by Jeff Wheeler
He yelps and bucks. Logan presses his advantage and regains his feet. In a blur, Logan strikes and silences Tawny. Logan’s muzzle is dripping with blood. I meet his gaze and can tell by his expression that he’s sickened and sad. He’s not a killer, but Tawny forced him to be one. Why couldn’t he just leave Logan alone?
I’d asked my foster father the same thing. He said I was too irresistible so I ran away when I turned sixteen, removing the temptation. I’d thought I was smart, but no one knows about his inability to resist. It’s been two years. What if he has a new foster child? Staring at Tawny’s ripped throat, I realize a person has to stay and fight until there’s a clear winner and loser or else your problems don’t ever go away.
The burning pain in my arm snaps me back to my current problems. I inspect the damage. Ragged, bleeding flesh too mangled for eighty-proof and Band Aids, but I don’t have another option. Once Logan’s cleaned up—his stitches have ripped again—and hidden under the blanket, I hurry to the Humane Shelter.
Lily’s working late and I suspect she’s there for me. She sends a couple volunteers to pick up the sleeping Wolfhounds. I return the tranquilizer gun.
“A pack of wild dogs that are all the same breed is so unusual,” she says. “Usually they’re a bunch of mongrels.” She slaps her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean—”
I smile. “I know. Nothing wrong with mongrels.”
Lily sees my arm and insists I go to the emergency room. I almost laugh. Invisible on the streets, I’m nonexistent in an ER. No money. No insurance. They’d fix a cockroach’s broken leg before attending to me. I lie and say I’ll go, but she sees right through me. Despite my protests, she escorts me to the ER and stays until I’m seen. The ER doctor gives me thirty-two stitches. Funny how the number of stitches is always reported like it’s a source of pride.
* * *
By the next day, my life returns to; well, not normal, but back to the same—taking care of the pups. Logan is healing faster than me and eating like a horse. I feed him my share most days. Don’t matter to me, my stomach’s upset anyways. Tomorrow—one week after I found Logan—I’m gonna tell the authorities about my foster father.
I’d rather face a pack of wild dogs, but I’m determined to grab the man by the throat and not let go, finally doing what I should have done two years ago.
* * *
Five days later, Logan takes off and doesn’t return. The hurt cuts deep and reminds me of how I’d felt moving from one foster home to another. Crazy lady that I am, I’d been talking to him about the police and the lawyers and the questions. No one is quick to believe me, and I don’t have much proof so it’s been rougher than I thought. Somehow telling my problems to Logan made the whole ordeal bearable.
But he’s gone, and my resolve to go after my foster father wavers. But there is also a tiny bit of relief inside me. Keeping the Wolfhound fed was hard. And with one of life’s little twists of fate and timing, I find the missing black lab after Logan left. Lily handles the reward money. Without Logan to feed, there’s plenty of money to keep my pups in Science Diet.
Three—maybe four weeks after the night I helped Logan, a stranger enters the parking lot. Wearing blue jeans and a leather motorcycle jacket, he doesn’t hesitate, heading right for my bridge. His black hair hangs in layers to his shoulders, and his stride is familiar.
I’m searching my memories to place him when my pups race toward him. Good. Except they don’t bite him. They dance around, tails wagging and yipping in excitement. He crouches down and pets them! I grab my bat.
He glances up as I swing and dodges the bat with ease. Strike one. I pull back for another.
“Mongrel, stop,” he says. “It’s me.”
I freeze and study him. He’s a few years older than I am, about six feet tall and lean. Good looking enough to attract the girls. His gray eyes don’t belong in the face of a man though.
He opens his jacket, and pulls his collar down, showing me an almost healed scar on his right shoulder. “Fifteen stitches.”
I lower the bat. “Logan.”
“Yep.”
He moves closer and I back up. Logan pauses. “You weren’t afraid of five werewolves, but you’re scared of me?”
Werewolves. Saying the word out loud made it real. Before I could explain them away as really smart mixed breeds.
“Guess I’m better at trusting...werewolves than men,” I say.
“One man dooms the whole species?”
“What about the guy...wolf after you?”
“He wanted to be in charge.”
“And that’s my point. Dogs...or wolves’ll fight it out. One dominates and the other slinks away. The human side of him tried to cheat. Right?”
Logan says nothing.
“He used a knife and then returned with a gun. Very un-wolf like behavior.”
“Let me prove to you we’re not all bad.”
“Why?”
“You saved my life three times.”
I tap the bat against my leg. “So buy me a couple bags of Science Diet and we’ll call it even.”
“No. I owe you much more than that.”
He’s serious and I suspect stubborn as well. “Go away, Logan. You don’t belong here,” I say.
“Neither do you.”
I huff and squash the sudden desire to take another swing at his head. He thinks my silence is an agreement ‘cause he’s now standing a foot away. And my heart’s acting like it’s scared. I expect him to crinkle his nose at the smell of dog on my clothes or for him to try to hide his disgust at my unkempt appearance.
Instead he takes my hand in his and pushes my right sleeve up with his other one, exposing the jagged purple scars on my wrist and forearm. I didn’t heal as fast nor as well as he did. Logan traces them with a finger.
