The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3

On silent feet, I raced through the trees at night alongside another wolf. I glanced to take in his ferocious beauty as he flew at my side, adjusting my course to stay with him when he turned in one direction or another.

Esprit, a voice called from a distance, and we both stopped racing at once.

The wolf at my side shot a savage growl at a figure who stepped forward into a small shaft of moonlight that broke through the forest canopy. It was a man I recognized. He stood naked before us, his handsome face lit in dazzling detail.

Gently, he said to the wolf that guarded me. Without moving his lips, he bid my protector over and over while he advanced upon us.

Gently. Gently, child.

Standing only a foot away, he knelt on all fours and closed his eyes. Without fear, he lowered his head to my protector in a last act of surrender. At once, the wolf stopped growling and let the man run his hands lovingly through his thick, dark mane. They caressed with total acceptance, as if they’d always known each other.

The man opened his eyes to peer at me. Esprit, he whispered from his mind.

I awoke with a start lying in inky darkness, my breathing heavy and my heart racing in my ears.

The dream had felt real, and it took moments before my mind could gather its bearings. I heard Father’s gentle snoring from the other tent room and realized the dawn had not yet arrived.

When I closed my eyes and called down, I heard a whisper inside my head.

Esprit.

I sat up on my cot and stared at the light coming from the tent door.

I’m outside.

Hearing the man’s voice in my head was so jarring that I stumbled to my feet in the dark. I wore only my breeches but advanced on the tent door, stopping only when I second-guessed myself.

It’s all right, he said. You’re in no danger from me.

Somehow, I realized his words were true, and I pulled the door flap open to peer out into the night.

In the moonlight stood the same man from last evening’s performance. He stood just as tall as I remembered him, his broad chest and shoulders cutting an imposing figure. I couldn’t see the brilliant green of his eyes in the starlight, but there was no question it was him.

Peace, son.

I stepped out into the night to feel the cool breeze on my skin, then closed the door flap behind me to keep the warm inside. The camp torches were no longer lit, and I saw no one else around us.

“Who are you?” I whispered aloud.

A friend.

How are you doing that? The question left my mind before I drew a breath to speak it aloud.

We’re doing it, the man cut me off and placed his hand on his chest. You and I. We can speak to one another with the voice in our minds.

But how?

We differ from the others. A breed apart from regular people.

I scoffed at the statement; the act drew a sharp pain from my ribs.

The man seemed to feel the pain. It seemed to transfer to his mind just as my voice did.

From your fall? Forgive me. I didn’t mean to distract you as I did. It’s just that you captured my heart in that scene. I couldn’t wait for you to kiss Juliet.

At last, I remembered the true reason for my fall. The voice that stole my focus was his.

Am I dreaming this?

No, the man said. He took a step forward as if to prove he was real.

I took an instinctive step back, and he stopped as if recognizing he’d triggered something in me.

It’s all right. My name is Maximillian. You have my word, you’ve nothing to fear from me.

I sighed, realizing how much tension my body held because of this encounter. I trusted this man. It was as if our ability to speak this way somehow guaranteed I could take him at his word.

What do you want from me?

To know you, he said, his word immediate and plain. To tell you of our kind.

I’m a member of La troupe du mystère de l’amour.

Yes, but none of them are of our kind. They are not lycan.

I didn’t know the word, but I was bent on understanding the how instead.

Why not? Shouldn’t my parents be the same? Why don’t they speak like this?

Because they can’t. They are human, as all the people in your troupe or in that village are. We lycan are born spontaneously to human parents.

But why?

The man shook his head. Why do the stars shine in the heavens? We will never know for certain. But we see their light plainly, and so we accept they are there.

The words of his answer posed a deception, but I felt not the slightest lie spring from his mind.

Will you permit me to know you? May I introduce you to my house?

I shook my head at once. Whether because of my people’s natural suspicion or because of the prior night’s attack, I wasn’t ready to give the man what he wanted. Perhaps I didn’t yet believe in what was happening to me.

Allow me to take you to dinner tomorrow evening.

We are performing tomorrow.

