“You would trust a werewolf?” Caleb asked.
“Clovis Fintonclyde trusted you.”
Caleb stared down into his wine again, thinking of another question that had nagged him since he had heard it from Hermann “Is it true that vampires don’t—that the blood of…of my kind is harmful to them?”
The older wizard laughed sharply. “Yes. Blood from most any mammal sustains vampires. But the blood of a werewolf gives them a kind of dementia, a bit like rabies. They foam at the mouth and are rendered completely insane, sometimes for years. Around here, I expect that vampires have learned to avoid the local werewolf population.”
“And if a werewolf is bitten by a vampire?” asked Caleb hesitantly.
Alexandru shrugged. “No vampire will bite you more than once, and it takes three bites before the victim becomes one himself.” He grew thoughtful. “I am assuming, of course, that the three-bite rule applies to werewolves. Some say that you become vampires more easily than do ordinary mortals…”
This was finally too much for Caleb, who found that the room began to spin slowly, even though he hadn’t moved from his chair. He got to his feet unsteadily, saying, “I’m not sure that I—” He stopped and clutched the chair. Alexandru rose swiftly and took one arm, guiding him out of the hall. Once out of the oppressive heat and flickering firelight, Caleb’s head cleared and the chill of the stone passageways refreshed him.
He had no idea where they were going. His host guided him through the drafty entrance hall and into a wide corridor. As they shuffled slowly, Alexandru raised his hand and conjured a bobbing ball of cool yellow flame that floated several feet in front of them. They were surrounded on both sides by ornate frames, each with a little gold plaque glinting on the bottom proclaiming the name of an Arghezi ancestor. As they traversed the long, dark passageway, Caleb noticed that the subjects of the portraits became more modern in appearance and the dates on the plaques more recent. Near the end, his eye caught Alexandru’s name along with another: Alexandru and Mircea Arghezi, read the gold rectangle. Caleb stopped and looked at the grim and unsmiling younger version of his host next to a younger boy who, even under the layer of grime over the oils, looked beautiful.
Alexandru tugged at Caleb’s arm sharply. “Come. You should be in bed.”
The final portrait puzzled Caleb the most, but Alexandru hurried him off without giving him a chance to ask questions. The carved gold frame held only charred shreds of canvas, with no hint of what the portrait had once been like. Ana Maria Arghezi, read the plaque.
5. Sixes and Sevens
Both Caleb and Professor Hermann caught cold, and spent the next two days by the fireside, wrapped in blankets and drinking a warming potion out of dark blue bottles. The potion steamed and wailed as it descended the throat, bubbling and crying as it ascended into the sinuses to clear them.
As the sun began to go down on their third evening in the castle, Alexandru approached and gestured silently for the young werewolf to follow him. Caleb was already prepared for the night; under the blankets, he wore only a cloak. They went out of the castle, across the courtyard, and out the main gates, facing east where the full moon would soon rise.
Without a word, Alexandru returned to the castle and shut the gates behind him. Caleb removed his cloak and threw it over a nearby boulder, standing naked in the thin, chilly air. As a small child, he sometimes forgot to undress before the full moon arrived, and any clothes he wore during the transformation were torn to pieces. He had learned to carry a cloak, and most of the time the wolf recognized it as something he should pick up and carry with him. Caleb really hoped the wolf remembered tonight, because he had no idea where he’d be when morning came. A large bar of chocolate and an enchanted compass stone were carefully hidden in a pocket, but these seemed pitifully inadequate. I should have gone to Morocco, he thought, shivering. Or maybe California.
Five minutes later, he had completely forgotten why he didn’t like it here. Picking up the cloak, though not sure why he was supposed to, Caleb the wolf stood on the boulder and surveyed his surroundings.
