During the week he had followed Ella Bandita, the Wolf had never seen her rob a man of his heart. Watching the Dandy dismount with a theatrical sweep of his leg high over the horse’s rump, he snarled in disgust. Ella Bandita was ready for him. Her stargaze dangled from her fingers, the colors swirling around her. The Dandy would be lost the moment he turned around, but the Wolf’s first instinct was to do nothing. The Dandy was repugnant to him with his jacket and breeches fitting him with the intimacy of a corset.
“If Ella Bandita steals his heart,” the Wolf muttered. “Then it will be one more away from mine.”
Then the memory of the day he lost his best friend came to him, the moment when their disagreement reached a pitch that made his attack inevitable.
“Wolf,” the Shepherd had said. “Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”
He flinched. The obvious truth behind that statement made him ashamed. The colors were already whirling around the Dandy, who was turning towards his doom. The Wolf leaped from the woods, howling and using his voice for the first time in nearly two years.
“Get away from her, you fool!”
The Dandy was surprisingly agile, back on his saddle in an instant. He stared at the Wolf with eyes as wide as a doll’s. In his hand, he held the pearly handle of a small gun, which he pointed at the Wolf. He turned and fled just in time to evade the first bullet.
The Dandy was tenacious, chasing after the Wolf and shooting. He needed strength and speed he never knew he had before he could lose his pursuer. It was late in the afternoon by the time he did, and the Wolf returned to the river to soothe his thirst, his limbs heavy with exhaustion.
She was waiting for him. The Wolf found her steed grazing inside the trees, and paused to prepare himself for their meeting before he came out of the woods. Ella Bandita sat in the same place he had found her, her back now to the river and her eyes fixed on him. She clapped slowly, her hands thundering on his approach.
“Bravo,” she said. “That was magni ficent.”
The Wolf sat before her without saying a word.
“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a hero?”
He remained quiet. The throbbing in his hollow made him ache. The Wolf could hear his pulse again, but from a distance. He yearned for the resonance of the heartbeat echoing inside, but the ecstatic serenity of his night run was impossible in her presence.
The urge to lunge for her still threatened. The Wolf couldn’t stop staring at her throat.
Ella Bandita waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she raised her brows.
“You must know what’s coming,” she said. “Fifty miles north is the cave where I keep my hearts. I’ll be eating yours as soon as I get there.”
“Will you turn me back into a man before you do?”
The Wolf spoke without thinking, the question startling him as much as it did her.
Ella Bandita’s eyes widened before she shook her head.
“No. Why should I?”
“Because there’s no reason for you not to,” he retorted. “And I would like to die as the man I was born to be.”
Looking into her eyes made the pounding in his hollow excruciating. The pain spread through his veins to every part of him, but the Wolf held her gaze. Finally she shrugged and reached for the small leather pouch looped around her holster. He held his breath, afraid to hope even when she took a pinch of dust. Ella Bandita glanced at the Wolf and hesitated. Then she blew and a small cloud hovered around him until she spoke the word.
“Man.”
He didn’t feel his thick fur dissolve. He only knew he was suddenly cold, his vision blurred and his insides churning. Then he noticed how awkward his pose was, sitting with his rump on the ground, arms stretched forward between his knees. The Wanderer lost his balance, rolling back on the ground. He wore the same pants and shirt he had that night, but the garments seemed foreign to him and he didn’t care for the cha fing of the fabric. He shivered, his skin mottling from the unexpected chill in the air.
Then he stood up and nearly lost his footing. His legs trembled, the sensation of standing on two limbs both familiar and strange. Holding his arms out, he stared at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. His palms were more muscular than he remembered. He rubbed them together, wondering if the skin had grown thicker.
The Wanderer had forgotten about Ella Bandita until she spoke.
“These years as a wolf have made you very handsome.”
Her voice purred, trilling along his flesh. She was almost lying down, leaning on her arms for support, her provocation subtle and inviting. Her eyes were as cold as ever when he looked at her, but the hint of mischief in flamed him yet again.
“How far are you willing to go, Wanderer?” her eyes seemed to ask him. “How much are you willing to risk?”
Ella Bandita hadn’t said a word. He didn’t know if he imagined her murmuring taunt or if she really was talking to him through his mind. He could only be certain of that icy blue gaze holding him captive, her wide mouth curving in a smile.
The Wanderer hated her. Sometimes he had felt his loathing gnaw at him, ever since the night Ella Bandita had stolen his heart. But his breath still caught in his throat from the way she looked at him. Images of the days they had coupled tormented him again, memories forever stored in his bones. In spite of all that happened in the last five years, the Wanderer still yearned to answer that siren call daring him to accept a predator’s challenge. He’d already lost the most precious part of himself, but determination possessed the Wanderer to prove he was strong enough to conquer the most dangerous woman in the world.
Then the throbbing in his hollow made his knees buckle. He collapsed, scarcely able to breathe. But he could still hear his heartbeat. The sound was faint, but enough to relieve the Wanderer from his obsessive lust. He stood up and looked at Ella Bandita again. His desire was gone and he despised himself for his weakness.
“That will make the taste of my heart much sweeter,” he said. “Won’t it?”
