Blood Moon (16 page)

He looked sheepish. “We went into the
forest to track the wolves that had attacked the child. It had
grown dark and we didn’t take torches so we couldn’t see. Something
leapt from the brush. Someone yelled that it was the wolves and
everyone panicked. I didn’t see who hit me.”

“But you don’t think it was the
wolf?”

He shook his head.

“Did anyone get bitten? Or
clawed?”

Again, he shook his head. “I don’t
think so … except, maybe, Halard, when he fought the wolves off of
his boy. I think they were long gone before we even went into the
forest.”

Aslyn nodded, trying to keep the fear
from her expression. “But Halard was bitten?”

Baker scratched his head. “I don’t know
for certain. He never did say, but he didn’t seem to be hurt bad.
If he had been, wouldn’t he have come to you?”

“I was … gone most of the day yesterday
… looking for medicinal plants. Not an easy thing to find this time
of year.”

Baker nodded and rose. “How
much?”

“A couple of loaves of
bread?”

He nodded. “Just come to the bakery
when you want them.”

Her shoulders slumped when she’d closed
the door behind him.

Halard had almost certainly been
infected. How long, she wondered, before he changed?

Chapter Eleven

Aslyn paced the floor when Baker had
left, wondering what, if anything could be done. She was strongly
tempted to simply go to the Halard cottage and ask after him, but
Kale had specifically said she was not to leave the
cottage.

Not that she would have,
under ordinary circumstances, considered staying only because he
had ordered her to do so. The problem was, she
had
to go, and soon. Tonight would be
the second of the dark of the moon. She was running out of time and
if she failed to convince Kale that he could trust her, then he
would not let down his guard enough to allow her to escape before
it was too late. If he came back and found her gone….

And what if she did go? What if she saw
with her own eyes that Halard bore the marks of the wolf? It might
mean nothing at all. She suspected Algar was indeed a werewolf and
the leader of the pack. But what if it was only wolves?

Even if her suspicions were right, what
possible good could it do anyone for her to know it? She would have
to convince the villagers that Halard was a danger. Who would they
be more likely to believe? Her … a stranger among them? Or someone
they’d known for years?

She finally decided to go. Kale had not
been gone long. He had seemed to think he would not be back in time
for the noon meal. It would not take long to walk over to the
Halard cottage and it seemed likely that Kale would never even know
she’d left the cottage.

Seeing Halard might make no difference
at all to anyone but her, but it might at least make her easier in
her mind if she saw him and spoke to him about the
attack.

Taking her cloak, she bundled it
closely around her, pulled the hood on and left the cottage,
walking quickly. The Halard’s cottage was on the next road over and
she took the cross road that Jim McCraney had used the day that
she’d arrived.

She faltered when she realized that she
would be going into a house of mourning. She wasn’t certain she
could stomach seeing John dressed for burial, most likely displayed
for the mourners who came to pay their condolences.

After several moments’ hesitation, she
proceeded as she’d begun.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the
cottage. Neighbors from up and down the street were congregated in
tight little knots out front. Many glanced at her as she made her
way to the door and uneasiness washed over her.

Had it begun already--the suspicions?
Or, was it merely her imagination that their looks were accusing?
She had worried after John’s attack that they might begin to
consider her to blame because the last two victims had been to see
her shortly before they were attacked. When people were gripped
with fear it took no more than that, and sometimes considerably
less, for them to begin to choose a victim of their own to blame
for their misfortune.

Now she knew the attacks were her
fault. Algar had tracked her here. Perhaps the attacks on John and
Will were even more directly her fault than that. Perhaps Algar had
singled them out because they bore her scent upon them.

Was it her own sense of guilt that made
her feel their stares were accusing?

Shaking the sense of uneasiness, Aslyn
tapped on the heavy oak panel door. Ana Halard opened the door.
“What are ye doin’ here?”

Taken aback, Aslyn stared at her
blankly for several moments. “I came to pay my respects and to see
if Mr. Halard had injuries that needed attention.”

Ana’s lips tightened. “He don’t need no
help from the likes of you.”

The uneasiness returned tenfold. Aslyn
was tempted to simply turn around and leave. As strong as the
cowardly prompt was to turn tale and run, though, she had to know
just how deeply the resentment was running against her, and what
she’d been condemned for. “I don’t understand.”

“There weren’t no trouble ‘round here
till ye came. Ye brought it with ye an’ I don’t want ye ‘round my
family no more,” Ana Halard said through gritted teeth.

Aslyn took a step back. “I’m sorry for
your loss,” she said stiffly, then turned and retraced her steps
with as much dignity as she could muster. The looks she encountered
on the way out were even more pointed and angry than before. It
took an effort to pretend she didn’t notice, and even more effort
to hold her pace to a walk when her instincts urged her to run.
That would be the worst thing she could do, though. People tended
to revert to simple animals when they were frightened, losing their
thin veneer of civilization with amazing speed, and, like any other
predatory animal, chasing what ran.

She was clammy with fear by the time
she reached the cottage once more, further unnerved by the fact
that there seemed an uncommon number of people on the road before
the cottage, all turning to look at her as she passed.

She was shaking when she at last bolted
her door behind her, but she felt little relief, knowing she was
now trapped in the cottage. The day passed in nerve wracking
suspense. She could not even see outside without opening the door
to peer out, since the cottage possessed not one single window—and
peering out could be interpreted as a sense of guilt far too
easily. She nerved herself a couple of times to go out to the
necessary behind the cottage, partly out of need, partly because
she knew it was necessary to appear as if she was going about her
daily routine, and partly so that she could see what was going on.
Each time she went out she saw knots of villagers up and down the
road, talking, often glancing toward her cottage.

