Wolf's Cross (24 page)

“You never told me.”

“If he was alive now, I still wouldn’t.” He shook his head. “What purpose does this story serve? Father spent the rest of his life trying to earn forgiveness for that night.”

And his last day on earth, he believed it was all for nothing
.

She probably should have felt anger at her father, for ever considering abandoning her to die in the woods. She couldn’t. She understood what her father feared, even if her brother didn’t. She could see how, in his telling or in his memory, he had considerably lightened the injury she had given him. He didn’t remember the attack itself, and the wounds she had given him had sent him to bed with infection.

What kind of horror was it to face the fact that one of your children had almost killed the other? How much heavier the guilt when the violence came from a bastard child you’d brought into the house?

Maria could barely conceive of what he must have gone through.

“Thank you for telling me this.” She started walking down the darkened path again.

“You are going to talk to Mother about this,” he said.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Please remember,” Władysław said, “that anything she did, anything she’s kept from you, was all done because she loves you as her own.”

“I know,” Maria whispered, holding the cross to her heart.

H
er stepmother met them at the gate, the worry in her face obvious. “Władysław, you left hours ago. Does it take so long to bring your sister home?”

“It isn’t his fault,” Maria said. “I was late leaving, and I made him stop and talk.”

Hanna kept talking to Władysław. “After last night, why would you let her—”

“I said it wasn’t his fault!” Maria snapped.

Maria’s stepmother looked at her, and even her brother seemed a bit shocked at her outburst.

“Don’t raise your voice to me,” her stepmother said. Even as she spoke, Maria could see a hint of fear in her eyes. She could almost smell it in the air around her.

Had that fear always been there?

“We need to talk about my mother,” Maria said.

“I am your mother.”

Maria saw Hanna’s eyes search her face for something. “You know what I want to talk about.”

“You …” Hanna turned to Władysław and said, “Please go into the house. I need to talk to your sister.”

“Remember what I said,” Władysław told her as he walked toward the cottage. He left Maria and her stepmother outside, under the night sky. Around them, leaves rustled in the breeze, and somewhere an owl hooted.

“Maria,” her stepmother said, “there are reasons we never talk about your mother, some things we’re best off not knowing.”

“What if I know those things already?” Maria reached into her chemise and lifted the cross’s chain up from around her neck.

“What are you doing?” Hanna reached out a hand to stop her, grabbing her wrist. Even though Maria knew she could easily
break the grasp, she just ducked her head down out of the encircling chain.

“What if I know why I should wear this?”

“Please, put it back on. You don’t know—”

“You’re afraid I’m going to hurt someone, like I hurt Władysław?” Maria saw the panic growing in her stepmother’s eyes, and she wanted to reassure her that she hadn’t hurt anyone—but it would have been a lie. She had hurt Lukasz, had broken his cheekbone, and she had hurt Darien, clawing through his back. The fear was real, and it was justified.

She dropped the cross back around her neck and told her stepmother, “I walked out into the woods today and took it off.”

“No, please tell me you didn’t—”

“What am I?” Maria asked her stepmother. “What am I, and where did I come from to be your daughter? Why would you take something like me under your roof?”

“You are my daughter,” her stepmother said.

“I’m not of your blood. I’ve known at least that much all my life. After what I became in the woods, I wonder if I bear any of your husband’s, either.”

Her stepmother slapped her face, the impact ringing through the woods around her. Maria’s cheek stung with the impact. “Do not say that! You are Karl’s daughter—
never
doubt that, or him. He was a flawed man, but to him you were the one thing that granted him some grace.” Her stepmother sniffed, and Maria realized she was crying.

Quietly, Maria said, “Do I not deserve to know?”

“Yes, you do. But we didn’t want to lose you.”

“Even after what happened to Władysław?”

“You were barely a child. How could we hold you responsible?”

“Please, Mother, tell me where I came from.”

Anno Domini 1333

H
er name was Lucina, but she didn’t remember who had named her. She lived in the deepest woods east of Gród Narew, mostly ignorant of the humans dwelling there. The people who lived on the fringes of these woods—especially those whose families had spent generations in its shadow—knew of her and her kind. Lucina’s ancestors haunted the tales that had been spoken of in hushed tones ever since the land had become Christian.

However, it had been a long time since Lucina had had family. And a long time since her kind had haunted these woods in any numbers. She was alone, and the old folks’ tales about wolves clothed in human skin had become less urgent, less of a deterrent for hungry men who needed to stock their families’ larders.

Lucina would watch these men as they made their pitiful attempts at hunting. Sometimes she would watch with the eyes of a wolf, sometimes with the eyes of a raven-haired maiden. She would watch them come into her wood and, more often than not, return empty-handed.

