Constable McDonaugh rolled, popping back up with his Irish battle-axe in hand—just as the she-wolf leaped in. It was a blur of motion and the other two men were too far away to do anything as he ducked under another swipe of the deadly claws. He rolled in closer, burrying his axe in the creature’s side. The she-wolf shrieked and raked her claws across his chest. The Constable bore the wound and moved inside the reach of the claws, grappling with the much larger creature. Van Helsing had been momentarily paralyzed at the sight of his childhood nightmares come to life. The Constable wouldn’t stand a chance if he didn’t do something fast.
The wolf-hunter lifted the patch from his right eye and used the power of the demon hand to focus the full force of the curse on the she-wolf. The effect was almost immediate. Her wounds healed slower and the she-wolf shook her head in an attempt to clear the shroud of confusion settling on her mind. Constable McDonaugh landed several powerful punches to the animal’s ribs and she seemed unsure how to fight back.
Then her clawed hand found the axe handle and pulled the weapon out with an enormous gush of blood. She tried to throw the weapon aside, but the curse caused the handle to slip and she slit her wrist with the blade instead. The Constable dove to retrieve the weapon, but the she-wolf kicked him in the side, sending him backward.
The Inspector seized the moment for a clear shot, firing both shells of his shotgun into the werewolf’s chest. The she-wolf fell back into the tree behind her in a spray of blood and slowly slid down to the ground. The sight spurred Van Helsing into action. He ran over to see if the Constable was still alive while the Inspector reloaded.
Black, sticky blood covered the Constable’s chest and stomach. But he still had some fight left in him and was struggling to sit up. Van Helsing pulled the man to his feet, removing his sash and wrapping it around his wounds. “I told you the Vârcolac was real. Do you believe me now?”
Constable McDonaugh winced in pain. “I’ll never doubt you again, Doctor.” A look of fear suddenly crossed the man’s face and Van Helsing followed his eyes to the hairy form against the tree.
The creature was not dead. The healing had slowed from the effects of blood loss and the curse, but it had not stopped completely. The hairy shoulders of the beast were convulsing and a single red eye opened. The she-wolf growled in fury and the powerful arms lifted its torso off the ground. Van Helsing could see the buckshot dripping out of the creature’s chest as she healed. The cut in her side had also closed up leaving a jagged scar.
The she-wolf was up on her feet in a flash and charging. Another blast from the Inspector’s shotgun hit her leg, slowing her just enough for them to survive the attack. The creature’s leg buckled and she fell awkwardly into them. All three sprawled on the ground. Van Helsing struggled to rise and reached for his repeating crossbow. Constable McDonaugh bought him the time he needed, pulling a large belt knife and drove it into the werewolf’s neck.
A choking-whistling noise escaped her throat. Then she returned the favor and bit deeply into McDonaugh’s neck with her sharp jaws. The chain around the man’s neck broke. Helsing peppered the she-wolf’s back with bolts from his repeating crossbow and she released him, but it was too late. The Constable sank to his knees, blood spurting from the grievous wound. He did not try to staunch the flow of blood, but instead searched the grass desperately for his broken chain. He found the small sack and removed the picture inside. Gently caressing the blurry image with bloody fingers, he rasped out a few words, “My Abiageal. I’m sorry…” His eyesight faded to darkness as he lay down on his side, holding the picture close to his face as he died.
The werewolf turned to receive three more bolts in her chest and stomach. She bellowed in pain, ripping out some and ignoring others as she advanced on the Doctor. Another set of dual-round shells blasted into her side from the Inspector’s shotgun. The impact staggered her and she stopped her advance to turn towards the Inspector as he fumbled to reload his weapon.
Van Helsing saw in a daze of horror that all of the wounds on her back were still slowly closing. The standard ammunition was not enough to stop the creature. With her attention turned to the Inspector, Van Helsing had time to discard his crossbow and draw the Damascus-steel longsword at his back. With a yell, he rushed the Vârcolac and swung the blade two-handed. With all his might, he cut in a downward arch below her knee—completely severing the limb just above the calf.
