Guardian Hound

by Cutter, Leah

  He would have to transform in the next week or so. They needed a run.

  Homesickness washed over Hans. Maybe for the Silvester holidays he could go and visit his cousins, and spend a week running in the fields and woods.

  Hans shook himself. He couldn’t afford to daydream, not here, not now, with his hound soul so close. He bought what he could, a few cast-off bits of chicken, enough for a stew.

  Then Hans made his way over to the northeast corner of the market, where the old women in black dresses and embroidered kerchiefs held court. They came to market with goods they’d made: Pickled onions and carrots, newly spun wool and thick sweaters, berry preserves and honey.

  Hans had discovered them early in his search for ingredients. They’d been a gold mine of information as well.

  Old Engel waved to Hans as he approached. Her plump cheeks were rosy, and curls of her iron gray hair stuck out from underneath her black kerchief. Her eyes were a watery blue, faded as if they’d stared at the sun too long, in her weathered, wrinkled, browned face. “Eh, got a present for you,” she said, pointing behind her seat.

  Hans smiled. Old Engel wasn’t as disabled as she pretended to be: He’d seen her stand quick enough when a bee came buzzing. But he indulged her and walked behind her seat. A large burlap sack sat on the ground. Hans picked it up and walked back around.

  “What is it?” he asked as he opened it. It was full of pungent leaves, green but starting to wither.

  “Thorn apple,” Old Engel said.

  “Really?” Hans asked, looking back at her, amazed. He couldn’t believe it. It was only midsummer! Yet now he had all the ingredients he needed to create his potion and cast his spells.

  “Farmer Thalberg had a run of bad luck, brought in some sheep to be slaughtered, and that as well,” she said, nodding. “Now, you know to be careful with those, eh?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you, Grandmother,” Hans said, using the honorific she’d gifted him with.

  “I know you’re a good lad, but those are powerful strong,” Old Engel insisted. “You test them out first, you hear me?”

  “I will. I will!” Hans promised. He already had the herbals waters prepared. If he could get the first batch of these leaves soaking tonight, it would only be a day, maybe two, before he could finish.

  “Thank you, so much,” Hans said, gladly counting out the coins into her calloused hand.

  “Now, before you go, I want you to meet my granddaughter. Petra. Petra! Come here.”

  Hans stood with the sack clutched to his chest, his cheeks flaming.

  Women his own age confused him, with their soft curves and sharp tongues. He was never certain how to talk to one.

  Petra had a laughing smile, beautiful blond curls sticking out from the edges of her kerchief, and clear blue eyes. She didn’t wear black, but a coarse brown apron over her old-fashioned, pale blue blouse and skirt. She curtsied as she held out her hand for Hans.

  Hans shifted the bag to his right arm, then realized his mistake and shifted it to his left so he could hold out the appropriate hand. “Very nice to make your acquaintance,” he said, stumbling over the words.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Petra replied. “Grandmama said you were making a potion.”

  “My grandpapa was an Apotheker,” Hans explained. He’d given this reason a lot. “I’m just experimenting with some of his recipes. I work in the Laboratorium.”

  “How exciting!” Petra said with another charming smile.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, Hans said, “I, uhm, must go now. Nice to meet you.”

  “You’ll have to tell us how the experiment went,” Petra replied.

  “And be careful!” Old Engel called out, always having to get in the last word.

  # # #

  Hans found it appropriate that the night he was finally ready to cast the final spells was Johannisfest, Midsummer’s Eve.

  If they’d still been in the countryside, all his relatives would have gathered in the village square that night for a bonfire, though several families would also have their own celebrations on their farms. They would have ritually sacrificed dried hops to clear away any bad spirits. After the ceremonies, the teenaged boys would take turns daring each other to jump over the flames from farther and farther away.

  Here, in Hildesheim, there was only the one big bonfire in the market. However, they also had fireworks.