Had he been a real wolf, Caleb would have been a credit to his kind. He was strong and sleek, his gray and brown fur impervious to any weather, a fifteen-mile-per-hour run tiring him no more than a Sunday stroll. His most remarkable characteristic, though, was the same in both his incarnations. The intelligence that made him a studious and thoughtful scholar brought to his canine self a double dose of the mischievous cunning for which the species was famous. Knowing that the castle contained people, he sniffed and pawed at the gates for a way to get in, but quickly abandoned this idea. There was no getting through that gate, but he had all of Romania as his playground.
Picking his way through granite boulders to the highest point of the mountain, the wolf again surveyed the landscape. The valley was obscured by fog, and rain threatened in the form of looming clouds in the west, but the sky was clear over the distant hills in the east. As wolf, Caleb wasn’t bothered by the threat of rain. During the frequent storms in Maine, he had spent his full-moon nights scampering around digging holes, chasing whatever creatures he could find, and barking at the only human who dared to share in his monthly exploits.
Caleb didn’t remember this explicitly now, nor did he feel the pangs of guilt and remorse that his human self couldn’t escape when he remembered Toby. All he knew was that his fondest moments had been spent in the company of a particular scent, which happened to be human. There was no scent of humanity in these hills, and for the moment the werewolf’s hunting instinct was quelled by his delight at being swift and free. He stopped at the top of a ridge to point his nose at the sky and gave a loud, chilling howl.
The howl was returned.
Caleb slunk into a crouch, looking quickly around. His vantage point allowed him to see anyone sneaking up on any side, and he waited for one minute, then two. When there was nothing, he gave a series of short, inquiring barks, a “Who’s there?” of the canine world.
Similar barks from behind made him leap up and turn around. A furry head had emerged over a pile of rocks, a head much like his own, though no more than half the size. Then a second head, this one more reddish-brown than gray, and the animal slightly smaller still. Then a third, and a fourth.
Wolves. Real ones.
Caleb had never seen a real wolf. The country dogs he’d encountered in rural Maine provided the only practice he’d ever had at canine etiquette. Enough remained in his mind of the human, and of the tame werewolf who’d explored the Maine woods, so that he circled the wolves not only because he was genuinely wary of them but also because he knew that was what was expected. He lowered his head to make himself seem smaller and less threatening, and gave his tail a courteous wave.
They didn’t seem frightened. The pack circled closer and closer, until finally they all met in a circle and Caleb bumped noses with the alpha pair: the red female, then the gray male. The two others in the pack appeared to be their young, though not from the same litter. One was full-grown and the other just a pup. They backed off again, then came closer, and then all five squatted back on their haunches and howled together.
When the wolves slipped away through the jumbled boulders, Caleb watched them go with a magical tingling stronger than anything provided by a wailing potion. It was a long moment before he stood up and scampered off over the hills once more.
He chased a rabbit, forded a stream, and encountered a fox. Most of all he ran, over and under rocks, and through the alpine meadows, stopping only for howls of pure happiness. It had been so long since he had run free that dawn was breaking before he realized he should have returned. Howling once more at the setting moon, as if he could stop it in its orbit, the wolf spun around to trace his steps back to the castle and fell on his face.
Five minutes later he was a soaking wet, muddy, thoroughly exhausted and naked human. He’d lost the cloak and wasn’t able to feel the pull of the compass stone.
Wrapping his hands around hi
s bare chest against the cold wind, he silently cursed his stupidity, but the night had been so exhilarating that his current misery didn’t bother him too much. He’d just have to walk, and he hoped that the paw prints would guide him to his cloak.
“Hey, you!” called a male voice from somewhere nearby.
Caleb flinched. He couldn’t imagine a lie that would sound convincing—especially if the voice belonged to a local resident who knew anything about werewolves. Trying desperately to think, he raised his eyes towards the voice and saw a man standing two hundred yards away.
A boy, rather, since he was certainly less than eighteen, maybe by several years. He was dark-haired and pale as a ghost, with the same shadows under his eyes that Caleb knew he had himself.
He was also stark naked.
This neither shocked Caleb nor surprised him too terribly much. Maybe Romania would be all its reputation had promised.