The she-wolf howled in pain and fell to the ground. Van Helsing wasted no time and removed another of the Demon Fire torches from his coat. He stabbed his blade into the werewolf’s shoulder and through to the ground, pinning her in place. Then he snapped off the fuse, lit the torch, and plunged the wooden handle into her eye. He barely had time to turn away and fling himself to the ground before the creature’s head exploded. The Demon Fire engulfed the hairy body with a sickening smell and searing heat.
CHAPTER 20.
Y
UEXIU FOREST
An eastern breeze shook the thin bamboo leaves of the Yuexiu Forest. Dorian awoke on the leave-matted forest floor to the sound of the bamboo stalks clacking together. His nakedness itched with a thick layer of caked blood. He no longer questioned unexpectedly waking in the wilderness surrounded by blood. Instead, he met the thought with a grim acceptance. His memory of the previous night capered on the edge of his awareness like a foggy dream, swaying in and out of reality. Dark images flashed behind his eyes; he looked down at the grimy red fingernails of his hands.
The werewolf must have done something terrible last night. Dorian could not think of himself as the werewolf—no, it was a different creature with its own thoughts and desires. The last thing he remembered was fighting to maintain control of his very existence as agonizing pain ripped through his body. He had failed, his soul imprisoned in a dark cell once more. The terrible monster escaped yet again. He had thrown his will against the bars of that cage to no avail. This time, his efforts had allowed him only enough control to see glimpses through the werewolf’s eyes as if through a gaoler’s window.
That had been worse than seeing nothing at all. The werewolf had reveled in the slaughter. Dorian saw women and small children butchered along with countless Qing soldiers. He retched on the moss-covered ground. He must stop the beast, somehow. He could not let it win. Briefly, he thought of taking his own life. Then he discarding the notion. It seemed a coward’s way out, and it might not even be possible. His body healed too rapidly now. He was not ready to give up on life. No, he needed to be free of the werewolf in some other way.
Dorian rose and walked through the bamboo until he reached a small stream. He cleaned himself and followed the source of the water uphill where it led to a large clearing amidst the trees. In the center of the clearing was a small farm with bamboo-woven walls and a gabled bamboo-slat roof. A pair of yoked oxen worked together in the fields, though their driver was missing. He took one step towards the farmhouse when an arrow sank into the ground just a meter in front of him.
The missing farmer emerged from the trees a short distance away armed with a wooden bow and a full quiver of arrows. He was dressed in a common dark blue tunic and simple gray pants coated with a layer of tan mud. His rolled sleeves revealed bulging arms from a lifetime of clearing and tilling the fields, but he held his bow in a steady hand and assumed the stance of an experienced hunter. He wore a black cap on his head with a single long braid protruding down the back. The strength of the man seemed to war with the age hinted at by his long gray beard.
The man nocked another arrow and drew back the bow halfway. “Wàiguó rén…what are you doing here? And where are your clothes?”
Dorian stunned to hear his language from the Chinese farmer, raised his hands in a sign of peace. He bowed deeply as he had seen other Chinese do in greeting. “I mean you no harm. I was with the English near Canton before our camp was attacked. I suppose I did not stop to think about clothes as I ran away. How did you come to learn my language so well?”
The man caut
iously lowered the bow, but kept it at the ready. “A deserter then. Lucky for you not all men follow the Qing dynasty. One of your English Priests raised me in Nanjing after my parents died. When I was old enough I joined the Taiping army and fought with them in Jintian.”
Dorian gave a low breath of relief to hear there was a chance he might not end up filled with arrows. “Then you are of the same mind as the English and French.”
The warrior-turned-farmer lowered his bow. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. My name is Feng Long. Come with me to my Wū and I will find you some clothes.”
Dorian waited outside the farmer’s home, naked as a newborn babe. Feng finally returned with a pair of pants and coarse tunic similar to his own. Dorian nodded his thanks as he accepted the clothes and began to dress. Movement in the small window of the Wū caused him to pause and look up. There was a young girl watching from the window.