  Hans was disappointed that he’d miss those, but he really wanted to finish his spell. He’d taken to trying little spells, easy things from Grandpapa’s books, slaving away at the hot wood-burning stove. He’d explained it to Father as practice for the lab, experiments with precise measurements and exact timing.

  Father had been pleased that Hans was finally showing such an interest. And Master Koenig hadn’t threatened to send him home early again, though Hans suspected that if this spell didn’t work, come the end of the year he would be out of the Laboratorium.

  Hans hated it all. He hated the hot stove and had burned himself frequently. While Grandpapa’s concoctions had been pungent, Hans’ frequently reeked. He’d never been good at magic, but he worked at it, determined to prove himself.

  Father left to go celebrate with the rest of the town—and to drink himself into unconsciousness, Hans suspected. So Hans worked in an empty house that night.

  Hans put on his white lab coat over his navy blue work shirt. He was already sweating in the tiny kitchen, but he wanted some protection from the splatters. The single tiny window looked out over the backyard and their square of greenery, but it didn’t provide much fresh air. A white-painted kitchen table sat in the center of the room, its top covered with the various potions, herbs, and charms Hans had already prepared. In the corner was a stained copper sink, with a crotchety hand pump for bringing up water.

  A black cast-iron stove hulked against one wall, already filled with burning firewood. Hans had two pots boiling on top, ready for the final herbs.

  After sharpening his knives with a whetstone, Hans started cutting up the peppermint, mugwort, and valerian. The cool scents mingled and reminded him of Grandpapa. Hans used the plain gray stone mortar and pestle to grind up the star anise and cloves, and to crush the periwinkle petals.

  Hans moved as slowly and methodically as he could, going back to check the recipe more than once. He found himself rushing, though. Finally, the night was here when he could do something about his life. If this spell worked, his whole life could be different.

  The first step of the preparation for the thorn apple leaves was already complete. Hans had pounded them with the mortar and pestle, covered them with water and lard, put them into an old earthenware pot, then let them sit for a day. When he lifted off the lid, he had to take a step back as the astringent, musty smell came rolling out.

  Old Engel had been right. They were powerful. But Grandpapa had said two cups of the leaves, so that’s what Hans used. He carefully lifted the pot off the table and set it on the stove. When the lard melted, Hans stirred it, not letting it boil. Once all the leaves were softened, he strained the liquid, carefully measuring out two cups of it, then adding fresh herbs to the liquid.

  Now, for the final steps. Hans reheated the other potions, muttering more than one spell as he cooked and combined ingredients, ending with the liquid from the thorn apples.

  Twilight had come and gone, and true night was setting in by the time Hans was ready. The Kraftsuppe smelled sour and bitter. He curled his lips back as he lifted it, stopping himself from taking a step away from it.

  Even his hound soul wasn’t sure this was a good idea.

  Hans put down the bowl and walked over the window, looking out over what he could see of the garden, his hound soul looming closer. They both missed the country, so much.

  He could never tell Father, but if they’d stayed, he would have applied as a teacher’s aid. Not for Gymnasium, no, but for the little ones. In his dreams, Hans saw himself leading them through the green grass near the one-room
school, a daisy chain of little lights, laughing at his clumsiness and marveling at how many things he could smell.

  But Father never would have allowed it. Playing with children all day wasn’t a worthwhile occupation for someone of the hound clan.

  With a sigh, Hans turned from the window, walked back to the table, and lifted the bowl. With his hound soul at his side, he opened his mouth and poured down the potion.

  The vile, foul potion gushed over his tongue, making him gag. It stank worse than anything Hans had ever smelled before, even the bloated duck corpse he’d found in the marshes. He forced himself to swallow, coughing, his eyes watering. Then he drank some more. His hands shook with the effort of keeping the revolting liquid down, but Hans persisted.

  Before Hans could fetch himself a glass of water to wash out the taste of burnt hair and rancid oil, the world tilted to the side. Hans felt drunk all at once.

