not budged. There’s something I’m missing. Some secret to opening this bloody thing but I can’t locate any sort of other contraption, keyhole, or dial that appears to be out of the ordinary. Whoever closed this wanted to ensure that it was not opened again.

  Sighing, I move the box to the floor and slide further down on the bed, allowing myself to relax. In the light of morning, everything from the night before feels like a blur and far less urgent. Then again, sobriety likely also helps, even if I can’t quite get a proper thought in my head just yet.

  Benji stirs before long, sitting up with his hair an adorably chaotic mess. Sadly, he’s quick to run his fingers through it to tame it. Then he turns to look at me with a groggy smile. “Your poor eyes are bloodshot. Did you sleep?”

  “A bit,” I mumble, scratching a hand down my jaw.

  “No luck with the box, I see.”

  “None at all. If I could locate a hammer and chisel, I bet I could get the bloody thing open.”

  “Then we really wouldn’t get paid for our work, I think.” He presses the backs of his fingers to my cheek and his skin feels so pleasantly cool that I find myself leaning into it. I hope this means whatever he was cross over last night has stopped bothering him. He adds, “Why don’t you try to get some more rest and I’ll see about fetching us some breakfast?”

  The idea of him traipsing off while that ghost is speaking nonsense about wolves and danger has me instantly on edge. “Quite all right. I can go with you.”

  Benji’s mouth presses together and for some reason it looks as though he may object, but… “As you wish.”

  The tavern cook conjures up a half-arsed breakfast for us, little more than bread with a bit of gravy. Shortly thereafter, we drag ourselves squinting and grumbling into the sunlight, into a small but busy market square toward the train station.

  Many of the vendors are selling furs, blankets, and dry goods. Nothing fresh will grow this time of year. We purchase some beans and a small sack of salt. By some grace of God, we find a woman willing to part with some potatoes and turnips, which ought to stay good so long as they’re kept cool. Jars of preserves are too likely to get broken, not to mention we don’t have a whole lot of room to pack much else, so we make do with our meagre findings. The rest of the day, we remain in our hotel room, fussing over the damned box and trying to decipher the ghostly woman’s message.

  We know she didn’t mean actual wolves. Was it possible, then, she referred to the people from the train who were after us? What would a ghost know or care about that?

  “Plenty of ghosts cared about Headmaster King,” Benji points out. “And about Nicholas Mordaunt.”

  “You think she’s trying to help us?”

  “It’s a possibility. I get a lot of fear and anger from her, but not malevolence, really.”

  Suppose that’s a bit comforting, isn’t it? Ghosts are shit at communicating. Never can seem to get a straight answer out of them about much of anything.

  Toward nightfall, we attempt to speak to the woman again. Even though the room grows icy cold, she never shows herself.

  But as we drift off to sleep that night, we hear the wolves howling in the distance.

  CHAPTER 8 - BENJAMIN

  We arrive at the train station an hour early, ensuring we in no way will miss the next train coming through. Which means a fair bit of sitting, especially as it’s running an hour late. But we soon find ourselves in possession of two first-class tickets—a miracle that they have any seats available—and it’s with much gratitude that we board the train and enter our private quarters in a sleeper car, with its own sliding door. It’s small, yes, but we won’t be cramped alongside anyone else, nor will we need to concern ourselves with someone snooping through our things.

  “Say,” I begin as I stash our rucksacks on the top bunk. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, but have come up empty-handed… How did that woman and her companions know we would be on that particular train?”

  Preston takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “I’ve been thinking that over too and I haven’t the foggiest. They knew James and Esher would be on board—but not about us. Could they have got a hold of the route we planned to take to California?”

  “All the way down to the specific train we intended to take?” I frown. “Possible, but how? Why?”

  “I’ve got no answers to any of this, I’m afraid. Though if we encounter them again, you had better believe I’ll knock one of them senseless to find out.”

  My expression sobers. “The sheep really ought not to antagonise the wolves, Preston.”

  ◆◆◆

  The days are the easy part.

  Preston and I talk, we sleep, we watch the scenery change—mountains to forests to plains to mountains again—and we play a great deal of cards with a deck we received from a kind attendant. It’s with amusement that I watch Preston desperately search for my tells when I’m bluffing about the cards in my hand; I’m oddly good at these sorts of games.

  But in the dead of night when sleep eludes me, I find myself staring out the window into the darkness and thinking…

  How much I miss my mother.

  Oh, I want to be enjoying this trip. And I am, truly. I’m enjoying Preston’s nearness, these long stretches of uninterrupted time with him. We never seem to run out of things to speak of. I do not tire of him, only the lonely dark hours wherein I toss and turn and struggle to find sleep.

  I cannot help myself. I still find my thoughts wandering to the past. I think of sitting across from Mother on a train, of the soft sound of her voice. I remember being a small boy, frightened by a thunderstorm and burying my face into her skirts as she stroked her hair and sang to me.

  I remember arriving home to find her absent from the station, and Father’s voice, so cold and indifferent, telling me that she had died.

  My mother was ill and dying and her only son was not there to look after her. I don’t know how to forgive myself for that. The guilt of it threatens to drown me.