A strange teeter totter of emotions fills me. My first impulse is to flinch away from his touch, but his familiar scent triggers fond memories of the big Wolfhound I cared for.
Logan taps his thumb on my arm. “You’ve been bitten by a werewolf deep enough for his saliva to mix with your blood.”
“So?”
He quirks a smile. “You accepted our existence with ease, yet you don’t know the legends.”
I gesture to his shoulder. “I believe what I see.”
“You’ve been infected, but one bite isn’t enough to change you into a werewolf.” All humor is gone as he stares at me with a sharp intensity. “For you to become one of us, a bite from two different werewolves within a month is required.”
He turns my arm over, revealing the light underside. His canines elongate. “I’ve never offered this to anyone, and it’s a hell of a way to repay your kindness, but it seemed...right. Interested?”
My mind races. He’s giving me a choice. “What about my pups?”
Another smile. “Only you would think of them first. They can stay with you.”
“Here?”
“No. My pack has a network of places. We try and keep a low profile, but we’ll support you in going after your foster father.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll be part of mine and I protect mine.”
I grin at the familiar words.
Logan adds, “It’s not an easy life, and there is no cure. No going back. We don’t belong to the human world or the wolf world.”
“So you’re a bunch of mongrels?”
“Yep.”
“Then I’ll fit right in.” I raise my arm to his mouth, and he sinks his teeth into my flesh.
About Maria V. Snyder
Meteorologist turned novelist, Maria’s been writing fantasy and science fiction stories since she was bored at work and needed something creative to do (shhh…don’t tell!). Fifteen novels and numerous short stories later, Maria's learned a thing or three about writing. She’s been on the New York Times bestseller list, won a half-dozen awards, and has earned her Masters of Arts degree in Writing from Seton Hill University where she's been happily teaching
and mentoring students in the MFA program.
THE DRAGON BETWEEN WORLDS
By T.E. Bradford | 8,500 words
- 1 -
“He’s a devil.”
“He’s a maester, and just what the boy needs. Training and discipline.”
“I don’t like it. The others won’t go near him. It’s no wonder he has no servants or acolytes.”
“He’s willing to pay, which is more than can be said of any others. Besides”—he drained his mug, banging it down onto the table—“what other offers have we gotten?”
In his hidden spot crouched on the grass outside the window, Cyril’s hands balled into fists. He knew his father thought he was a failure. In spite of doing his best in all of his classes, none of the maesters had taken him as an acolyte. He wondered which one it was his father spoke of.
“They whisper that he calls on the dark magic.”
There was a beat of silence. “The wagging tongues of cleaning women.”
“Who have seen what is kept in the dark.”
“Enough!”
The roar made Cyril flinch, even though he was safely out of sight.
“Ye’ll keep yer tongue!”
The pounding footsteps that accompanied the growl filled in the scene well enough. His father would be looming over his mother, eyes red and face dark. His mother would be looking to one side. She knew better than to look him in the eye.
“I will not have you filling this house with gossip and lies.” A fist landed on something, likely the counter. “He’s offered to take the boy, and I’ve accepted. There’ll be no more discussion on the matter.”
Cyril felt a mix of fear and excitement fill him.
“Besides, it’ll do the boy good to be out from under yer wings. Ye’ve coddled him long enough.”
Footsteps, this time moving away, meant the tirade would not escalate, at least for now. He let out a breath of relief. Then soft sounds reached his ears. His mother was crying. He started to stand up, to go and comfort her, but stopped. His father thought he was too soft. That he needed to be more of a man. Maybe his mother did coddle him. Was that why none of the maesters had wanted him?
He felt guilty for thinking such thoughts about his mother. She had always been good to him. She’d tried to keep the worst of his father’s anger away from him when she could. But when she cried, he felt strange inside. His father hated crying. That was why his mother did it only when he wasn’t there to see. She hid her tears from his father. He wished she hid it from him too. It made her seem weak.
Maybe she was making him weak too.
He backed away quietly, careful not to step on any twigs or branches that might betray his presence. When he was far enough away from the house, he turned and ran. The feel of the grass whipping at his legs, of the air buffeting his face, soothed him. He ran until his legs felt unsteady and his lungs burned. When he could go no farther, he collapsed onto the ground, letting the grass and dirt cool him. He rolled onto his back and looked up into the sky. Clouds turned into shapes as he watched them. A pig shifted into a lion. A duck into an eagle.
These are omens, he decided. I will become something powerful. Something great. I will show them who I am. Whoever this maester is, I will stand beside him and learn all that he knows and more. I will be the best acolyte they have ever known, and then I will become a maester too. The greatest ever.
They whisper that he calls on the dark magic. He recalled his mother’s voice in his head.
The idea of it sent a thrill through him. What did it mean, dark magic? What did it do? Could it call up demons and devils? Destroy cities?
His father was probably right. It was all just gossip from old women. Even as a student he constantly heard them chattering in the kitchens and in the halls. Most of the time it was just silly prattle about this couple or that leader or something they’d seen or heard. He’d never paid it much mind.