She watched not out of any malice but out of curiosity and a deep loneliness. She was the last of her kind in these woods and, she thought, perhaps the last of her kind anywhere. These men who came to find game, they all had a home to go to.

Home was as alien a concept to Lucina as having to trap her prey or shoot it with an arrow.

Each winter, her despair grew deeper. She would always be alone, and she envied these human women who sent their men out to parade in front of her. Why? What could these frail human women give that she could not? She was stronger then they were, faster, and a better hunter than these poor men …

It was not long before she decided that there was no reason she couldn’t have what they had. Once she resolved this, Lucina studied these men with a new eye, looking for someone she could love, and who could love her back. She watched how they moved, how they hunted, and how they carried their kill.

And only days into the winter, when the snow barely dusted the needle floor of her woods, she saw the man who would become her mate. This man had broad shoulders and seemed to stand above all the others who braved her forest. He also had a masculine scent that made Lucina lick her lips in anticipation.

This was the man who would free her from her solitude.

W
hen Karl met her, a light snow was falling. Lucina stood in a clearing, white dusting a red cloak she had stolen from a cottage close to the woods. She smiled at him from under the hood—smelling him, watching him.

She stood between him and a dead hart. The freshly killed animal lay sprawled in the snow, slowly leaking blood from the wound Lucina had torn in its neck.

“What is this?” he asked. “Who are you, and why are you alone in the woods?”

“My name is Lucina,” she said, her voice hoarse from so long without speech. “These woods are where I live.”

“It is dangerous. The animal that killed that deer may still be about.”

She walked up to him and placed a hand on his chest. When the cloak parted, it became obvious that it was the only thing she wore. His breath caught, and in his scent Lucina could tell that he did not dislike what he saw. She leaned forward and whispered, lips brushing his ear, “The kill is mine.” He didn’t move, didn’t speak, as her hand found its way under his shirt. “Do you wish some of it?”

“That is your kill?”

“I smelled it, tracked it, and tore its lifeblood free with my teeth.” She licked his ear, tasting his sweat, smelling the first hint of fear.

“What are you?” he asked.

“You know,” she said. “These are my woods.” She caressed him, running her hand down the side of his chest. “Do you want a share of my kill?”

“What are you asking?”

“A leg perhaps? The meat would feed several mouths.”

“You would give that to me?”

She brought her face around in front of his, their lips a finger’s breadth apart. “In return for something.”

“What?”

Her hand traveled lower, into his breeches.

“Respite from my loneliness,” she said, before she kissed him.

It may have been fear, or shock, or the thought of a hungry family, or simply the heat of Lucina’s skin so close to his own. It may have been the fact that her loneliness was manifest in every
word she spoke. It may have just been the fact that Karl was a man, and men are weak.

Whatever the reason, any or all, Karl did not pull away from Lucina when he could have. He tasted her mouth, and let her place his hand on her naked bosom. Her cloak fell away and she led him down to the snow-covered earth and buried him under the weight of her solitude.

He came to her many times that winter, and each time her heart grew fuller at his presence. To him, she was a secret vice, a spirit that lived in another world, one of trees and bloody carcasses and lovemaking in the snow. To her, he was a reason to live, a joy, a lover and a husband in what sense she could understand the term. They spoke little—he walking in his dream, she drinking in obsession beyond words.

There was no doubt in Lucina’s growing heart that the next time Karl came to embrace her, he would tell her that he would stay. It was that hope that carried her through the depth of winter. And it was that hope that slowly died in the spring.

As the snow melted and the ground softened, the men who braved these woods stayed upon their plots of land to till the soil and grow the harvest that would keep them and their people through the next winter. There was no one to explain this to Lucina; for all her watching of the men in the forest, for all her listening to their language, she didn’t understand. All she knew was that as the first buds grew, her Karl did not return to her.

Many times she stood, in her red cloak, next to some beast she had taken. She attacked larger and larger prey, as if Karl might be enticed back—bucks, a bull elk, a mountain cat, a bear.

As the months passed, her heart shrank, and her belly grew.

And as summer became verdant, and Karl’s seed grew large within her, her heart grew black and cold. She had been cast aside in worse isolation than the loneliness she had thought to escape. As gravid as she was, she found it impossible to change,
to run as a wolf does. Hunting became difficult, and she grew gaunt.

When she gave birth, it was with blood and screams and the rending of flesh. However, she survived, as she could bear far more injury and insult than any human woman. Three children she had, all girls. And as she licked the blood off Karl’s daughters, she decided that Karl would
have
to come help care for them. And that meant she had to take away any reasons he had for staying away.