  These moments, these long nights, are so difficult because I don’t have Preston awake to save me from my own thoughts. Still, I cannot say even the nights are all bad. No more worries about being found out or waking to find someone stealing our cargo. Four nights in, we even brave leaving our cabin in favour of the dining car to spoil ourselves with a drink or two and some company.

  I’m grateful when Preston ceases tiptoeing around me like he’s afraid I’m still upset with him. Truth be told, our first night in Bellporte had less to do with him and more to do with my own sense of shame and worry. I had thought speaking lightly of our time at Whisperwood would be fun, but then—

  Then Preston had to go and bring up Edwin Davies.

  Davies, who had been my friend, of sorts, when I first arrived on school grounds. And who had subsequently proven himself to be a rather horrible friend who could not keep secrets. A flaw which ended up with Oscar Frances dead at the hands of Headmaster King and Mordaunt’s ghost.

  Davies hadn’t truly bowed out of helping us that final night because he was afraid. He’d left because I told him to. As much as I felt Preston and Spencer deserved to know, it’s a secret I’ve carried with me these last few years.

  And for a while, listening to Preston speak so sourly after Davies, hearing how much it still affected him, that secret simply felt heavier than it had in some time. He doesn’t ask after my little episode, though, and hopefully it’ll stay that way.

  It takes us nearly a week to make it to San Francisco after a particularly gruelling trip through the snowy mountains. To see signs of life again is exciting. As much as I may have enjoyed the quiet time with Preston, I’m excited to see our destination. On the train, I spoke with a San Francisco resident who was returning home after a trip out East, and he regaled me with stories of the views, the rolling city hills and impressive buildings, the ships coming and going into t
he harbour all hours of the day and night. I’m not so certain it will be anything out of the ordinary from back home, but it’s charming to hear someone speak of their own home in such a fashion.

  Granted, when the train rolls into the station, it’s nearly full dark outside so we won’t be seeing much of anything exciting. We’ve obtained a list of several lodgings in the area and although the hour is late, I’ve no doubt we’ll find one to our liking.

  With my bag over one shoulder and Preston carting along the box-satchel, we disembark onto a dimly lit, over-crowded platform and try to make our way along with the crowd for the exit. All I can think about is finding a hot bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed for the night, and revisiting what needs to come next after a solid night’s sleep. A bit of exploring, perhaps, if I’m lucky.

  As we near the marked exit, a prickling sensation drags itself up the back of my neck, along with a howl of an ear-piercing pitch that has me coming to an immediate stop. Out of reflex, I grab Preston’s arm in an iron grip, choking on a plea for him to stop.

  He starts to ask what is wrong with me, but then he hears it—he sees it—too. Not just the howling, but the woman and the blonde man from before. They’re standing just outside amongst other families and individuals, as though they’re simply eager to greet their loved ones arriving home.

  “Christ Almighty,” Preston whispers. He catches my elbow, yanking me closer to his side. We have no choice but to keep walking; the crowd is so dense that it may work to our advantage. “Keep your head down, Benji. They still don’t know they’re looking for us, right?”

  Oh, Lord, I certainly hope not.

  I swallow hard, dip my chin, and focus my attention straight ahead, purposefully disregarding the man, the woman, and the ghost that clings to her.

  We’ve just got to get past the exit, down the road a way, and all will be well. Meanwhile, I lecture myself: of course it would have been an easy matter for them to check in with the next few trains coming from Nebraska. We would have been wiser to wait another day or two, or perhaps to have taken another, more roundabout route.

  We squeeze through the exit. I can see Preston glancing at them, likely debating if he could take the two of them if need be. The blonde man is a head taller than Preston, built like the side of a barn. I know Preston is quite skilled in a tumble, but I’m not so sure my money would be on him in that fight.

  I have never paid so much attention to how quickly or slowly I’m walking in my bid to not draw attention. Preston slides the bag with the chest from his shoulder over to mine, no doubt to free his arms in case it does come down to fists. He keeps his hand upon my elbow so as not to lose me in the crowd.

  When we pass directly by our stalkers, it’s harder to ignore the spirit attached to the woman than anything else. Maybe she isn’t watching me, but he is. I can feel his eyes boring into me like needles.

  Just a few more steps. I think we’ve made it.

  Until a large bloke with a string of little ones at his heels bumps into us from behind and Preston loses his grip on me. I immediately lose him in the crowd as people push around and past me and I feel like a fish swimming up current. I stumble and someone catches my arm—to help me, is my first thought.

  I look up and find myself face-to-face with the hulk of a man from the train.

  He smirks. “What’s the hurry, boy?”

  My heart about leaps from my chest. I smile, nervously, praying that Preston has not gone far. “I think I’ll give you two seconds to let go before I scream.”

  His grip only tightens, that smirk twisting into a sneer. At least until Preston shouts, “Let him go!” from somewhere nearby. The sound distracts the man just enough that I can yank my arm free and make a run for it. He grabs for me, fingers grazing the back of my coat in a narrow miss.

  Preston barrels through the crowd. He gives me a push when he reaches me. “Go, go!”

  We fall into rapid step alongside each other, pushing for the street as swiftly as we can.

