by Carl Waters
My last thought, as I braced myself for death, was that I wished I’d kissed Théodore properly when I had the chance.
“Gigi.”
I smiled weakly. I could almost hear his voice calling to me.
“Gigi!”
Bernard looked around, and I sat up a fraction of inch. Maybe I wasn’t imagining things. Maybe he was really here.
“Théo?” I called. My voice sounded more like the cawing of a crow. I cleared my sore throat and tried again. “Théo, is that you?”
The front door banged open, and Théodore stood there, silhouetted in the morning sun. His hair shone, the blade of his axe glinted, and there was a fierce gleam in his eyes. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
He smiled grimly and raised his axe. “Get away from her, you beast.”
“This is not your fight,” said Bernard. He bared his teeth and snarled.
“Run!” I cried.
The werewolf sprang, but Théodore was ready. He hit Bernard with the flat of the axe right across his wounded muzzle. Bernard yelped and backed up, circling his opponent with new wariness. Théodore swung the axe again with the strength borne from years of chopping wood. The edge bit deep into the werewolf’s bicep. Howling, Bernard raked at Théodore with his good arm, opening a line of parallel gouges along his chest.
Théodore cried out and clutched his wound. Bernard’s right arm hung uselessly at his side, but he was still stronger and faster than any human. If I didn’t do something soon, he would kill Théodore and then finish me off. I cast about for a weapon. Bernard stood between me and the candlestick, and I’d never make it to Grandmère’s room to retrieve the silver knife. The stove, however, was only a foot away, and hanging on a hook beside it was a tarnished spoon with a dark wooden handle.
I struggled to my feet. Standing made me so dizzy, I thought I might be sick. I paused for a moment, my eyes shut, willing the room to stop spinning. Walking hurt. Breathing hurt. But I couldn’t let anyone else die protecting me. Mama was gone. Grandmère was gone. I couldn’t lose Théodore, too. My fingers closed around the handle of the spoon, and I ripped it from the wall.
Bernard advanced on Théodore. Although the woodcutter’s son raised his axe valiantly, his linen shirt was shredded and soaked in blood. Ignoring the pain, I crept up behind the werewolf while he was still distracted.
“Hey, Bernard,” I said, my voice low and raspy. He turned and I stabbed him in the eye with the silver spoon. “Bad dog.”
Bernard’s howl of rage and pain shook the walls. He clawed at the utensil still lodged in his ruined eye. Oily black smoke rose from the wound as the silver ate at his flesh. He screamed and lurched around the room, knocking over furniture and crashing into walls. He fell to one knee and then looked up at me, hatred burning in his remaining eye.
I saw his muscles tense an instant before he sprang. At least two hundred pounds of pain-maddened werewolf knocked me to the ground. It felt like a house had landed on me. Hot strings of saliva dripped down from his jaws. He was more animal than man now, and he seemed determined to rip out my jugular with his teeth. With the last of my strength, I reached up and twisted the wooden handle of the spoon. Bernard threw back his head and howled again.
There was a blur of white in the corner of my eye. I turned and saw Grandmère, the silver candlestick in her hand. She plunged it into Bernard’s chest. The werewolf writhed in agony, and I pushed him off me. Grandmère grabbed my arm and pulled me up, and I leaned gratefully against her.
“Théodore,” she said pleasantly. “Be a dear and cut the bastard’s head off.”
He nodded and raised his axe. “With pleasure, Ma’am.”
With one blow, Théodore separated Bernard’s head from his shoulders. It took nearly a minute for the body to stop twitching. I stared down at the werewolf’s severed head, which had rolled to a stop at my feet. As I watched, the separated head and body began to change. The blistered snout shrank. As did his claws. In another moment, the werewolf had completely changed into a normal wolf. Looking at his battered, beheaded body, one would never know that he was not an animal but a monster.