The Wanderer savored that moment of victory when her face paled and her mouth tightened. But she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, opening up only to stare through him. She clicked her tongue to summon her horse. Once she was back in her saddle, it was as if his rejection had never happened. She looked down, her composure restored, and shrugged.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it will.”
Then she opened one of her saddlebags and pulled out a thick wool coat covered with tiny holes.
“It’s going to snow later tonight.”
She threw the coat to him. The Wanderer caught it, the fabric rough between his fingers.
“I would hate for you to freeze to death,” she said.
Her large teeth gleamed when Ella Bandita chuckled. She kicked its flanks and her stallion crossed the river in two bounds, running to the north. The Wanderer went numb watching her disappear, rooted where he stood until he shuddered. Rubbing his arms, he was amazed how much the air had chilled since that morning and donned the coat. There were sharp nips where moths had eaten through the wool, but the garment warmed him enough.
He dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands. The hollow inside him was even more painful now that he was back in his human body. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in more than a day. But his hunger was insigni ficant, for the Wanderer knew he wouldn’t live long enough to starve to death. Once Ella Bandita ate his heart, he wouldn’t suffer the purgatory of an existence without life, and the loss of personality of her other conquests. He would die. He wondered how long it would be. Two days? Perhaps he’d have three or four if the storms were brutal enough to slow her down.
The Wanderer pulled his head up and caught his re flection in the still shallows of the river. He shook his head and looked again, stunned with what he saw. Time had not stopped in his years as a wolf. Instead of the rounded cheeks of his youth, he was now a man in his early prime. The bones of his face were pr
onounced, his jaw firm beneath his full beard. His skin was slightly weathered and his eyes had lines he’d never seen before.
Although much younger than he had ever known him, the Wanderer saw he looked exactly like his grandfather. Then he realized he was almost the same age the Bard had been when he married. His next birthday would be his twenty-eighth.
But he wouldn’t reach that milestone. That certainty pierced to his hollow, and made the emptiness hurt in a way it never had before. He was compelled to move and do something to save himself, but he couldn’t imagine what that might be.
The Wanderer closed his eyes and let the sounds come to him. The burbling of the river was peaceful, the beat of his heart almost soothing. Surely all couldn’t be lost. He breathed slowly, allowing the tension to melt from his limbs. Once his mind grew quiet, the mellow tenor of the Shepherd echoed from his memory, repeating the tale of the night he had met the girl who would become Ella Bandita. As the Wanderer remembered the look of dreams on the Shepherd’s face while he talked, he was filled with remorse that he ever believed such a man had betrayed him. The image of his friend faded away as his story came to a close.
“Listen to your heart…”
The Wanderer opened his eyes. He glanced to the river and stared across the valley before turning around to peer into the woods. Centuries of understory descended from the trees, making a contrast of darkness and light, layers of growth that can only come with time. The scenery was just as the Shepherd described.
“Could this really be where he met her?”
In response, his heartbeat grew louder. It wasn’t enough to echo inside him, but the surge of strength brought the Wanderer to his feet.
“Maybe I can find something.”
He headed into what he hoped was the Ancient Grove, searching through the trees for an hour before he found the clearing. He closed his eyes and looked again to make certain he saw the granite boulder in the center, right beside a large hole. This had to be the gateway to the Caverns. It was impossible two places could exist exactly as the Shepherd described. The Wanderer stared into the opening, to the steps spiraling down and the dry torch held in carved stone. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck when he thought about descending into the black depths.
He looked up. The sun had gone down and the sky was thick with gathering
clouds. Ella Bandita had been right. It would snow tonight. But he still hesitated, feeling foolish in his uneasiness. He reminded himself that the Sorcerer was dead and it would be dark soon. He rushed through the trees until he found two dry branches. He rubbed the sticks for several minutes before he could set the torch a flame. With it in hand, the Wanderer made his way down the tunnel, lighting up the rest of the torches as he went.
Coming off the last step, he had no doubt the Caverns had been deserted for a long time.
Sheets of dust covered everything.
He circled the chamber, firing up the torches except the one he replaced with his.
Once the main hall was illuminated, he gathered skeins of dust and swept cobwebs from doorways. After a few rounds, the room was clear, revealing the destroyed opulence of what had been the Sorcerer’s domain.
Without the thick blanket of dust, it looked as if a band of marauders had come through and ransacked the place. Goblets, candlesticks, and platters of tarnished silver were strewn all over the floor, dented or bent out of their original shape, probably after being thrown against the walls. Books were everywhere with pages torn out, burnt scraps littering the floor leading to a cauldron filled with ashes and remnants of leather from destroyed volumes. He whistled when he realized that nobody but the Sorcerer could have done this. He must have been in a fury his last day alive.
The only things left intact were a large round table encircled by gold and velvet chairs and a sofa. On the table, empty vials surrounded a small cauldron with a page lying next to it. The Sorcerer must have salvaged the paper from the fire. The edges were burnt, but the writing was still legible. The Shepherd had taught him to read in the years they traveled together, but the Wanderer couldn’t recognize the symbols. He frowned, wondering if these were the remains of a spell. He leaned towards the bowl then pulled back, the stench brought a surge of vomit to his throat. He managed to force it down, but he grimaced from the odor lingering in his nostrils.