Feng followed his gaze. “Shen! I told you to stay in your room.” He hurried inside to shoo his daughter away. A moment later, the man returned. “Forgive my daughter’s disrespect. She has never seen an Englishman before…particularly a naked one.”
Dorian shifted from foot to foot in awkward unease. That evening, he met the teenage girl who had snuck a look at his nakedness and it was her turn for embarrassment. The three sat cross-legged on a hay-covered bamboo floor. They ate a modest meal of rice and pork dumplings at a low table.
Shen did not dare to raise her eyes once during dinner and instead focused on her bowl and chopsticks. He gazed at her smooth dark hair, the front and sides braided up and held together with a three-bead clasp. She wore the back of her hair down, with two long, thin braids pulled forward over her shoulders and small breasts. Despite her bowed head, Dorian could see that the girl was beautiful. Her porcelain skin flushed at the cheeks and he could just make out the bridge of a delicate, thin nose and chin.
Shen gracefully lifted a dumpling to her mouth and bit down, exposing soft pink lips. He imagined the girl to have seductive almond-shaped eyes.
“Wàiguó rén, are you listening to me?”
Dorian blinked as if emerging from a daydream. He looked across the table in surprise at his host. Feng must have been speaking to him. “I am sorry, Feng. What were you saying?”
The man frowned in the direction of his daughter then flicked back to Dorian. “Tomorrow you will help me drive the oxen and plant the wheat field. You may bed down with the pigs until the planting is finished, but you must work for your food.”
Dorian bowed his head respectfully. “Shì, Feng. It is the least I can do to thank you for your Dikay.”
The clumsy attempt at Chinese earned a smile from the farmer. “I think you mean hospitality—Dài kè. Try it again.”
Dorian struggled with the pronunciation but gave it his best try. “Die cuoy.”
This earned a giggle from Shen. She raised her head for the first time and met his eyes with a mischievous smile. She spoke in a shy but cutting way. “Perhaps some time with the pigs will improve his speech.”
He had been wrong about the girl’s eyes. They were daring and intelligent, two dark pools of curiosity mixed with mockery.
Feng smacked his palm on the table. “Do not be rude to our guest, daughter.” He paused, pulling at his chin, as if wondering how far he could trust Dorian. “Well, since you have taken such an interest in our guest, you will teach him the language and show him how to care for the pigs.”
Shen bowed her head but struck back with her words. “It would take all day and night to teach such a slow-witted creature Putonghua.”
Feng crossed his arms sternly. “Very well, then you will also drive the oxen during the day as you conduct the lesson while the Wàiguó rén and I plant behind you.”
Shen’s cheeks flared pink with displeasure. “Yes, father.”
The next morning, Dorian awoke to a bucket of slop splashing next to his face. Shen feigned innocence as she emptied the rest of the bucket very precisely into the pig trough. “You will feed the hogs once in the morning with zhū pō—pig slop. Then you will collect their féiliào—manure, for use in the fields. It is a very expensive fertilizer, so make sure to use your hands when filling the manure baskets so you do not damage any. After dinner, you will feed the pigs the zhuōzi suìpiàn—table scraps.”
Dorian smiled and bowed at his first official lesson.
Shen pursed her lips. “Those three words should cover most of your needs.” She turned and stalked off to join her father in the fields.
The sun was just rising as Dorian came upon the pair as they were yoking the two oxen. He had gathered the manure into several large baskets and dragged them over one-by-one.
Feng swatted the backsides of the indifferent oxen to start their slow plod forward and sniffed the air. “About time. You smell like lā shǐ. Next time use the chā, it will be faster and cleaner.
Dorian realized Shen had tricked him. What did the girl have against him? She stifled another giggle. “See, father. He doesn’t even understand the word for pitchfork.”
Feng took the comment in stride as he removed his shirt and placed his shoes to the side. “Daughter, you will begin by teaching our guest the words for farming and the tools we use.”