11
Grandmère and I sat beside the merry fire, drinking chamomile tea with honey. Grandmère said it was the best thing for shock, and perhaps she was right. The horror of the day hadn’t fully left me, but for now, I was warm and safe and surrounded by the people I loved. My grandmother had cleaned and bandaged Théodore’s wounds with another of her herbal remedies. He would make a full recovery, but he wouldn’t be chopping down any trees anytime soon. This seemed to suit him just fine.
Earlier that afternoon, we had dragged the headless wolf corpse out back and heaved it onto the woodpile. We had added twigs and dry grass to the makeshift pyre and then lit it. Grandmère had carried the severed head and tossed it almost casually onto the fire, as if this were something she did every day. Wiping her hands on her apron, she had ushered us back into the house and made lunch.
“So that was a werewolf,” said Théodore. He stared absently into the fire, and I laid a hand on his knee. Smiling, he looked up at me. “I’m not going mad, am I?”
I shook my head. “No. That was most definitely a werewolf.”
“But…they’re fairy tales, stories told to frighten children so they won’t wander off into the woods.”
Grandmère tutted. “You saw him with your own eyes, Théodore. Did that look like a fairy tale to you?”
“No,” I said. “It was a nightmare.”
“The proper term is a Lycan or loup-garou,” said Grandmère.
I turned to her, studying her lined face. She seemed strangely untroubled by all of this.
“How do you know so much about them?” asked Théodore.
“Before dear Adela took up the Red Hood, I spent almost twenty years hunting the beasts. Now it’s your turn, Giselle. I’m sorry that the burden of it has fallen to you so young, but you’ve shown that you’re more than capable. It’s time you claimed your birthright.”
I gaped at her. I’m sure I looked like a gutted fish, but my brain was having a hard time wrapping itself around this new information. Magic cloaks and werewolves were difficult enough to accept, but imagining Grandmère as a monster hunter was almost too much.
Théodore squeezed my hand. “I always knew you were special,” he said.
I found my voice at last. “But…how many werewolves are there? How am I supposed to slay them? Why didn’t Mama tell me any of this?”
Smiling sadly, Grandmère said, “I don’t know why my daughter chose to keep things secret. Maybe she wanted to protect you, to give you a more normal childhood.” She got up and poured herself another cup of tea, then brought the kettle over to refill our mugs. Grandmère sighed and sank back down into her chair. “Adela and Alison were raised knowing what’s out there in the woods at night. Perhaps I should have tried harder to shelter my girls.”
My heart lurched at the sound of my aunt’s name. I hadn’t yet had the courage to tell Grandmère that Alison had killed my mother. She and Claude were still out there, and they didn’t know that the hood was useless. They’d try again to get it, and next time I might not be so lucky. I stood, intending to take off the crimson wool cloak. To my surprise, my ankle no longer hurt.
“Grandmère!” I cried. “My sprain is healed!”
“Of course,” she said, raising an iron gray eyebrow. “The hood heals most wounds, given time.”
“But…but it stopped working. I thought it was broken.”
Grandmère laughed. “Child, how long did you wear it? Its strength is tied to your strength, and without training, you would not have been able to channel its powers for long.”
I plucked at the hem of the cloak. Despite everything I’d been through, it had remained spotless. “Well, I put it on yesterday morning, and then I played hide-and-seek with a werewolf all night, and then I fought him to the death this morning. So about a day and a half?”
Grandmère’s smil
e faded, and she studied me in silence for a moment. “Giselle, without proper training, the hood should have stopped enhancing you after a few hours. That is…remarkable.”
The way she said it, I wasn’t sure that being “remarkable” was a good thing. I unclasped the cloak. It felt strange to be without it, but I folded it neatly and set it on the table. Grandmère bustled about the cottage, tidying up the aftermath of my fight with Bernard. Théodore sat by the fire, his hands wrapped around his mug of cooling tea. He still seemed shaken after the ordeal, and I wished that there was some way I could comfort him.