“What am I doing here?” he muttered. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
The Wanderer dropped into the sofa and leaned back on the pillows, gasping at what he saw above him. He hadn’t noticed the crystals when he came down the spiral.
The cyclone of their essence caught him unawares and revived memories of the night his heart was stolen. The Wanderer squeezed his eyes shut and sat up, opening his gaze to the main hall of the Caverns. The black stone seemed to go on without end, and he wondered how anybody could stand to live inside such gloom. He scanned the empty doorways, his stomach in knots as he considered which passage to explore, knowing he could get lost in a maze of corridors. With a sigh, he got up and took one of the torches, knowing he had no choice.
“So,” he said. “This is where Ella Bandita sold her soul.”
His voice reverberated off the walls and the Wanderer froze. The Shepherd’s story called from the past and he could almost hear the desperation in her voice when the girl who would become Ella Bandita appealed to the Sorcerer of the Caverns.
“If you can bring my heart back to life,” she’d said, “then you must, Sorcerer.
Please. I’m begging you.”
Then he thought of the night he had been the Wolf imploring Ella Bandita to return his heart and change him back into a man.
“What do you have to tempt me to give you what you want?” she had asked. “I don’t bargain with those who have nothing to offer…”
But perhaps now he would. Holding the torch before him, the Wanderer went around the chamber one last time. He took more care with his search and put things away on the shelves until the floor gleamed. His gaze wavered between two hallways, but his attention was more attracted to the one on the left. Just as he passed the threshold, he glanced down and saw a bundle of ashen gray against black stone nestled against the curve of the wall.
Putting the torch back, the Wanderer picked up the bundle and peeled dust away from a black velvet bag. The velvet was soft in his hands, the content fitting perfectly between his palms. But the gathers were twisted into a frenzy of knots. Going back to the table, he set the bag down and worked through the notches one at a time. He didn’t know he was holding his breath until he pulled the mouth wide open. Then all his air rushed out in a long bellow. Lying on black velvet was a heart that did not beat.
The Wanderer fell back on the sofa, trans fixed by what he’d found. He was surprised at the condition. Even after more than thirty years, it was healthy and plump, pink and fresh, the heart of a young girl when it was taken. Given the nature of the woman it came from, he would have expected it to be rancid and withered. The tissue was tender when he picked it up, the light aroma wafting to his nostrils. The sweetness made him swoon and the Wanderer brought it to his mouth to take a bite.
He stopped, horri fied by the urge. Yet he still had to force himself to set the heart down on the table. Then his craving began with a pain worse than hatred. His hollow pulsated with a hunger he never imagined possible, longing pressed against his ribs and drained his innards. The pink heart lying motionless and quiet looked so tender. He knew the taste would be delicious.
“What am I thinking?” he cried out. “Nothing could be more repulsive!”
The Wanderer doubled over, clutching his middle. The unseen assault on his belly squeezed without mercy, causing him to retch until there was nothing inside but bile. His hollow pulsated harder, spreading that need until there wasn’t any part of him that didn’t starve for that heart on the table. The agony was relentless and the Wanderer crashed to the floor. But there was no relief from the pitiless longing. He remembered her heart was already de
ad and that she’d given it up long ago.
“She’s going to eat my heart,” he growled. “Why shouldn’t I eat hers?”
The Wanderer had never hated anybody until he met her. He remembered the
night she sent him away. Again, he was overcome with that impulse to lunge for the kill, even though she wasn’t present and he was no longer a wolf. He could still see the icy wrath in her eyes as she’d held him off, not a trace of fear in those depths.
“If you kill me Wanderer,” she’d said that night. “Then what do you have?”
His hand shook as he reached for the heart. He knew his craving would be
satis fied as soon as he fed. He knew he would kill her. But that couldn’t be wrong. She was a predator.
Then the pulsating shifted into a throbbing that made the Wanderer howl. He rolled on his back and craned his head, staring up the tunnel where the whirlwind of blinking, spinning colors nearly drove him out of his senses. But he looked past them to the sky thick with the clouds of a coming storm, and beseeched the heavens beyond.
“Please, make it stop! How do I make it stop?”
He almost sobbed at the answer.
“Listen to your heart…”
It wasn’t just the voice of the Shepherd he heard. The mellow tenor blended with the depth of his grandfather’s voice, both harmonizing with the low alto of Ella Bandita.
Their collective voices made the most beautiful song he ever heard, their words in tune with the sound of his heart beating a soothing rhythm in the background.
Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…
Then the craving was gone. The throbbing faded in slow waves, making room for his pulse to echo inside him from far away. The Wanderer lay on the floor of the Caverns, catching his breath and allowing his relief to cleanse him. His heartbeat was louder and the resonance went deeper inside him. He was surprised Ella Bandita should intrude on his thoughts in such a moment, and tried to push her image away. But his resistance only served to drown his heartbeat with throbbing. He surrendered and let the memories flow.
The Heart of the Lone Wolf Page 4