  This wasn’t right. According to Grandpapa’s notes, a slow tide of awareness should rise through him.

  What had he done wrong?

  Hans raced to the open book, forcing his eyes to focus.

  He’d done everything right. Made all the secondary potions correct. Then he’d mixed—

  Hans sighed. He’d reversed the amounts of two of the potions, and had ended up doubling the amount of the thorn apple liquid.

  Darkness approached from all sides. Hans whined, but it was too late.

  The door opened, and Hans fell through.

  # # #

  Hans stood under a gray cloud-filled sky. An angry sun burned at the horizon. Everything smelled dead, like dust from an ancient tomb. Nothing grew here as far as he could see in any direction—the land ran flat to the horizon, full of ashes.

  Yet Hans knew he wasn’t alone. Something pressed at him, first from one side, then the other. He couldn’t see what it was, but he knew something was there.

  When Hans poked at his hound soul, he screamed, a thin call that bled quickly away.

  His hound soul was wreathed in shadows, black formless things that surrounded the basset hound, stinging his sensitive nose and pricking his shoulder, back, paws—everywhere.

  “Stop!” Hans called, but there was nothing to hear him.

  Now, shadows formed around Hans as well. Or maybe they’d been there all along, and only now could he see them, give them a name.

  They wanted in. They wanted him. They wanted his life, his breath, his vision.

  And they wanted out.

  The shadows were trapped here, on this dead planet, a planet they’d killed.

  They were parasites, with no life of their own. They needed the lives of others so they could continue to exist. They were dying, here, starting to eat one another.

  They showed Hans the magic he’d be able to do with their help, such as confusing the minds of people like Master Koenig, so he’d always be able to stay in the Laboratorium. Father would be proud of Hans, and their family would be recognized, finally, by the sight hounds in the court. They showed him a charm he could imbue with a wisp of shadow so he could have any girl he wanted.

  On and on came their honeyed promises as they stroked him, petting his hound soul now. Hans let himself be lulled with the tales and images—Father standing beside him as he worked, beaming with pride. Maybe even a medal or two for things he’d discovered through his experiments, properties and chemicals the shadows showed him.

  Hans might have listened to them, and maybe given them a little of his own life essence. As far as he could tell, their words were absolutely true: These weren’t empty promises. They could do everything they claimed, could help him in all these ways.

  But the cost was too high. It wasn’t his life they wanted, but that of his hound soul’s.

  Even giving away just a little would diminish both his hound soul and his own.

  His hound soul begged him to run away from the pain and hurt, as far and as fast as they could.

  Father might call Hans a disgrace to the hound clan, but he trusted his hound soul to do the right thing, to warn him of the danger.

  The shadows drew back.

  Hans and his hound soul stood firm. They would not help the shadows. Hans wouldn’t hurt his hound soul that way.

  The shadows attacked again, harder, trying to force their way through skin and fur, into blood and bone. They leached his life and energy by wrapping tightly around him.

  Exhaustion slammed into Hans. He suddenly felt older than his twenty-two years. He hunkered over, wrapping his arms over his chest.

  He just had to endure. The spell wouldn’t last.

  The potion would wear off at some point, and Hans knew he’d wake up, probably on the floor of the kitchen, with a sour head and a rumbly stomach.

  Then his hound soul howled, and kept howling.

  Hans tried to fight the shadows. But how could he fight something that had no form? He couldn’t grasp them, pull them away, or even slam his fists into them. He kept telling the baying hound that it would be all right. He curled up around his hound soul, trying to comfort him, but the shadows continued their attack, their promises and threats buzzing like gnats, then bees, then loud freight trains through Hans’ mind.

  What if Hans just helped them a little? It wouldn’t have to be much. Just give them a tiny corner of his magic. He wasn’t using it all anyway. A single thread. They’d help him prove the worth of all scent hounds.

  Hans resisted, but he felt himself weakening.