He nodded and stared off. It wasn’t just language that moved from his mind to mine. There was also simple emotion. He felt stupid for not realizing as much and embarrassed by his lack of insight. The transparency by which these feelings came from his mind intrigued me. It was the sort of openness I only received from Thérèse, and I was more drawn to that sensation than to anything he said to me.

My family won’t allow me to be away, and not with a stranger.

I understand, he answered with a nod. Will you allow me to speak with you again in this way? While the camp is at rest?

Yes, I said before giving the request any consideration.

As suspicious as I was of all that just happened between us, I wanted to know this man more than anything.

My mind was far away that morning. I hadn’t been able to return to sleep once Maximillian left me, waiting until Mother’s feet took to the floor just after sunrise to prepare breakfast with the other women.

Though I followed Father and labored through the expected chores of the day, I was in a daze, obsessed with memories of the man who’d come and changed everything. It wasn’t until later that afternoon, when Thérèse stole me away to the costume and makeup tent to try something, that I could focus on anything else.

The bruises on my face were no longer swollen, but large blotches of purple and green remained. They made everyone wince when they saw me. All except one, of course.

“That looks ridiculous,” Father insisted. “Why would Romeo paint his face?”

Thérèse was meek with her reply, but frank.

“It’s a trick. And illusion,” she said. “From a distance, the audience will only see he’s wearing a red party mask. It will hide his bruises and ensure he can see the ground.”

I didn’t believe such a thing would work, but Thérèse wanted a chance to try, and there was little I would ever deny her. But I hardly believed her grease paints could smooth out my natural facial features well enough to appear masklike, and Father’s immediate gut reaction was the only validation I needed.

“No, my dear,” Father answered, with a gentle shake of his head. “You haven’t mastered your skills to that degree yet. Perhaps if he were to play a demon or fool, he might get away with it. But not for a lover. The audience will not accept it.”

Thérèse lowered her eyes, no doubt understanding how fruitless a debate would be with my father.

“He’ll have to sit this performance out. His cousin will perform in his place. Esprit will stay back here to help with whatever needs support. Perhaps he can assist you or Madame Pummeroy with quick-changes.”

I didn’t respond, but lowered my eyes. Again, Father spoke about me as if I weren’t in the room.

He turned to leave the make-up tent but stopped.

“We’ll be in Dijon next week,” he said without looking at me. “It’s a proper town, and there’ll be instruments for sale. If the price is not unreasonable, I’ll replace your viol so you may rejoin the players.”

“His face will have recovered by then, surely,” Thérèse said, her voice rising with concern. “He’s so much better at playing Romeo than his cousin.”

Her protection touched me as it always did, but I didn’t bother to join her chorus.

Father shot a quick glance at her before resuming his departure without a word in response.

“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered to Thérèse when we were alone again.

She didn’t reply, but I could see her frustration well enough.

I slathered a rag with fresh butter and began the slow labor of removing the grease paint from my face.

“Let me,” she said and reached for the rag.

I pulled back, not meaning to shun her, but I was not myself at the moment.

“Don’t be like that,” she protested, reaching again.

Submitting, I let her undo her creation with slow, patient attention.

“At least he’s speaking to you again. That’s something, isn’t it?”

I answered with a sigh.

“I think he’s coming around,” she pressed. “Maybe what happened to you has softened him—made him feel more defensive of you.”

“He blames me for the whole thing,” I said. “He was against my taking the role; against my singing. He doesn’t want me to be seen. The only reason he let me perform last night was because of the audience’s screams—because of the coin I drew.”

“Don’t say that,” she protested. “That’s not the reason.”

“You saw the crowd and how it grew. Father didn’t just change overnight.”

“Then you’d be out there tonight with your mask,” she stressed, removing the last of the red paint from my eyes and nose. “He’d make you practice with it until it you got it right this time.”

I sighed again, unwilling to debate her logic.

“Fine, have it your way. He won’t let me go because he’s ashamed of me and doesn’t want people to see me act like a girl.”

I stood up in frustration and left her there.

Though I couldn’t stop myself—filled with anger and hurt and frustration—I felt petulant as I stomped away. And the last thing I wanted was to reject the only person on my side. But the whole subject infuriated me, and I needed to walk away from it.

I was failing to be a man, just as Mother had said.