Emma and the Werewolves (21 page)

She looked him over with a pair of cold,
appraising green eyes. “Mr. Knightley, we meet at last,” she
purred.

He said nothing but met her gaze.

“
You have slain many of my
children. For that you will die, but first I must know what you
have done to our dead.”

“
Your dead?” Knightley
asked, the shock of the question evident in his voice.

The woman inhaled deeply, taking in his
scent. “It was not you, then, who brought this terror upon us?”

Knightley had no desire to
face the entire pack alone, but he desperately wanted to know what
she meant about the pack’s dead. He suspected he had an idea of
what was claiming the bodies of her “children” for its own. “You
mean the abomination? The thing caught between its forms after
death to lumber around mindlessely in search of living
flesh?”

The woman threw her head
back, tossing her hair in the night. She bared her teeth. They grew
into long fangs as she growled at him. “Yes, Knightley. The
abomination, if you must call it so. We have a name of our own for
it. We call the things ‘half-forms.’ Only once, long ago, had such
a thing happened before. It tore through our people and left us
scattered to the winds by the time we had dealt with them. What
magic have you used to bring their curse upon us once
again?”

“
Half-forms,” Knightley
repeated, trying to gain some time. “A fitting name.” His hand
fished around in the pouch that hung from his belt, seeking his
only means of escape and salvation against such a number of
beasts.

“
They are trapped between
worlds as well as shapes, their souls caught in a nightmare state,
ensnared in rotting forms of bone and ooze. I will not have my
children suffer so. If you undo what you have done, I shall promise
you a quick death. Fail to do so and we shall rend you apart
slowly, one bit at a time, relishing each second of your pain with
each mouthful of your flesh.”

“
I am sorry, but I didn’t
do this to your children,” Knightley said. “I would indeed see you
all dead, but not to only rise again in such a manner.”

“
Have it your way.” The
woman chuckled. “Children, he is yours,” she said to those waiting
in the woods. “Make his death so memorable with pain it will follow
him to the gates of Heaven.”

The wolves came bounding
from the trees. He counted twenty of them. This wouldn’t be a fight
if he stayed; it would be a slaughter. He yanked the silver ball
from his pocket and lit its fuse, dropping his rifle in the
process. The ball landed amongst the charging wolves to the east as
he ran towards those approaching from the west. There was an
explosion and wails of pain as silver shrapnel erupted and sprayed
into their ranks. There was no time to see how many had died from
his efforts. His attention was fixated solely on the wolves before
him. Daggers flew from his hands, impaling the lead two of the six
he faced. The blades tore into the flesh of their faces, sending
them sprawling to the dirt, killed instantly by his well-placed
aim. Two more daggers were in his hands before he collided with the
remaining four creatures. He delivered a viscous upward slash to
the first, gutting it from belly to throat. As its entrails poured
out from the wound, he spun, plunging his second blade straight
into the heart of the next wolf to reach him. It let out a
sickening cough-like sound as blood poured from its mouth.
Knightley yanked the blade free with a twist and a pull. The last
two in front of him paused as if they somehow sensed engaging him
meant death. He took advantage of the moment and slipped through
them into the trees. His legs pumped at superhuman speed. Numbers
were on their side and he had to get away before they reorganized
and made another full-on group attack. He prayed for speed and it
came to him. His steps grew even faster until he was nothing more
than a blur among the trees. Howls sounded in the darkness of the
woods behind him, but they grew more distant with each passing
heartbeat. When he finally stopped, his chest felt as if someone
had struck him with a hammer. He fell to the ground, panting for
air. His body was drenched in sweat and the redness of blood that
wasn’t his own. His eyes slowly closed, watching the falling snow
as it drifted down on him from the heavens, as blackness overtook
him.

When he awoke the sun was
creeping its way above the trees, but a light snow still fell. It
was deep on the ground all around him. He heaved himself to his
feet, and shook himself off, thanking God he had survived the
night. He wiped at the frozen blood on his hands with the tail of
his shirt, his body trembling from the cold, and lumbered off
towards home. He knew only the will of God had kept him from being
frozen to death during the night. He longed for the feel of a warm
fire and prayed sickness would not overtake him from such an
exposure as he had suffered. There was much left to attend to in
both the world of the supernatural and his own life as well. He
thought of Emma and her father and wondered how things fared at
Hartfield.

Far on the other side of Highbury, the
Half-form roared in the night. It lumbered through the forest in a
state of ever-growing awareness. As its body grew more solid, its
mind became more in tune with the world around it. The birth-fog
which had clouded its vision was clearing. It looked up at the
rising sun and was no longer afraid of it. Soon the time would come
and it would be strong enough to leave the shadows and make the
world its play thing.

* * * *

Chapter XVI

T
he
hair was curled
, and the maid sent away,
and Emma sat down to think and be miserable. It was a wretched
business indeed! Such an overthrow of every thing she had been
wishing for! Such a development of every thing most unwelcome! Such
a blow for Harriet! that was the worst of all. Every part of it
brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but, compared
with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have
submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in error—more disgraced by
mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her
blunders have been confined to herself.

“
If I had not persuaded
Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne any thing. He might
have doubled his presumption to me—but poor Harriet!”

How she could have been so
deceived! He protested that he had never thought seriously of
Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she could; but it was all
confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every
thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked,
wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.

The picture! How eager he
had been about the picture! and the charade! and an hundred other
circumstances; how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To
be sure, the charade, with its “ready wit” —but then the “soft
eyes” —in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or
truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed
nonsense?

Certainly she had often, especially of late,
thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had
passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of
taste, as one proof among others that he had not always lived in
the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address, true
elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had
never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful
respect to her as Harriet’s friend.

To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for
her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its
possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had
penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her
about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had
professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and
blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had
been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was
dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many
respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;
proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little
concerned about the feelings of others.

Contrary to the usual
course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting to pay his addresses to her
had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did
him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was
insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the
arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but
she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment
that need be cared for. There had been no real affection either in
his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in
abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or
fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not
trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and
enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of
thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had
fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or
with ten.

But—that he should talk of
encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting
his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry him! should suppose
himself her equal in connexion or mind! look down upon her friend,
so well understanding the gradations of rank below him, and be so
blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no
presumption in addressing her! It was most provoking.

Perhaps it was not fair to
expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and
all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might
prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and
consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the
Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield,
the younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the Eltons
were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was
inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey
estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their
fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely
secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of
consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the
consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first
entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any
alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but
his situation and his civility. But he had fancied her in love with
him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and after raving
a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a
conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and
admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and
obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and
delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided
favourite. If she had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had
little right to wonder that he, with self-interest to blind him,
should have mistaken hers.

The first error and the worst lay at her
door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in
bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far,
assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a
trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and
ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.

“
Here have I,” said she,
“actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this
man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly
never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her
of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to
think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to
accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of
me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and
chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the
opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have
attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some
time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were not to
feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea
of any body else who would be at all desirable for her; William
Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert young
lawyer.”

She stopt to blush and
laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more
dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must
be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all
that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of
future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing
the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and
avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful
reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with
nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most
dreadfully.

To youth and natural cheerfulness like
Emma’s, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day
will hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and
cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful
operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the
eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened
pain and brighter hope.

Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for
comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of
the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of
it.