Sixty years later
3.
Stefan had been watching the swans for a week now, noting their patterns and habits and planning his attack.
The maidens were--of course--quite lovely and suitable for his purposes, with long, flowing hair and sensuous bodies, not that he cared about that. He was more interested in their skins. And now that he had watched them for a week, he knew their hiding places, and knew where to find them.
Without alerting the bathing swans to his presence, he crept to their hiding place and stole one of the swan skins from the shallow depression under a flat rock. By the time the chosen swan realized what had happened, it would be too late. And he would have another shapeshifter for his experiments, since he had yet to discover Gabriel's secrets.
Sometimes, he regretted refusing Magdalen. But with enough research--with enough time, he thought he could succeed, even though many years had already passed.
She had been right about one thing: He would not die in Faerie.
As the swans prepared to leave, he stroked the stolen skin. And as the transformed swans flew away, leaving one behind, panic-stricken, her pale hands clenched together; her eyes wide as she scanned the forest for any sign of the thief who had stolen her skin, Stefan wondered what her blood tasted like; this maiden, pure as new-fallen snow.
When he stepped out from behind his tree, she fell to her knees.
"Please--"
He had not heard them speak before. They had a language of their own, of course; most supernatural creatures did. But he should have realized that even the swan maidens would have been touched by the human world. Even the swan maidens spoke English.
"Come with me," he said, and pulled her to her feet. She stood, swaying, her gaze locked on the swan skin he held in his hand.
With deliberate slowness, Stefan tucked it away under his shirt, snug against his skin. "Come with me or I will destroy it," he said, and took her arm when she made no move to approach him.
She trembled at his touch, her eyes awash with tears now, and they spilled down her cheeks like liquid diamonds. "Oh, please--"
Stefan had read the stories, and he knew what she expected him to do. Steal her away, like some sort of chattel; rape her, perhaps, so she would bear his children. Swan maidens--according to the stories, at least--were prized as wives. They never complained; they rarely spoke in their own defense. In fact, they were little more than slaves to the men who captured them, until that man grew fat and lazy and his supernatural wife discovered where he had hidden her skin.
That's where the stories differed. And despite the fact that swans were notoriously strong, Stefan could not find himself willing to believe that this pale girl was capable of killing him.
Quickly, lest they be seen by someone who would interfere, he led her through the forest to the house he had found as a ruin--a former wizard's retreat that now served his needs and allowed him to continue his research in peace. The elves weren't very happy at his presence, but they did not bother him. If they knew about his prisoner, they might have taken notice and tried to drive him out, but no one had come after the boy he had found in the forest, and no one would try to rescue his new plaything, either.
He left her in a spare room and locked the door. If he dared, he would kill her, but he had found out the hard way that death negated the effects of the shapeshifter's skin. That product of his failure lay under six feet of earth in the human realm, his bones mouldering, his skin burned. Stefan still remembered those stinking flames--and the taste of that boy's fresh blood.
Brenna whined at him as he strode past, an obvious question in her gaze. He ignored her, his mind intent on the swan skin that lay warm against his skin. He had rejected Magdalen's offer, confident that he would eventually discover Gabriel's secret.
Sometimes, he regretted that decision.
One week later, he was no closer to finding the secret. The boy in the dungeons had lapsed into delirium, and the swan girl hid from his rages, refusing to answer his questions.
A large piece of his mind realized that she probably didn't know the answer to his questions, but that did not bring him any relief. By the time he decided to try another approach with the girl, her pale skin was marked with bruises.
"I only wish to understand," he said. "How is it that you have a skin and I do not?"
She was curled up against the wall, tears fresh on her cheeks, her arms raised to protect her head. But when he asked his question, she raised her head and stared at him warily.
But she made no response until he shifted shape to show her. And then--almost fatally, for he had to hold himself back so not to tear out her throat--she laughed at him.
"You think I can help you understand?" Her laughter faded in the face of his growl, but the damage had been done. "You will have to ask the one who made you what you are," she said, dismissing him as wholly as a Queen would dismiss a lowly servant. "I cannot give you what you lack."
That night, he hunted one of her kin, tore out its throat, and threw the body at her feet.
"Tell me."
Her voice did not waver as she stared at the dead swan. "I have nothing to tell you."