I sat down next to Théodore and grasped his hand, knitting my fingers with his. He smiled at me, almost shyly, and I brushed that lock of tawny hair from his eyes. I let my hand rest against his cheek. His skin was warm and soft beneath my palm, and I realized how lucky I was to be there, in that moment, with him. If what Grandmère said was true—if I really was the next in a line of werewolf slayers—then quiet moments like these would likely be rare. I would have to enjoy them while I could.
When my lips met his, the rest of the world faded away. I was too focused on the honey-sweet taste of his lips to pay attention to anything else.
“Sorry to interrupt you two turtledoves,” said an unfamiliar voice, “but I’m here for the new Red Hood.”
Théodore and I sprung apart like scalded cats. Standing before the hearth was a man with a braided salt-and-pepper beard and a long, brown cloak. His eyes were dark as a starless night, and I shrank back from him instinctively. Grandmère, however, hurried over and embraced the stranger.
“Giselle,” she said, looking at me with an expression of wry amusement on her wrinkled face, “this is Merlin. He can answer your questions better than I.”
Merlin smiled at my grandmother. “Hello, Angeline. You’re looking lovely as ever.”
Grandmère actually blushed. “Oh, go on. I’ve grown old, and you know it.”
Merlin turned to me. “Time waits for no man,” he said, and then frowned. “Well, it pauses for me. But you, my dear, have much to learn and not much time to learn it. Can you tell me everything that has happened?”
I looked to Grandmère for guidance. She nodded very slightly. I let go of Théodore’s hand, pecked him on the cheek, and then wrapped the red cloak once more around my shoulders.
I walked up to Merlin and asked, “Where do we start?”
WAIT! THERE’S MORE!
Keep turning to read excerpts of both the sequel and prequel to Little Red Riding Hood: Werewolf Slayer.
Sign up for the author’s New Release mailing list to find out when the sequel, Little Red Riding Hood: Werewolf Slayer (Book Two) and the prequel, Vampire in the Woods are released. Also learn how you can get both stories for free.
Click on the link below to learn more.
www.BrightSons.com/RRH2Update
DID YOU ENJOY THE STORY?
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story.
It would mean a lot to me if you could post a review of the book on Amazon, telling future readers what you liked. Leaving a review will only take a minute and the review can be as short as you like. Reviews are very important, but few readers leave them. Please help me out by being the exception.
Click on the link below to post your review.
www.BrightSons.com/RRH1Review
1
France, November 14, 1193
I glanced at the man walking next to me, wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into. Grandmère had seemed to trust him, but did that mean that I could? He was like no one I’d ever seen before—seemingly ancient, given the wisdom in his eyes, the lines of his mouth, and yet … untouched by time. He could have been thirty years old or one hundred, for all I could tell. The only thing I knew for certain was that he was dangerous. The brown hood draped across his back gave off a menacing and otherworldly glow.
No, my grandmother might have known the man, but that didn’t mean he was harmless. Or innocent. With what I’d learned of the world in the last two days, I knew better than to trust those I didn’t know. I’d have to be careful around this one.
“Tell me what happened to your mother,” he said suddenly. “You’re wearing her hood, and I’ve been called to you. Which means she’s dead. How did this occur?”
I gasped at the abrupt question and the memories it brought. Mama. My mother. Challenged to a duel by her own sister. Deceived and then murdered.
Dead. I’d never see her again.
The thought brought with it the pain of a thousand nails, driven right through my skin and into my heart. A sob rose up in my throat, but I clamped my mouth shut against it. You don’t have time to mourn, not now, I lectured myself sternly. I’d just spent the past two days watching my aunt murder my mother, running from a werewolf, and learning that I’d inherited a cloak with supernatural powers that I’d never imagined existed. I was being led to who-knew-where by a man I didn’t know. The world had opened up around me, taking on new and terrifying shapes that I must learn about and fight against.