“Yes, what is it?” he called, hoping his five-hundred-word vocabulary would get him through this. He never should have been running around less than two weeks after coming to this country. He should have had Arghezi lock him in the castle until he knew the language better.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” Caleb called. “I’m staying at the castle.”
“What castle?”
“The castle on the mountaintop. Castle Arghezi.”
The boy looked wary, then amused, pointing along the trail of paw prints. “That’s about ten miles that way,” he said.
“Ten miles?” Caleb was dismayed.
“I live just over the hill,” said the boy. “If you want to go inside and, you know, get better, you can come with me.” He didn’t move, waiting for Caleb to respond. It was just like with the wolves last night—these words were a tail wag, inviting Caleb to make the next move.
He didn’t have much choice, since his feet were starting to go numb. Could he possibly have anything to fear? The only troubling thing was the boy’s terrible thinness—his ribs and collarbones stood out as if they were trying to cut through his milky skin. “Thank you,” he said politely and tried to run toward the boy. It was more of a stumble than a run, as the rocks hurt his tender human feet and even when his transformations brought more pleasure than pain, they still took a lot out of him.
“Who’s your pack?” asked the boy, when Caleb drew near. Behind him was a trail of his own paw prints, coming from the east and disappearing into the mist. Just on the edge of sight Caleb could make out where several sets of prints had emerged in opposite directions from a large patch of trampled mud—and possibly blood? At least three werewolves, possibly more. He must have passed right by them last night.
“My what?” he wondered, staring at the marks with fascination.
“You really aren’t from around here,” the boy muttered, running his hand through his wet hair. “What are you, German?”
Caleb could see the cottage already, just a few yards ahead, nestled into a cleft cut out of the rocks. It looked warm and cozy, and he wondered if the boy had made it himself. “No, I’m—I’m American,” he said in answer to the question.
The boy pushed open the door to the cottage and Caleb entered gratefully. It wasn’t as cozy inside as he’d expected. Downright chilly, actually, and the floor was bare.
“Didn’t know they had us in America,” said the boy. “Give me a minute, and I’ll get a fire going.”
“What was that?”
“Fire,” the boy repeated. “You know, you burn wood, so that it’s warm in here. B-b-but fires don’t start themselves.” His lips and toes were blue, and he was shivering.
“Oh, excuse me!” Caleb exclaimed. “I guess I thought…I mean, I assumed you were…that you could…I mean, there are magical ways to make a fire in here.”
“You’re not telling me you can make a fire out of nothing?”
Confused, Caleb went to the stone hearth and did precisely that. He’d been able to call forth Fire for so long, he didn’t even remember learning how. He had always thought that werewolves had a spark of magic in them, because of their monthly magical transformations. He might not be skilled at the more impressive magic that Fintonclyde had tried to teach him—and that his best friend had mastered so effortlessly—but he did know how to make a fire.
When the boy saw and felt the flames he drew closer, bringing with him two ancient and moth-eaten woolen blankets from the floor. Wordlessly, he handed one to Caleb and wrapped the other around himself. His eyes were wide with surprise and admiration.
Neither spoke for a long time, concentrating on getting warm. Mastering grammar the morning after a transformation always gave Caleb a headache, and it was especially bad in a foreign language. He stopped shivering and his brain began to thaw. He wondered who this boy was, whether he was alone, and what he meant by a pack.
“Eat anything last night?” the boy asked at last.
“No. You?”
“Couple of rats.” He sighed.
With a start, Caleb realized that the boy was thin not because he was ill, but because he was hungry. “What’s your name?” he asked, probably just because it was the first Romanian phrase he had learned.
“Grigore,” the boy replied, his teeth chattering less.
“Grigore what?”
He looked puzzled, then with a shrug, “Grigore Beta.”
This didn’t sound like a real name, but Caleb’s brain was too hazy to draw any conclusions. “It’s nice to meet you, Grigore,” he said, offering the boy his hand. “I’m Caleb O’Connor.”
