The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3

Guccia’s request proved paralyzing. Just when I’d reached the threshold of my resolve, her plea anchored me. And now, the idea of fleeing from Venice wallowed in purgatory just beneath the agitated surface of my mind.

I filled my days with pointless tasks. When I wasn’t escorting Guccia on her duties, I served my time at booksellers and caffés. I bought leather-bound journals at the former and scribbled bad poetry onto their pages while seated at the latter. Or I read whatever drew my attention, pushing through the stacks to find anything interesting enough to steal focus from the here and now.

I filled my nights with whatever I could. And more often than not, I filled them with Duccio. I couldn’t help but forgive him. My indignant embarrassment over his behavior at the opera ball lasted only a little while. He’d come home from his days at court, and with a simple smile, I would give into his loving advances. Even if a memory of his cruelty might trigger a pause in my blind devotion, I always forgave him, sometimes for nothing more than a whisper of love. Regardless of the cost to my dignity, I needed his affection, which was the most upsetting truth to accept.

Duccio and I fell into debates about something I’d read, volleying back and forth until we exhausted our points. Despite our volume and all that had passed between us, we were still intensely attracted to each other. And he loved to interrupt our debates mid-sentence with a playful kiss that always ended in some form of intercourse. And though he would drift off to sleep afterward, sex never offered me any such release.

Without the numbing effect of alcohol, going to bed when he wanted was pointless. Sleep no longer found me in his bed. And unwilling to read by candlelight beside him as he slumbered, I often went downstairs to play my viol for hours. I filled the palazzo with a low, melancholy sound for hours. Duccio always sent telepathic demands that I put the instrument away and return to bed when midnight arrived. He couldn’t rest well when the other minds in the house were agitated.

You must let our people sleep, he insisted.

It went on this way for weeks—my avoiding rest by his side. But one night, when I least expected it, I grabbed my boots and cloak to leave the house.

At first, I left the palazzo for only half an hour, seeking a few moments of fresh night air. But in time, my walks around the city lasted hours. The streets were reliably empty by three o’clock, even when the nightly carnival festivities moved out of private homes and into public spaces around late November.

I walked through every quarter like a silent phantom, creating new patterns in my memory. I learned the city’s design step by step until Venice became as familiar to me as my own hands.

Everything was asleep and closed in those early hours. Even the street thugs slumbered, and I found myself quite safe alone. Neither brothels nor churches opened their doors to me. Disinterested in the wares they pedaled, I passed by their doors with only the moon and stars to keep me company. I craved to be away from everyone, just myself and the canals that lapped at my boots when I came too close to an edge.

And then, one night, when I felt free in my solitude, a wave of blood red filled my vision. A cry of suffering filled my ears.

I didn’t stifle my wolf. He emerged at such blinding speed that it took all my effort just to cast the tatters of my cloak and clothing into a canal. In seconds, he raced up the nearest building to fly over its roof toward the source.

It was a boy’s cry; I was sure of it. He struggled against the salacious whims of a man in the privacy of their home. I raced to the sound of his pleas like the wind, my predator offering me fleeting glances at the canals as we flew over.

At this moment, more than ever, I realized my wolf and I were separate entities—one trapped within the other. I might say my feet grazed the roof tiles, but that is only to simplify my recollection in these pages. Indeed, my wolf flew over those roofs while I stared down through his amber eyes at the black waters below.

My feet stopped on the roof several floors above the flat where the boy struggled. A searing pain shot through me, and I crouched to keep from losing my footing.

“Father, please,” a boy cried through the impatient hand that covered his mouth. “No, wait—

Another biting wave sliced through me, and I knew what the vile man was doing.

“Stop fighting me,” I heard his impatient orders whisper through the boy’s ears. “You’ll do your duty. Now, open up.”

My wolf moved without the slightest hesitation and swung down the side of the building to the second floor, where we pushed through a windowpane. The crash of glass on the floor satisfied me as the cutting sound ended the rapist’s cruel advances.

I landed in a small drawing room, and from down a hallway, he appeared. The man was half undressed, with only his undergarments pulled up in haste.