Kale returned late in the afternoon,
near dusk, his face grim, drawn from weariness and some other
emotion Aslyn couldn’t decipher. She was not left long to wonder
over it, however.

Kale poured himself a tumbler of mead
and collapsed in one of the chairs before the hearth, staring into
the flames broodingly. Despite her uneasiness over the situation in
the village throughout the day, Aslyn was immediately aware that
something was very wrong.

She moved to the chair next to him,
stood uncertainly for several moments and finally sat on the edge.
“Will you eat?”

He glanced at her, studied her a long
moment, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question, and finally
shook his head.

Aslyn frowned. She didn’t like to prod
him for information when he was obviously laboring under emotions
he was having difficulty grappling with, but he was making her more
nervous by the moment. “Did you find your men?”

A look of nausea crossed his features.
“Yes.”

Aslyn’s heart lurched in sudden,
painful dread. “They returned with you?” she asked
hesitantly.

He set the empty glass down on the
table between the chairs and scrubbed his hands over his face.
“They were dead. All of them.”

“Oh my God!” She slid off the chair and
knelt before him, slipping her arms around him and laying her head
in his lap. “Kale, I’m so sorry!”

He pulled her up onto his lap, folding
her into his arms, squeezing her tightly a moment before he relaxed
his grip, holding her loosely against his chest. “I should have
been with them. If I hadn’t decided to try to head the pack off, I
would have been.”

Aslyn shuddered at the thought. “And
you might have been killed with them.”

“And I might have been the difference
between life and death. If I had been there, they might not have
been overwhelmed.”

“You can’t know that. You can’t torture
yourself with the thought that you might have made a difference.
You took a greater risk by coming back here alone. How could you
have known?”

“I should have guessed it was a trap.
We’ve been tracking the pack for weeks now.”

Aslyn said nothing for several moments,
wondering if she should voice her fears about Algar. But she knew,
regardless of what suspicions it might provoke about her, she had
to say something. “Do you think …? Is it possible these wolves are
… not just wolves?”

“It’s far more than a
possibility.”

Aslyn pulled away and looked at him.
“You think they’re all….”

“Werewolves? Yes.”

It was worse, then, even than she’d
thought. She had considered it very likely that Algar was exactly
what he claimed to be, and that he was leading the pack, adding
human cunning to animals already cunning in their own right. She
had wondered if his men knew, or suspected that he was leading them
a merry chase, posing as soldier by day to foil all attempts to
capture the pack. It had even occurred to her to wonder if some of
his men might also be as he was, werewolves. She hadn’t considered
that the men he led by day were the same pack he led by night.
Small wonder Kale’s men had not stood a chance against them. “What
will you do now?”

“I have the unpleasant task of telling
their families. And then I must gather more men and find them--and
put an end to them once and for all.”

Chapter Twelve

As little as Aslyn liked the idea that
Kale had been appointed to the task, she knew that he was right.
The killing must be stopped. Someone had to do it. She just wished
it was someone other than Kale who must risk their life.

With some effort, she persuaded Kale to
eat. He’d had nothing, she felt sure, since he’d left, nothing even
to break his fast before he left. She coaxed him over to the table
and sat with him, though her appetite was no better than
his.

The urge was strong to tell him about
the atmosphere within the village, but she quashed it. He had
worries enough. He did not need to be concerned for her when his
mind should be focused upon his task.

She only hoped the villagers would not
take it into their heads to set fire to the cottage while they
slept.

Tomorrow, at first light, Kale would
leave to perform the unpleasant task of informing the families of
the dead men about their loved ones.

She would leave as soon as he was
gone.

For the first time since she had left
her home, the idea of leaving brought with it a wealth of grief.
She wanted, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, to
stay with Kale. She wished desperately that she might at least have
had a few more days with him, but she was nothing if not practical.
She had no choice but to go when the opportunity was
there.

In any case, whatever her
circumstances, even if she were not a werebeast, the villagers had
convinced themselves that she was at the root of their problems. If
she stayed, Kale would almost certainly stay, and she would be
risking his life as well as her own.

There were no choices, except the
choice of life over death.

When they had finished their meal,
Aslyn drew Kale to the bed, kissing every inch of his skin she
revealed as she undressed him. And when he had done the same for
her, she made love to him with all her heart.

* * * *

When Kale rose before dawn and dressed,
Aslyn pretended to sleep on undisturbed, although she’d wakened to
full alertness the moment he stirred. It took more of an effort
than she would ever have thought to lie still, to breathe slowly,
shallowly as one deeply asleep. Her heart was hammering in her
chest with a combination of nerves, fear and grief. More than
anything, she wanted to ‘wake’, to coax him back into bed so that
she could share her body with him once more … just one more
time.

But once more would never be enough to
quash the sense of loss that even now seemed as if it would
suffocate her. She could not take his essence with her by doing so.
It would not lessen her sorrow, and she doubted she could make love
to him again without giving away the sense of desperation she
felt.

She waited when he had gone; counting
the minutes, listening for any sound that might warn her that he’d
forgotten something and returned. In a little while she heard the
sucking, clopping sound of a shod horse galloping through snow. The
sound grew louder as he neared the cottage and then began to fade
once more as he gained distance.