Perhaps she thought that he would kill her if she held no importance to him. But Stefan had no other options, and she did not seem to realize that. Yet.
The second night, he threw the wolf skin at her feet. "I can use this--why can't I use your skin?"
Her recoil was so slight--so fleeting--that he thought that inadvertent movement was a mere shadow, at first. "If his kin find you, they will tear the flesh from your bones."
Stefan shrugged. "I found him at the bottom of a cliff with a broken leg," he said. "He was not born a wolf."
Her chin lifted, ever so slowly. "But I was born a swan," she said, staring at him with a challenge in her gaze. "You were born human, were you not?"
Stefan raised his hand to strike her, but this time she did not flinch back from the threat. "Yes. I was," he said. "But I need to know your secret."
She shook her head. "It is not my secret you need to know."
And perhaps that was true, but he could not search out Gabriel and expect to discover his secrets without a fight that he would most assuredly lose.
If his only other option was to slink back into Magdalen's embrace, he thought he would rather die. Surely, there had to be another way to uncover Gabriel's secret.
"Your wolf--is he still alive?" She touched the wolf skin, then withdrew her hand as if she feared the toothless head would bite.
"He was alive two days ago," Stefan said. "And he'll stay alive until I no longer need his skin." He purposely roughened his voice to show her just how little respect he held for the lives of his prisoners.
She flinched this time, but recovered quickly, and gathered the skin into her arms. "You said he had a broken leg--did you heal it?"
"No."
"And you expect him to live?" Her eyes narrowed. "Let me see him, at least--Perhaps I could help him--"
Stefan turned his back, remembering only when something growled behind him that she still had the wolf skin.
And perhaps swans were more dangerous than he had thought. He turned to face her again, shifting shape as she threw herself at him, her teeth bared--all wolf, this one, no sign of the timid maiden in her gaze now.
But despite the skin she had donned, she did not know how to fight as a wolf. And it was only a matter of moments--a quick and doomed fight--before Stefan had her throat between his teeth.
If he held Gabriel's secret, he could have turned her into a Hound and forced her to obey him. But since he did not, he shifted shape, tore the skin from her body, and watched, silent, as she curled up on the floor and vomited up what little food he had given her.
"If you wish to fight your way free of me, you'll have to try harder than that," Stefan said, and wadded the wolfskin into a ball. "Your attempt will cost you, my dear. I have no patience for betrayal."
For the next five nights, he brought her a swan. Twice, he tore off their skins and killed them in human form; once he caught a young boy, an anomaly, since male swans were rare. The boy fought, and died, just like the others, and Stefan used their skins to fashion a swan skin cloak.
He did not stay to hear his captive's pleas until the sixth night--the swans were becoming cautious now and trying to hide from his hunting.
"What do you want?" she cried as he pushed a little girl into the room--hardly old enough to be a swan, in truth. "Will you slaughter all my kin, just because I cannot help you?"
"Why can't I use your skin?" Stefan shouted, what little patience he possessed gone now in the fact of her tears. "Why can't I create Hounds? What knowledge do I lack?"
"I do not know," his captive whispered, and turned her face towards the wall.
There was no joy in the young swan's death. Stefan left her body out in the garden and tried to summon up the desire to hunt the rest of his captive's kin. Perhaps she told the truth. Perhaps she couldn't help him.
Perhaps serving Magdalen was the only way.
As if he had summoned her, Magdalen appeared to him a week later with her two Hounds at her side.
"Have you given up?" she asked, her voice cool. "While your failures are interesting to watch, your actions against the swans are drawing notice."
"Notice from whom?" Stefan asked. The swans had no protection; he had made certain of that.
"Your Council, and the elves," Magdalen replied. "I've heard that the elves intend to investigate, and while they aren't inclined to care if you stay in your place, they will care if you prey on their own."
"The Council holds no jurisdiction in Faerie," Stefan snapped. "What do you want?"
Magdalen smiled. "The same thing I wanted before: your cooperation, and your strength."
"And in exchange you will give me Gabriel's secret? You will teach me how to make my own Hounds?"
"You already know," Magdalen said.
This was too much to bear. "If I already knew--"
"You assume the Hounds of the Hunt are true shapeshifters," Magdalen said. "But I told you before that they have no human form."
This was not true, but even now Stefan hesitated to tell her what he had seen. "Then my daughter is truly lost to me," he said.