  The shadows promised it would be something that only the scent hounds could do—those snooty sight hounds at the court would never be able to see the shadows, or find them, or use them in their magic.

  Then Hans grew firm again. No. He and his hound soul could endure this. They had to, despite how his heart broke over the howls of his hound soul. Everything hurt, so much, and he was already so weak and tired.

  The shadows renewed their attack with vigor, pushing, prodding, pinching and scratching—a thousand ants biting all at once—trying to get a foothold, to make either Hans or his hound soul accept them.

  But something was different. When Hans opened his eyes and looked up, he realized he was floating up and away from the dead earth, into a velvet black night, stars like a ribbon of lights twining around him.

  Just above Hans’ head stood a doorway, with warm fire glow pouring from it.

  The shadows now pushed down on Hans, trying to stop him from reaching the doorway.

  Exhaustion overwhelmed Hans. He struggled to raise his arm, to break through the bonds the shadows had wrapped across his chest that were squeezing the breath from him.

  His hound soul bayed, louder now, more urgent.

  Hans didn’t dare look. He kicked his legs as if he were swimming, trying to propel himself toward the light.

  Take us with you, the shadows pleaded, the first real words they’d used. Let us live. We will make you rich and powerful and loved and admired and respected and…

  Hans reached the doorway and shoved himself through in one swift motion.

  A thread of shadow remained curled around his ankle. Hans slammed the door shut with a thunderous crack, catching the tail of the shadow in the door.

  When he looked again, the shadow was gone.

  Another crack rolled through the space, shattering the light and the illusion.

  Hans found himself lying on the kitchen floor, the taste of rotten leather in his mouth, his head pounding and his stomach queasy.

  A third crack echoed through the room. Hans jumped up and looked around the messy kitchen.

  Bright light reflected through the window. The fireworks exploded over town square.

  Belatedly, Hans reached out to check on his hound soul, who mournfully snuffled up to him, shaken and sore, his coat ruffled, but unhurt.

  Hans couldn’t tell if his hound soul wasn’t as full as it had once been. He also didn’t like the accusing look in the hound’s eyes.

  “Everything will be all right,” Hans said. He’d make sure that it w
as all fine. They’d go out for more runs, as a way to make it up to his hound soul.

  He creakily moved around the kitchen, as if he’d suddenly grown as old as Grandpapa when he’d died. Without hesitation, he threw out the rest of the potion. Then he lit tapers and checked every corner, to make sure no shadows lurked there or pressed against the windows from outside.

  Hans had shut the door on them before they’d come through. He’d escaped.

  Except…

  Hans’ hound soul stared at him sometimes, accusing and hurt, though Hans hadn’t done anything to hurt it.

  While Hans wasn’t doing anything differently at the Laboratorium, Master Koenig didn’t yell at him, even when Hans dropped something. “Ah well,” Master Koenig would sigh. “Accidents happen.” And Master Koenig started talking about what they’d do together in the new year.

  When Hans met Petra again in the market, he suddenly remembered an old charm he could use to help him. It was nothing, really. Just something to nudge her along, make her like him more.

  The charm turned out to be easy to make, easier than any charm Hans had ever made before. By the end of the year, Hans and Petra were married.

  It wasn’t until Hans went searching back through Grandpapa’s books, looking for something to ease the birth of their first child, that he went looking for that charm.

  He never found it. He’d known that spell, but he didn’t remember how he’d learned it.

  Hans never created a charm for his wife, and never taught his child how to create them.

  He never used magic again, for the rest of his days.

  Chapter Two

  Germany, Thirteen Years Ago

  Lukas

  Lukas was five when he began dreaming about the end of the world.

  The first dream started in the garden just behind the castle, the one with the squares of different grasses locked between squares of cold hard rock.

  Like the rest of the hound clan, Lukas loved the different scents—American blue grass, grass from high in the Alps, and even African plain grass. He sent his toy soldiers marching between the rough, tall blades so he could skootch down and get his face close to the earth and sniff hard.