He struggled to find the source of the crash, stumbling in the inky dark. The only light in the apartment came from a single candle in the bedroom behind him. But with my wolf’s eyes, I saw every detail of this fiend.

He whispered a curse as his bare feet found a sliver of the shattered window. A small dog barked from a neighboring building, drawing the man’s attention into the night, and he struggled to see what he could.

I was already on him when the sound of my feet on the glass drew his eyes back to the room. I tore through his abdomen with my talons at such speed that several seconds passed before he realized I’d hurt him. It took him even longer to gather his wits and react. But before his larynx could deliver a proper scream, I ripped out his throat with my teeth.

The taste of his fiery blood swept over my tongue, and I delighted in the rich and unexpected flavor. Had I never done this before? I couldn’t remember, but I knew at this moment I would never forget the exquisite sensation. Yes, I’d only slashed at the others with my talons in the past. And that quick delight was nothing against his blood’s burning, delicious flavor.

In his last moments, the man seemed to recognize my eyes, their ghostly amber refracting the dim starlight through the window.

Yes! See me, you bastard.

“Father?”

The boy called from the bedroom in an anxious whisper. I sensed he was nervous through what little psychic connection remained between us. He feared being alone in the bedroom almost as much as he dreaded what his father would make him do upon his return.

I dropped the man’s remains to the floor with a thud. There was no one else in the apartment but the boy. I smelled overly-ripened fruit in the kitchen and a whiff of mold coming from another room, but no other people were here, save the boy. No mother, no siblings, no relatives.

I didn’t know what to do. It had all seemed clear to me, my purpose in being here, my duty to end the boy’s suffering. But now I stood as a monster, towering over a savaged corpse, and the sight of us would terrorize this child double-fold.

“Father?”

My wolf fell away in seconds.

“It’s okay,” I answered in a near whisper. “Wait there for me.”

In my lycan form, the mental connection was gone—I couldn’t tell if he knew my voice wasn’t his father’s. Did he fear robbers or just his father’s return?

Scanning the living room with my normal sight, I stumbled upon a basket of throw blankets. Taking one, I scrubbed at the blood on my body as fast as I could, cleaning my face and hands. I’d have no chance to help him if he saw me bloodied, even if just by candlelight. I cast the blanket over the man’s remains when I felt clean enough.

Around my shoulders, I wrapped another blanket like a cape and pulled it close enough to cover my upper legs. Calming my breath, I proceeded toward the bedroom, unsure what to do to keep the boy safe.

“I’m coming,” I answered. “Everything’s okay.”

“Father?” Uncertainty filled his call.

“It’s okay,” I answered gently.

Arriving at the threshold of the bedroom door, I found the boy huddled on a narrow bed. It took only a second for him to recognize that I was a stranger.

“Father! Father!” He recoiled on the mattress, drawing a blanket back to cover himself like a shield. His voice grew to panic, and I had no choice but to intercede. I placed my hand over his mouth, which amplified his terror. The memory of his father’s hand over his mouth only minutes ago shredded my soul to pieces.

“Shhh, he’s gone,” I implored him. “It’s okay, he won’t hurt you again.”

The boy could not have been more than thirteen. His light blond hair was clipped just above his bare shoulders, and it fell over his eyes in his frenzy to retreat into the headboard.

Again, I didn’t know what to do. This was impossible, and for a moment, I considered leaving. I’d call my wolf back and leave through the window just as I’d arrived.

The boy tried again to call his father, but the moment overcame him, and he fell into desperate sobs. I drew my hand back from his mouth and touched the side of his head. I didn’t feel right touching him, but I couldn’t stop trying to comfort him.

“It’s okay,” I whispered again and again.

When he quieted, I sat back at the foot of the bed to give him space.

“I will not hurt you,” I assured him, modulating my voice to remain as calm sounding as possible.

“Where is Father?”

“Gone,” I answered. “He was hurting you, and I stopped him. He won’t do that to you anymore.”

“But where is he?”