"As a daughter, yes," Magdalen said. "But not as a Hound."
She had made the same argument before, and Stefan had refused her. But he had nothing to show for the time he had spent searching out Gabriel's secret; nothing but his prisoners, who would soon be dead, if the boy wasn't already dead.
"And yet you say I already know Gabriel's secret," Stefan said. "What makes you think I won't discover it myself?"
"Do you remember when he turned you into a Hound?" Magdalen asked.
"Of course!" But the question awoke dark memories of that time; and a host of regret that clouded his mind. Those were memories best left forgotten. But he remembered running through the snow--a white, freezing forest--and hearing the Hounds behind him. He had held fast to the reason for his sacrifice, and in truth, Brenna had only been an excuse.
He had wanted glory. But instead, he had become an outcast.
"I am offering you a position as my trusted warrior," Magdalen said. "I would not offer just anyone this position."
"And how do you know I won't betray you?" Stefan asked. "I betrayed the Council, in effect; I betrayed their ideals and their edicts. How do you know I won't do the same to you?"
"I don't know, of course," Magdalen said. "But I can only hope you will not. I have a lot of knowledge to share--knowledge that you wish to possess."
"And when I no longer need your knowledge?" Stefan asked. He could not tell if he was trying to talk her out of this service or if he would seriously consider her offer this time.
"Then we will see," Magdalen said, her lips curving into a smile, as if she sensed victory at hand.
"You have a place to stay?" Stefan asked.
"I have a place, yes," Magdalen replied. "it is not so fine as your--your house, but it will do until I find something more suitable."
She said the word house as if his dwelling was a hole in the ground and little more.
"And your Hounds? They would be mine?" Stefan asked.
"Of course," Magdalen said, as if there would be no question of that.
Still, he distrusted her motives. He only wanted one thing from her--or did he? Once she gave him the secret to create his own Hounds, he could serve her, but what would that accomplish? He had no true goals, other than possessing the knowledge he lacked. Once he had his own Hunt, what would stop him from destroying Gabriel and his Hounds? What could stop him from becoming the raging terror Gabriel had once been, but without the constraints of a Master to serve?
If he aligned himself with Magdalen, she would expect him to fight Gabriel when that time came, and she would expect him to win.
"How long must I serve you?" he finally asked, not aligning himself either way.
"Until Gabriel is free," Magdalen said. "No longer than that, I promise you."
Time passed quickly in Faerie. Stefan had already discovered that. "You will not stop me from forming my own Hunt?"
"I would encourage you to form your own Hunt," Magdalen said. Before he could stop her, she touched him--a light, fleeting stroke on his arm. "But don't decide now. Think on it. As a gesture of good faith, I will gift you these Hounds."
And then, just as if a switch had been thrown, he felt the minds of the Hounds beside her in his head, just as he felt Brenna's presence through the bond he had formed with her. He called them to his side before Magdalen could change her mind, and they obeyed instantly.
Their minds were different than Brenna's. Less aware; more hound-like and less human-like. Brenna wondered things, and questioned things. These Hounds did not.
"Meet me here tomorrow at dusk if you decide to accept my offer," Magdalen said. "Otherwise, enjoy your Hounds."
She vanished before he could reply.
And, musing on this strange set of circumstances; still not quite convinced that service to Magdalen was the best course, Stefan returned home with the two Hounds at his side.
He had moved the girl to the dungeons days ago, refusing to give her the luxury of a bed when she was slated to die as soon as he killed her. Tormenting her was an effort now; she refused to react to his taunts and his efforts to break her. She grew lovelier every day, however, and even in her silence, he secretly marveled at her strength.
But if he were to accept Magdalen's offer, his prisoners would have to die. Both of them, and quickly. He would have no time to return to carry out the deed once he agreed to serve Magdalen and was a slave to her every whim.
And yet, he hesitated to end the swan maiden's torment. Dead, she held no challenge. And perhaps he could return; slip away from whatever place Magdalen had found.
Or, perhaps--perhaps he should give her the choice herself. Leave her in the dungeon cell with a dagger, to take her own life once she realized that her freedom was forever lost.
He had taken pains not to broadcast the location of the stone house. The elves had left the spot alone; the other creatures who lived in the forest had never come close. Whoever had built this house had instilled wards around its grounds to drive off the unwary, weak wards, yes, but they had worked over many years.