The boy stared at his hand for a long time before he shook it. He looked at Caleb as if he’d never quite seen the likes of him before.
“It’s a good thing we met,” Caleb said with a smile. “I would have been very cold trying to walk ten miles back to the castle without my cloak. Assuming I can find it by using the, uh, compass stone.” He was sure he’d got all the case endings and verb conjugations right, and was really quite pleased with himself, but his little speech didn’t seem to put Grigore at ease—quite the contrary.
“Ah, fewmets, you dog,” he muttered.
Caleb didn’t know the word, but the meaning was clear. “What do you mean?”
“A compass stone,” muttered Grigore. “You really think you’re some kind of wizard, yeah, my tail.”
His speech was a bit too slangy for someone with two weeks’ worth of Romanian, Polyglot Potion or no. Caleb realized this was the first teenager he’d met. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought wizards were…trained in Romania, but your wizard school has been closed for many years, so…”
Grigore edged away, his face etched with mistrust, even hatred. “For the love of Selene, you talk like a professor,” he snarled. “What’s your deal?”
Selene? Caleb wondered. Good Lord, was this some kind of werewolf argot? He didn’t know if he was fascinated or horrified. “Well, I was going to be a professor, sort of, I guess,” he said modestly, wondering if perhaps Grigore were much younger than he appeared. “I was studying…never mind what, at a school in America, but I left, well…because they hate us.” No point mincing words here, he thought.
“You said it,” Grigore muttered, moving back to his old spot because he didn’t want to be away from the fire, though he still eyed Caleb skeptically. Something seemed to occur to him. “You just get bitten, you dog, or what?”
Suddenly, Caleb felt privileged and spoiled. He thought he’d had it rough within the Community, but he was completely ignorant of how others fared. “No,” he answered quietly. “It was when I was four, thirteen years ago.”
His companion absorbed this emotionlessly. “You’re younger than me, then,” was all he said. “I just turned twenty.”
Caleb looked in astonishment at this skinny, anemic boy who didn’t even need to shave. He must be starving; he must have been starving for years. Did he rely on that single night once a month for most of his food? He stared for a long time, until the boy grew self-conscious and
ran his hand through his now-dry hair.
“Um, I’m from Lupeni originally. You know it?” The boy frowned when Caleb didn’t answer, as if he couldn’t understand how anyone could be ignorant of his hometown. “I was bitten when I was thirteen. The school didn’t want me, neither did my parents, so…I’m here. Pack Six, Vlad’s our Alpha. That’s about all.”
This strange talk was making Caleb more depressed than he had ever been. It was hard to imagine enduring all that he had as a teenager—the battle between human and canine urges, the desire to run free mingled with the horror of hurting and killing someone—without the support of his friends, even Fintonclyde. “Do you need anything?” he stammered. “I mean, you saved my life, really. I probably would have frozen to death.”
Grigore was trying to be stoic, but there was a gleam in his eyes. “Anything good to eat up there at the castle?”
“Of course there is,” Caleb exclaimed. “I can get you some bread…a chicken, maybe.” Oh, great, he thought grimly, now I’m going to make all of Pack Six descend on Alexandru.
A thin stream of drool appeared at one corner of Grigore’s mouth, which he didn’t bother to wipe away.
“Just have to figure out how to get my tail back there,” said Caleb, picking up the slang without meaning to.
Grigore grinned. “Can’t conjure up a răsu, whelp? Thought you were a wizard.”
“A what?” Caleb’s meager Romanian was taxed beyond its limits. His sluggish mind tried to figure out the word: Breath? No, wind. Grigore expected him to call forth Wind? Fintonclyde had taught them all about Elementals, about calling forth Fire, Wind, or Water, about coaxing rocks to split and the earth to open up. Toby loved summoning Wind and gliding like a surfer above the choppy Atlantic waters as he whooped with joy. Caleb watched more than he tried, and when he did try, he often ended up dumped in the water or bounced on the rocks.
Only the Moon Howls Page 4