“He’s left, little brother. I made him leave, so he can’t do that to you again. Do you understand? He’s not allowed to do that to you, so I forced him to leave you alone.”

The boy stared at me through wary tears until he buried his face into the back of his drawn-up knees to weep. His arm shielded the single candle’s light as if it were the sun.

“It’s okay,” I repeated, my whisper soothing us both.

Through a curtain, the faintest purple of the coming dawn outlined the window frame behind it.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer.

“It’s all right, little brother. You can tell me now. I’m here to help you. Please, what’s your name?”

Still, he would not budge. Even when his sobbing slowed to occasional gasps that rattled his frame, he would not speak.

I waited in silence with him. The minutes went by as the light of the coming day overtook the candle to outline the bedroom. There was a half-dresser beside the bed near my feet. On top were small framed portraits no taller than a hand. In one was the picture of a husband and his bride, likely the boy’s parents, or perhaps his grandparents. Another portrait was of the same woman alone in her bridal satin.

I rose and pulled open a drawer. There, I found the man’s undergarments and dressed without a beat. In the bottom drawer, I found garments I thought were a woman’s, but I soon realized they were the boy’s.

“Come, little brother,” I coaxed with a tender voice. He didn’t want me to touch him, not even to place my hand on his shoulder to assure him. “It’s almost daytime. Come and dress yourself.”

I moved around the bed to offer him what room I could. I moved to a tall dresser on the opposite wall and found pairs of breeches and simple jackets.

The boy moved off the bed with a start.

I thought he meant to run away, but he only wanted to dress in a hurry. He seemed painfully embarrassed to have to dress in front of me. Perhaps it was rather that he was naked at all, though the light was still too dim to reveal the details of his slight frame. Nevertheless, I turned my back to afford him the unnecessary privacy he wanted.

When we both had dressed, I looked into his eyes and caught them watching me for a moment before he returned his gaze to the floor.

“As I told you, your father is gone now,” I said. “You’re not old enough for me to leave you here. Do you have family nearby?”

The boy kept his eyes on the floorboards and did not answer.

“Does someone take care of you when your Father goes to work? A neighbor?”

He shook his head after a beat. “I work with him in the shop,” his voice returned.

“Where is your father’s shop? Downstairs?”

“The bakery, sir.”

I sighed to realize the enormity of what I’d done, saving this boy and severing him from the world in the same act.

“You cannot work in the bakery now that he’s gone. But maybe, when you’re older, you might take over your father’s business. For now, you’ll come to my house. There’s work for you there, and I’ll ensure you’re cared for.”

He gave me a wary look, and I saw the first hint of his blue eyes in the coming dawn.

“Do you have anything here you wish to take with you? Your clothes? Something else? Do you have a bag or a case we can use?”

Heeding my own instruction, I looked around the room to find a garment bag and made to collect his few clothes from the bottom dresser drawer. The other dresser contained only two breeches of the proper size, so I threw him one pair and bagged the other.

“Do you have a jacket? These all seem to be your father’s?”

After a moment, the boy slipped into one of the larger jackets. The oversized fabric reached down almost to his knees. He took one of the cotton berets and placed it on his head, and for a moment, he seemed much older. I realized he wanted to look like a man, someone who’d never do the things his father had forced him to do—his “duty.”

I took the other hat and gave him a nod.

“Are you ready?”

He reached to take the garment bag from me, and before leaving the bedroom, he took the small portrait of the woman.

I led him through to the living room and found the entry door. The boy stared off at the far wall and saw the debris of my arrival. His father’s remains lay under the bloody blanket, but in this light, I doubted he’d recognize it. Still, I stepped between him and the scene to make sure.

“Nothing there for you, little brother,” I said, lifting my hand to steer him away.

I saw a bakery just to the right of the front door when we were through the building and downstairs. Masucci Family Bakery, the sign read.

The boy stopped and stared at the business door.

“My name is Esprit,” I said, realizing I’d never once told him my name in all the times I asked for his.

The boy turned his light eyes to mine with a perplexed tightening of his fair, boyish face, as if he’d never heard a French name before.

“My name is Agostino.”