I didn’t have time to cry over my mother. Miss her, yes. But I’d mourn her later, when I was safe.
Something in my head told me that she’d be proud of me for making such a rational decision. Because obviously I needed to learn to be more rational in a world that contained werewolves and magical cloaks.
“Giselle,” the man prompted, his voice as deep as the cold river I had to cross to get to Grandmère’s. His tone was kind, but not to be brooked, and I took a deep breath, the chill of the coming winter biting into my lungs with its cold fingers.
Then, after slowly releasing the breath, I began.
“My mother and I returned to our house two days ago to find a woman and her coachman there,” I said. My voice caught on the mention of my mother, so I cleared my throat and started again. “My mother told me that the woman was my aunt, Alison. I knew my mother had a sister, but I didn’t remember having met her before. Alison had come to tell us that she was getting married. She even invited us to the wedding. There were … words between them. Harsh words. Then she challenged my mother—to hand-to-hand combat.”
“Alison,” he hissed. “Yes, I should have known. And your mother accepted?”
“Mama thought they’d just be sparring. She thought she could beat her,” I said defensively. “She said she’d done so before and that she’d do so again. Yesterday when we woke up, they went out to our training ground and began.”
“But for Alison to kill her, your mother must have fought without her hood. Why?”
I glanced at him, wondering again who he was and how he knew so much. “Alison insisted that she take it off. Mother did, and they fought. Mother defeated her. But …”
Merlin slowed his pace and closed his eyes. “But when her back was turned, Alison came at her with a knife,” he finished, as if he’d been there himself. “She ruthlessly murdered her own sister. Your mother should have been more careful around her. Alison has always been untrustworthy.”
“Why did she do it?” I asked. “She said she wanted the power, that it should have been hers. But to kill her own sister? Why?”
Merlin abruptly stopped walking. After a few moments, he let out a long slow sigh, then whirled around and began stalking back the way we’d come.
I scuttled after him, confused. We were going back? Why? “Aren’t we going to your home?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to train me in how to be the Red Hood?”
“We have other things to attend to first,” he muttered. “Does your grandmother know that Alison is the one who killed Adela?”
I frowned. Why would that have mattered? Dead was dead, was it not? I hadn’t wanted to cause my grandmother even more pain by telling her what happened. What could be worse than losing a child, except knowing that you’d lost one of your children to the other? “No,” I said bluntly.
“And your mother’s battle axe. Where is it? Surely you brought that with you.”
I nearly stopped in m
y tracks. Merlin’s mind moved too quickly for me to keep up. “The battle axe? No. The house was burned. Any weapons that we had burned with it.”
He was silent then, and we rushed through the woods, back toward my grandmother’s house. Within moments we had returned to the small cottage in the woods. The rounded door at the front was still standing open as we’d left it, and I could see figures moving inside.
I took a deep, heaving breath, counting on the hood’s power to tell me what lay inside the cottage. This time, I smelled only bread baking and the faint hint of lavender. I heard the sound of a broom sweeping across the stone floor, and I saw smoke coming from the chimney. Grandmère had lit a fire, then, and they were straightening up.
There was no one in there but my grandmother and Théodore. I let out the breath I’d been holding and felt my shoulders relax. Yes, it had been a terrible morning, but for now they were safe.
When we entered the house again, I saw that they’d also been busy. The chairs had been put back in their rightful places, and a merry fire burned in the hearth, shooting out sparks and pops when it hit a spot of sap in the wood. Grandmère was wielding the broom as if it were a weapon, attacking the residue of hair that Bernard had left behind. On the other side of the room, despite his wounds, Théodore scrubbed at the stains in the floor with a wet rag, slowly working the bloody marks out of the stone.
Before long, it would look as though nothing had happened there.
My grandmother glanced up at us, a smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Back already?” she asked. “That didn’t take long.”
“The child has information that you must hear,” Merlin told her. “And there are things we must discuss, given this … turn of events.”
