Mindlessly, wondering if I were being spelled by Ciaran but no longer caring, I repeated the ancient, frightening words. Before my eyes Ciaran began to change, but it was hard to say how—were his teeth sharper, longer? His hands curling into claws? Did I see a new, feral wildness in his eyes?
His voice was growing softer and softer, and I cast my senses out to hear the words so I could repeat them. Then I heard something that wasn't a word. It was… a sound and a shape and a color and a sigil, all at once. It was impossible to describe. No. It was Ciaran's true name, the name of his essence. I don't know how I recognized it… it was instinctive. I had learned Ciaran's true name, I thought hazily. That meant…
In the next second I gasped and bent double, racked with a searing, unexpected pain. I stared down my hands. They were changing. I was changing. I was shape-shifting into a wolf. Oh, god, help me.
I cried out, but my voice was already not my own. I dropped to my hands and knees, feeling the soft loam beneath me, barely aware of Ciaran changing slipping out of his clothes, revealing a thick black-and-silver coat. His intelligent hazel eyes looked at me from a wolf's face. I tried to scream in horror and pain, but my voice was strangled and broken. My body was in a rack, being forced to bend and curl in unnatural ways, as if every bone was being stretched or compressed or twisted in some incomprehensible nightmare. Helplessly whimpering, I closed my eyes and fell on my side, unable to fight or resist this overwhelming process. When Ciaran nuzzled me, I reluctantly opened my eyes again, and when I got up I was on all fours. I was a wolf. My fur was thick and russet colored. I looked down and saw four straight, strong paws tipped with sharp, non-retractable claws. I looked at Ciaran and recognized him: he was absolutely himself, yet he was a wolf. I felt absolutely myself, but as I began to cautiously examine my internal process, I felt quite different. Foreign. Like a wolf instead of a person. It was as if my humanness was a rope hammock that had come undone in one end, and I was now watching it unravel. Soon it would be completely gone. I had two thoughts: How would I get back? And what of my mission?
I stepped closer to Ciaran, my four legs moving smoothly, precisely, with no effort. I felt hw strong I was, how powerful—my jaws felt heavy, my legs were roped with lean muscle, and I was breathing easily, although the change had been horribly stressful. Ciaran opened his mouth in a sinister, wolfy grin, as if to say, Isn't it great? I grinned back at him and was awash with a sudden ecstasy and exhilaration that I was experiencing this. Instinctively I stepped closer to Ciaran and nuzzled his neck, and he returned it.
Then I remembered. The watch sigil. The wolf in me wanted to be running, to be away, to be coursing through the dark night. The last vestige of a human Morgan remembered the watch sigil. I pressed my face against Ciaran's thick neck fur and breathed the words of the spell against him. In a quick, desperate move I traced the sigil against his neck with my wet canine nose.
Ciaran made no response, as if he hadn't noticed, hadn't felt it. I had no idea whether or not it would «stick» since he was a changed being. Then Ciaran nudged me with his head and, turning, bounded off into the night. Feeling fiercely happy, all thoughts of Morgans and missions and spells gone, I leapt after him. My muscles contracted and expanded effortlessly; it was easy to catch up with him, and we loped along side by side as a million new sensations flooded my animal brain. With my magesight I could always see well in the dark, but now it was as if things were highlighted and outlined for me with infrared. With each indrawn breath a world of scent, flavors borne on the breeze, added an incredibly powerful, exciting beyond description.
When Ciaran looked back, I opened my mouth and showed him my pointy teeth. He had given me the gift of a lifetime, I knew. We ran for miles through the woods, leaving the cemetery behind, following scents, feeling the crisp air ruffling through our fur. I ran happily in Ciaran's paw prints, trying to soak up as much of this sensation as possible. I didn't know if it would ever happen again, and I wanted to relish every second.
I hadn't even begun to tire when Ciaran cantered to a halt and sniffed the air. Eagerly I stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and lifted my head. My eyes widened, and I looked at him, seeing the knowledge in his eyes. I smelled it too. Prey.
17. The Choice
Colin, I write to you in fevered hysteria. I learned only hours ago that Nuala is to be burned at the stake, in Barra Head. I can see that at last her devil's work has caught up to her, but the sentence! As Father Benedict himself said, God is to judge good and evil, not man! Cannot her soul yet be saved? Can no one bring her to the Lord's joy? It can be done only if she is alive—surely they must see that, Colin?
I have been insane with worry since receiving this news (news that I am sure I was not meant to know). My brain cannot comprehend her fate at the stake. And what of the child? I beg you, send to Barra Head and inquire. I know not the child's name, nor can I verify whether or not it still lives. But try, for my poor sake.
I will await your next post with all anxiety.
Simon Tor, to Colin, October 1771.
Prey. Oh, God. I was hit by a hunger so strong, it almost overwhelmed me. It was a bloodlust, an animal's need to kill or be killed, hunt or be hunted. I was a predator—an efficient, predestined killer—and the idea of prey made my stomach tighten in anticipation. I licked my lips and inhaled deeply, drawing the delicious scent into my lungs. It was almost familiar, a wonderful, maddening smell that I had to follow or die trying.
Without waiting for my father, I set off after the prey, my feet moving swiftly and silently over the detritus of the forest floor. Prey, prey, I thought. My prey. The scent swept through these woods, here touching a tree trunk, here brushed against leaves on the ground, here on the holly bush with their shiny, prickly leaves. Sometimes the trail doubled back on itself, and I circled trees in frustration until I found the one thread that was a fraction stronger. Then I was off again, moving like a wraith through the darkness, filtering out a thousand other scents: tree, loam, mold, bird, insect, deer, rabbit. But I focused on the one scent, that one tantalizing smell that made my mouth ache in longing.
I was barely aware of the other wolf, the black-and-silver one trotting behind me; I couldn't hear his breathing, and his paws made almost no sound.
Here I took a sharp right, and at once the scent became closer, stronger. I almost howled in excitement. Soon. Close. Mine. The next second I froze: there it was! The scent was washing over me now, the air woven through with it. It was close. With every breath I inhaled the promise of the joy of victory over a lesser being. It was beyond hunger, beyond desire, beyond want. My mouth was wet; my eyes were piercing the night. I scanned the woods all around me as the other wolf came to a silent stop next to me. Tree by tree by tree by bush by bush…it was close. It was within range.
There! There, forty feet away. My moving target, my destination, my fate. It was heading away from me, leaving an obvious trail to follow. I smiled. Without having to think, my muscles gathered and exploded, launching me into the night. The distance between us closed rapidly. I felt an intense, palpable hunger, a need to bring my prey down, to sink my sharp white teeth into its fresh, hot, salty blood. I whimpered with want and raced ahead.
With one more leap I would bring it down. My weight would knock it to the ground; it would be scared, confused; I would rip into its throat and not let go… the prey turned around and saw me rocketing toward it. Then it was on the move, charging away from me, running in zigzags, ducking below branches, crashing through the underbrush with as much noise as a tree falling heavily on the ground.