If he left the girl alive, and returned later to gloat over her body--would he find these halls as dusty as they had been when he arrived?
He stepped inside the house to find it in shambles, the furniture broken, a pool of drying blood on the floor and Brenna nowhere to be found. The path of destruction did not reach down the hall, but something had gouged out the wood around the doorway, and a smaller path of blood dribbled down the darkness of the hallway, vanishing into one of the bedrooms.
What had happened? And on the tail end of that thought--had Magdalen caused this?
The two Hounds sniffed around the pool of blood, then froze, hackles raised, as a shadow blocked the doorway and a--a thing pushed its way inside, dragging an elven deer behind it.
A troll, Stefan realized in the heartbeat before it saw him. A wild troll, not a member of the tribes of trolls that roamed both Faerie and the human world. This one had moss and lichen growing on its skin, and dull, greasy hanks of hair sprouting in tufts on top of its head.
And it had obviously claimed his house as its own.
For a fleeting moment as he shifted shape, Stefan wondered if Magdalen had somehow set the troll upon him. And as it roared--showing stained and rotting teeth--he wondered if three Hounds were enough to defeat it.
The troll's only weapon--other than its strength--was a thick wooden club that sheered off chunks of stone from the thick floor, and shattered the rest of the door frame. Stefan fell back and let the other Hounds attack. While they were occupied, he ran down the hall, following the trail of blood.
It stopped right outside one of the bedroom doors. Inside the room, Brenna lay near the body of a girl--an elf, Stefan realized, but not one of the elves who lived in the castle nearby. The ruling elves were tall and thin and pale, unearthly beautiful and with mannerisms to match. This one was small, and brown-skinned, the front of her dress a mass of blood and gore.
Brenna whined when Stefan appeared in the doorway. And since there was no chance this elf had dragged herself down the corridor, Stefan shifted shape and approached his Hound.
"Did you think to save her, then?" he asked, his lip curling. "Didn't you think that driving that troll away would be a better task?"
Brenna flinched and whined, pawing at the girl's body. At first, Stefan couldn't imagine what she wanted; the girl was obviously dead. But then, as he studied her, he realized that he could see the pulse flickering in her slender neck--fading, but still alive.
The troll roared. The two Hounds appeared in the hallway, panting and bleeding, one favoring its right front leg.
The door was not wide enough for the troll, but that did not stop it from trying to get through, and the thuds and cracks of its club echoed down the hallway.
As one, Brenna and the two Hounds looked to their Master for instruction. And for a moment, Stefan did not know what to do. If he sent his Hounds against the troll, he had no doubt they would be killed. And he did not want to lose his Hunt so quickly.
But the troll blocked the only exit back into Faerie. At least--the only exit Stefan knew.
A small sigh from the elf girl was the only indication of her death. Brenna had saved her, but for what? So she could die in peace instead of being eaten by the troll? She would not answer him when he asked her through the bond, and he lacked enough expertise to force her reasons from her mind. Perhaps Gabriel could do such a thing; perhaps not.
"Tear her apart," Stefan said, and watched the look in Brenna's eyes when she realized what he meant. "We'll use the pieces to bait the troll so we can leave. This place holds nothing for me now. That troll can feast in these halls and destroy every sign that I was ever here."
However much he hated to admit it, he had a new Master now.
4.
Lucas Lane hovered outside the library door, politely waiting for the old man who sat inside to acknowledge him. His uncle Peter sat in shriveled splendor with a worn velvet blanket spread over his useless legs, a sheaf of papers clutched in one age-spotted hand.
After a moment, Lucas thought he recognized the writing on the papers, and his heart sank.
"Uncle Peter?" He spoke softly, since the old man's hearing was just as good as it had ever been.
Peter Lane stirred. "Lucas." He motioned with his free hand. "Come in, come in. And shut the door behind you."
Lucas cleared his throat. "You--You wanted to see me?" How much trouble would he be in for writing that paper?
"Professor Honeycutt gave me this yesterday," Peter said. "He informed me that he intended to give you a passing grade, despite the incredulity of your claims."
"I researched!" Lucas forced his voice not to rise. "I read everything in the library about the Hunt, Uncle. And I--"
Peter raised his empty hand, a smile creasing the lines on his face. His blue eyes twinkled. "I didn't send for you to tell you that you did a bad job, Lucas. I sent for you to tell you that not all knowledge is contained in the books of this library."