Shen scowled as she violently kicked off her shoes, one sailing high into the air and landing in a small bush. Her feet were unbound and darkened from working the fields. She followed the oxen as they pulled the plow, occasionally smacking them with a small piece of bamboo when their pace slowed. Dorian noticed her peeking back at him as he removed his shirt.
He and Feng set to work, scattering wheat seeds behind the oxen and covering them with the pig manure. It was sweaty and repetitive work, but Dorian soon came to enjoy the rhythm of it and the sun on his skin. He repeated back the words for various farm implements for Shen, who would only glance his way when she thought he was not looking.
Later that night, he rummaged through the bushes until he found Shen’s discarded shoes. But instead of returning them to her, he fed them to the pigs. Dorian struggled to keep a straight face as her father delivered a lengthy lecture on the cost of shoes and her daughter’s wastefulness.
The rude morning awakenings and hard labor in the fields soon became a daily ritual with Dorian who was quickly increasing his Chinese vocabulary. What he looked forward to most were the evenings spent at the dinner table. The food alternated between vegetables grown on the farm, sticky rice or soft noodles, wheat bread, and the occasional pork. However, Shen had a gift for spices and soups. Every meal was unique.
As they drank their after-meal sharp green tea, Feng would tell stories about Chinese legends or the many battles in which he had fought. It was at these few times when Shen dropped her hostile exterior and would laugh and clap in response to the adventures that Feng spun into their imaginations.
One evening after Shen had gone to bed, Dorian dared to ask the old warrior why she hated him so.
Feng swirled his teacup thoughtfully before speaking. “It is not your fault. She mistrusts all men. She was only a small girl when soldiers in the Qing army raped and killed her mother in front of her. I was traveling with the Taiping army at the time. She survived on her own for ten days before her uncle came to check on them. She has never truly forgiven me for not being there to protect them. From that day forward, I left the service of the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace and have never left her side since.”
Suddenly the pigs outside set to squealing. Feng jumped up from the table. “Stay inside.” He grabbed his bow and the quiver of arrows and moved towards the door.
Dorian placed his hand on the man’s arm. “I can fight.”
“No, you must stay here with Shen and protect her. I will kill whatever is outside.”
Dorian nodded his ascent as Shen ran into the room. “Father, the pigs…” She cut off as she saw the bow in his hands.
The pigs squealing became frantic as a low growl sounded. “Shen, stay inside. Wàiguó rén, you will defend he
r.”
Dorian bowed his head. “With my life.”
“Father, no!” But he was already moving out the door, pausing only to pick up a small lantern.
Dorian closed the door behind him and strained his ears to hear what was happening outside. His heightened senses could make out the strum of a bowstring and the meaty thwack of an arrow striking flesh. A feline growl of fury burst through the calls of the swine.
The bow sang once more before Feng gave a warrior’s yell and charged into battle. Dorian shivered with indecision. Feng needed his help, but he had sworn to protect Shen.
Shen made the choice for him when she grabbed a knife from the table and ran towards the door. “If you won’t help him, then I will.”
Dorian followed close at Shen’s heels as she ran into the night, brandishing her small blade. Feng’s lantern lay partially crushed on the ground, still giving off some light. Feng grunted, locked in a wrestling hold with a huge leopard that had two arrows protruding from its back. The leopard must have come down from the forest and found the pigs to be easy prey. Feng was proving much more challenging for the large cat.
The leopard was dark yellow with black and brown spots. It hissed and bit down into Feng’s back with long canines. Its sharp claws tore bloody trenches across the man’s arms and chest as he thrashed for his life, howling in agony. His mud-caked tunic provided some protection, but it was evident that his strength was quickly fading. The leopard would have already killed him if not for the seven centimeters of steel blade jutting from the side of the cat’s jaw.
Dorian grabbed the small knife from Shen’s hand and threw it, spinning towards the leopard’s hindquarters. The animal snarled in pain as the blade sank into its leg. The large paw of the cat struck Feng on the side of his head. He fell to the ground as the big cat spun to face the new threat. Dorian ran headlong into the beast and dropped his shoulder as their bodies collided.
Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3 Page 26