  “Sid!” I hear the blond man bellowing behind us. “Over there—the Oriental kid’s got the chest!”

  Preston reaches for the bag, but I pull it back against my side and order him to keep running.

  The woman’s voice rings out above the crowd: “STOP! THIEVES!”

  I almost do stop out of sheer confusion before realising her tactic is to get someone else to stop us before we get too far ahead. Oh, blast it all. It’s causing people to stop and look about, eyes turning toward us as we make a mad dash for the street. Two men half-heartedly try to step into our path and are swiftly knocked back as Preston shoulders past.

  I am not as lucky.

  A stranger snags the back of my coat, dragging me to such an abrupt halt that my shirt collar strangles the cry I try to give out. Unwilling to be taken so easily, I squirm in his grasp as one of his arms locks around me. Preston seems to appear out of nowhere, taking a swing and slamming a fist into the bloke’s face. With an unholy howl, my captor staggers back, gripping his nose. We do not wait around to see how long it slows him down.

  We round the corner of a neighbouring building, tearing down the roadside. I’ve not had to do this kind of legwork since drills class back at Whisperwood, and it shows. By the time we’ve reached the corner at the far end of the street, we are red-faced and winded, and I’m developing a cramp in my left leg.

  But a glance back shows the woman and the blond man not far behind us and so we keep moving, rounding corners and ducking down side streets to lose them. Surely in a city of this size, they cannot possibly trail us forever.

  That cramp begins to work its way up into my side until I stagger, stumble, and hit the ground on my knees as I struggle to catch my breath. Preston, winded but still standing, takes me by the elbows and hauls me to my feet before we duck between a pair of buildings.

  “Pretty sure I could take the pair of them on, you know,” he pants.

  I double over, hands upon my knees. “Remember… Remember when you promised…to give it at least a few seconds…of thought before rushing into danger?”

  He bites back a breathless laugh. “I did think about it the entire run here.”

  I pin him with an unimpressed look and drag in a few more deep breaths. “I think we ought to stash the box somewhere and come back for it. At least that way, if we’re caught, they won’t get a hold of it.”

  “Stash it? Where?”

  We’re presently standing in a narrow alleyway, not even wide enough for two people to stand abreast. I spot a few doors, rubbish bins, and old crates, but nowhere safe enough to stow something valuable.

  Except, maybe…

  I point across the street to a set of apartments. “There. The roof, up those stairs.” I don’t wait for him to object or agree. I pop my head out from the alley, glance both ways, and cross the road at a brisk walk. Preston dogs my heels, anxiously.

  I scurry up the fire ladder to the rooftop of the four-storey building while Preston keeps a lookout below. The burn in my limbs and my lungs has begun to subside to a tolerable ache, and I hope I’m up for more running if it comes to that.

  The rooftop is anything but empty. Some tenant who resides inside has placed a slew of potted plants everywhere, which is excellent to suit my needs. It means I can move to the far corner of the roof and tuck the satchel behind a row of large ferns where no one is likely to notice it without rearranging the massive clay pots.

  A metallic clang rings up from the bottom of the alley. Preston, signalling me that we need to go. But as I begin to descend the ladder, Preston hisses up at me, “Stay put! Don’t move ‘til I get back!”

  He disappears out onto the street before I can tell him what a horrible idea that is.

  Oh, I’m going to have many unpleasant words for him later. Still, there is nothing I can do but linger there on the ladder as three figures go rushing past the entrance of the alley. I wait, count to ten, and cautiously continue my descent. I step out onto the road again. My heart is racing
as though I were the one running.

  What do I do now? Do I go after them? If they catch Preston, I need to make certain I know where they take him. This city is far too big to risk losing track of him.

  I take a step back and look up at the apartment building, taking a good, long moment to commit the surroundings to memory and take in a street sign. I’ll need to know how to get back here later, after all. Then I turn to jog after the others, uncertain where they may have turned.

  A pair of gentlemen at an intersection are able to direct me down a street and from there, I am just in time to spot the blond man and another, shorter but stocky man dragging Preston into another alley.

  There are three of them now. There could be more. I cannot risk going in swinging and hoping for the best; if we’re both taken, what then? And what will they do with us when they have us? If it’s true that all they want is the box then surely they won’t harm us. That wouldn’t get them any closer to their goal.

  The box doesn’t matter right now. Preston’s well-being matters.

  I cannot let them take him away without me.

  CHAPTER 9 – PRESTON

  I peer around the corner, spotting our pursuers heading our way. The woman and the blond, accompanied by—oh, hell, that bloke I popped in the face at the station. He’s got a bit of tissue or cloth shoved up his nose, though it’s covered in blood. Good.

  We’ve trapped ourselves here. The only way out of the alley is the way we came in. I act without thinking beyond that I need to lure them far enough away from Benji and the box so they aren’t found. What are the fools going to do, kill me on a city street? It may be dark out, but the streets are not empty.

  I know the exact moment they spot me. I don’t dare look back, but I hear the pounding of footsteps coming up behind me at the bottom of another sharply angled hill before something heavy slams into my back so hard it sends me sprawling to the ground and knocks the air from my lungs.