Lucas sat down, uninvited. "I know that," he said. "But short of--of interviewing Gabriel himself--"
Peter's smile widened. "Yes, I understand. Your paper deserves the highest grade in class, despite what Professor Honeycutt says. You have done your research. And your theories are sound."
Despite himself, Lucas felt a flush of pride. He had slaved over that paper. "You said--you said my theories are sound."
"They are." Peter stacked the pages neatly and set them on the table beside his chair. "But there's plenty about the Hunt that you won't find in any of these books or journals."
Lucas swallowed hard. "You were there when the Hunt was bound, weren't you?" He had not interviewed his uncle, because his professor had insisted on paper sources. Even interviewing Gabriel would have counted against his grade, if he had dared do such a thing.
"I was there," Peter said. "At that time, I was the youngest member of the Council." He smiled again. "Younger than you, even."
"I read your account," Lucas said. "You were very brave."
"I was scared stiff," the old man said. "Not brave at all. But I knew what had to be done, so I did it. That's one of the reasons why I sent for you tonight."
Lucas frowned. "What does that have to do with bravery?"
"Nothing and everything," Peter said. "About a week after the Hunt was bound, I followed a survivor of the carnage to the waterfall. You know about the waterfall, I expect?"
It was a wonderful secret, deep in the forest. There were no real rules, so to speak, that the students of Darkbrook weren't allowed to venture that far, so Lucas had no qualms about telling the truth.
"I've been there a couple of times," he said.
Peter nodded. "I expect you have." He stared beyond Lucas now, in the past, perhaps, where he was younger and had full use of his legs. "I followed a survivor of the Hunt's binding. He wasn't truly a Hound, not anymore, and the binding had affected his mind. When I tried to talk to him, he turned on me."
"He--He turned on you?"
"And stabbed me, right here," Peter said, pushing his gnarled fingers into his side. "I expect he intended to finish me off, but the Hunt arrived in time to stop him."
Lucas blinked. "The Hunt arrived? To save you? Why would they do such a thing right after the binding?"
"Gabriel could not harm a member of the Council," Peter said.
"But what does this have to do with my paper?" Lucas couldn't find the connection at all. This was fascinating history, of course, but--
"You wanted to know if it would be possible for the Hounds of the Hunt to have a human form," Peter said. "What I'm about to tell you--" he coughed, suddenly, and had to take a moment to catch his breath. "I'm old, Lucas. Too old, I think sometimes."
"You're not that old," Lucas lied.
Peter chuckled. "You don't have to lie to me. I know how old I am."
Embarrassed, Lucas shrugged and stared down at his hands.
"I've been watching you," Peter said. "Of all my relatives here at Darkbrook, you have the most inquisitive mind, Lucas. You'll make a wonderful Council Historian when the time comes."
Lucas stared at him. "That's--that's what I want," he said, struggling not to let his hopes rise too high. "But I realize that there's a lot of competition for the position. And that the most qualified person will be picked."
Peter laughed. "That's very diplomatic of you," he said. "Some of your peers wouldn't be so kind."
Lucas shrugged, embarrassed at the praise. "What were you going to tell me?"
"What I want to tell you cannot leave this room, Lucas." Peter's smile faded. "Ever. You may pass the information on to your successor, but by then the Council's binding will have expired, and hopefully there will be no reason for such secrets."
"And this secret is about the Hunt?" Lucas guessed, both excited and frightened about being responsible for such an important secret. "No one else knows?"
"As far as I know, if I did not pass this to you, the secret will die with me," Peter said. "Your paper here made my final decision."
"It did?"
Peter picked up a pair of reading glasses from the table beside his chair and flipped through Lucas' paper until he found the paragraph he wanted to read. "'As such, and since the Hounds are indeed bound to their Master--and, as such, are reflections of their Master, then would it be so impossible to wonder if they, too, have a human form?'"
"Well, it's possible, isn't it?" Lucas had debated long and hard whether or not to leave those sentences intact. Despite his reservations, he had left them in.
Now, perhaps, he would find out why.
"Oh, it's not only possible," Peter said.
Lucas' heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"
"They do."
Next update March 16th.
House St. Clair Home
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