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After Blaez had gotten her cleaned up, he stripped the bed of the blood-soaked linens and burned them—he would not be able to sleep on those sheets even if they could be cleaned. He dressed Ana, who was still catatonic, in fresh clothes and gave her a drink to soothe her insides—tea with whiskey to ease the mental and physical pain. She drank silently. It prevailed for three days before he finally suggested they speak to someone who could help. If Ana wanted a child, Blaez would do what he could to get it for her.
That was when he found the young woman, the daughter of a witch, who called herself Juniper.
Blaez snapped out of his memory and focused on the reality he was being forced to face—his wife, bedridden and near death based on her emaciated cheekbones and the dried blood crusted at the corners of her lips. Blaez knew he needed to take drastic measures to cure her of what ailment she caught while he was away. I cannot leave her like this.
Not caring if her sickness was contagious, he knelt by the side of the bed and brushed the sweat-matted hair out of Ana’s face, gently speaking her name to get her attention.
“Blaez?” she croaked.
“Ana.” He breathed in relief. She was still conscious. Disappointment laughed at him deep down.
“Ana, tell me what has happened.”
“Help…” She winced in pain, then forced her eyes open to look at him. Her cracked white lips parted; her breath reeked of vomit. “G-go to…her.”
Blaez didn’t need to ask who she meant. He thought of the unused brew he spent his last coin on all those years ago. The thought of it soured his thoughts. This year had not proven bountiful, but everyone knew the witch dealt in more than coin. He wondered what this was going to cost him.
He brushed her hair back again, then stood to fetch a bucket of water. He warmed it over the fire, then with a dampened cloth, he cleaned Ana’s face, dabbing away at blood-streaked vomit residue. Panic struck him, but he kept his face calm so he wouldn’t scare her. She had to be scared already; who knew how long she had been in such a wretched state.
After he cleaned her up, he draped her with a blanket to make her comfortable, swapped out the bucket, and left her a cup of water. There was no time to waste, for half the day had already come and gone. Blaez put on his coat. He placed a gentle hand on Ana’s shoulder, then leaned down to kiss her forehead. A swell of love filled him, and he knew that he would not leave her, no matter how hard she hit him, no matter what vicious words she would spit at him as soon as she could. He was weak, he knew, but he prided himself on knowing his love for her was strong and undying.
Yet the hatred still lingered, lurking beneath the love. He would not allow it to surface; he would not allow her to see it during her moments of weakness. He forced it down, accepting that he did love Ana.
“I will fix this,” he whispered before he left.
28
SILVANIA
THE YEAR OF THE MOON
THE WOLF
He stood before the skeleton of a house, ominous in the woods. It reminded him of another home—one he’d last seen long ago but still burned clearly in his memory. A similarly tall structure, crooked from years of neglect, blackened over time… How eerily similar it was to the derelict house Azalea had lived in. It made him shudder. He glanced at the young woman dressed in a red cloak, realizing there was no going back from this—for either of them.
Perhaps it will be easier this way. If what she told him was true, that this woman was evil…maybe it would come naturally to him. All I have to do is shut my eyes and pretend it’s Azalea. Would it be easier?
No, it wouldn’t.
“Are you sure about this?”
She looked at him. “I have never been so sure about anything in my life.”
She doesn’t understand what comes after killing—the guilt, the self-loathing, the nightmares. He wanted to protect her from it. Some people got blood on their hands and liked the taste of it—he couldn’t allow her to go down that path. He spent four hundred years trying to forget what he had done; when had he last slept without nightmares?
He realized, as he looked at the young woman who looked so much like Ana that he didn’t know what to call her. “What is your name?”
“Red.” She smiled. “Have you remembered yours?”
He dug for the answer, but it refused to surface. All the killing, all the dead… I remember every one of them. With each person slaughtered by his hand, he lost a part of himself. He no longer knew how to identify. I am nothing more than the Wolf. He shook his head in response.
How many years had he spent living as one? Shifting into that beastly form, letting his animal instincts take over? No matter what form he took, it was the loneliness that plagued him. As a man, he was not welcome in the town; he could not even step foot over its border unless called upon as the Wolf, and then only to kill. In Wolf-form, no other packs welcomed him; his presence had long since driven any other wolves out of the area. He sensed them creeping along the edges of the forest, waiting for him to leave so they could return. But he was tethered here by the scroll; wherever it went, so did he.
Red walked up the stairs and placed her hand on the doorknob. He made a swift movement and was at her side in an instant, his hand atop hers to stop her from twisting it.
“You cannot change my mind,” she said. “All you can do is help me—or leave.”
He frowned. To kill one more person, someone who Red claimed was evil, would hopefully not take anything more from him. There was scarcely anything left to take. He would take the blame, as he always did. The chill from her skin crawled into him from where their hands touched, and he dropped his hand.