Above him, a cloud that looked like a lizard elongated, growing a great head and a roaring mouth.
A dragon!
He wondered if dragons had dark magic or not. Did they even exist? The old books at school said they had once, but that was long ago. Now they were just legends and dust.
He sat up, plucking a stone out of the grass and throwing it as far as he could.
Who cared what kind of magic the maester practiced? Either way, it was power, and that was something that could be learned. He would go, and he would be a good acolyte. He would learn, and if the maester did have some dark power, Cyril would find a way to have it too.
- 2 -
The wagon rocked as it rolled over the old dirt track. In the bed, two small crates contained all of Cyril’s clothes, along with his sturdy boots. He’d tucked his one and only prized possession into a sock at the bottom so that his father wouldn’t find it. He would disapprove.
“You remember to do good work for the maester,” his father said, looking over at him with eyes that were such a light shade of blue they looked almost like the ice that formed on the river in winter. “He’s paid good money.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yer mother fill your head with idle gossip, boy?”
He shook his head no. She hadn’t. Not really. He’d only heard it because he was listening in. That was a much graver offense, and one he wasn’t about to disclose.
“Good.” His father looked forward again. “She’s not like us, boy.”
He wasn’t sure what his father meant, but kept quiet. It was always best not to say anything when he wasn’t sure what would make his father mad.
“Some folks frown on Destructive,” he went on. “Like it’s not as good as Creative or Neutral, but that’s far from the truth.”
He glanced over at his son again, and Cyril saw something he’d never seen in his father’s eyes before: excitement.
“You may not understand now, but you will. Destructive can do things others can’t. You watch the maester, and watch well. If you’re careful, you may find there are things you can learn that will serve you in ways you never imagined.”
Cyril had seen a lot of looks on his father’s face, but the one he saw next was the most frightening. The sides of his face stretched into a feral grin, lips spread back to reveal teeth that were yellowed by time and drink. His eyes glittered. The effect was terrifying.
As if the sun agreed, it went behind a cloud, casting a pall over the otherwise bright morning. Thankfully, the rest of the ride was mostly silent. They rode south, crossing the Casca River at a small bridge. As the sun neared its zenith, the heat reflecting off the ground in waves, they crested a ridge above a small valley. There was only one building, but the sight of it brought both of them to a halt as the horses shied nervously.
Made entirely of rock, it looked as if the earth had buckled upward, spewing out the foundation beneath it, erupting into the sky in razor-tipped fingers and jumbled deformities.
What maester is this?
His father flicked the traces several times before the horses were convinced to keep moving, dancing nervously down the slope toward the monstrosity. When they reached the bottom of the hill, the horses refused to go any farther, rearing up when lashed. They were not willing to get any closer to the unnatural place that loomed ahead. Swearing softly, his father set the brake and jumped down.
“We’ll walk from here.”
Each of them carried one of the crates. In spite of the heat of the sun and the weight of their burden, Cyril felt chilled. When they passed into the shadow of the rock, his fingers went cold. Up close, the rock looked even more bizarre, mottled and whorled as if melted and somehow resolidified. The front door was a solid slab of wood that looked thicker than most trees. He stared at it, his mouth hanging open, as a voice from inside beckoned them to enter.
“Maester Griven,” his father said with a curt nod of the head.
Griven? Cyril had never heard of him.
“Come.” The voice emanated from the shadows at the back of the room.
His father set the crate down to one side of the door, so Cyril followed his lead. The enormity of the space became apparent as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a cavern, somehow aboveground. Glittering geodes in a dozen colors reflected from the ceiling that soared overhead. It was an impressive sight.
“Bring him here.”
His father turned to him and waved a hand. “Go on, then.”
Cyril took a few hesitant steps, his feet freezing, as a tall, dark shadow separated from the darkness and glided toward him. The maester’s eyes were the same color as the rock. He had no hair. Instead, designs covered his scalp, the pigment of them a deep reddish brown. Cyril watched, mesmerized and horrified as a skeletal hand reached out to grip his left shoulder. The fingers were surprisingly strong, pressing into his skin, but he never had a chance to register the discomfort. Immediately on contact, his head exploded with pain. Crawling, slithering worms seemed to be invading his brain, tearing into it. His mouth opened to scream.
Griven dropped his hand, and the sensation stopped as quickly as it had begun. The pain in Cyril’s head evaporated. The maester turned to Cyril’s father.
“He’ll do.”
Cyril blinked, a wave of nausea rolling through him.
Griven held out a small bag. His father took it with another nod, then turned to go. Cyril watched, eyes wide, as his father headed for the door. Whatever this man was, whatever this place, he would be staying here. He would not be going home to his mother, or his bed, or the fields of tall grasses on the plains.
At the last moment, his father stopped and looked back at him. Cyril fought the urge to run, his body trembling.
“Learn,” his father said, as if that one word conveyed all that was needed.
Then he was gone, and the door swung home, taking the light of the outside world with it, leaving Cyril trapped inside the great tomb of rock.
- 3 -
