Guardian Hound (2 page)

# # #

Curled over the tiny desk in his frilly bedroom, Hans found the spell he wanted: Opening of the Mind.

It was like a
Kraftsuppe
, a “perfected” broth, but instead of fortifying the body, it was meant to heal the mind. It would make him open to possibilities, including the ability to learn what was needed.

However, it wasn't a simple culinary recipe. It contained more ingredients than any meal Hans had ever cooked. Not only infusions, tinctures, and herbal waters made up the potion, but spells needed to be performed both before and after a particular ingredient was added.

Hans had never been that good at magic; many in the hound clan weren't. Luckily, the spells seemed simple enough, and he'd only have to add a few charms to the corners of the kitchen, as well as memorize some blessings to be uttered over the herbs.

After reading through the steps carefully, Hans decided he could do it. It was no different than a complex experiment, like those he'd performed at the lab. He would just have to keep track of each step, and be more diligent than ever.

The biggest problem would be finding all the ingredients. Hans already knew not everything on the list was readily available. Plus, as he'd learned to his chagrin, the country names for things at the market were not the same as the town names. He'd have to figure out how to translate the names of some of the rarer herbs to something the people here would understand.

Hans sat back on the tiny chair and sighed, disappointed. He'd wanted to find a spell that he could use tonight, which would change Master Koenig's mind about him so it would be easier when he went back to the
Laboratorium
tomorrow. He'd have to explain it to Father, somehow, as well, when he started making potions.

But Hans was determined. He'd be ready by the end of summer. Time enough to prove to Master Koenig, his father, even the hound clan, that he could be something more than a clumsy oaf.

# # #

Hans looked longingly at the rabbits hanging at the butcher's at the market, but they couldn't afford such luxuries here. Rabbits hadn't been a luxury at home: He'd hunted many himself, his hound soul tracking the scent through fields and woods.

For a moment, Hans' felt his hound soul stirring. It didn't wake as often in Hildesheim as it had in the country. It nosed up to him, regarding him with pleading basset-hound eyes.

He would have to transform in the next week or so. They needed a run.

Homesickness washed over Hans. Maybe for the
Silvester
holidays he could go and visit his cousins, and spend a week running in the fields and woods.

Hans shook himself. He couldn't afford to daydream, not here, not now, with his hound soul so close. He bought what he could, a few cast-off bits of chicken, enough for a stew.

Then Hans made his way over to the northeast corner of the market, where the old women in black dresses and embroidered kerchiefs held court. They came to market with goods they'd made: Pickled onions and carrots, newly spun wool and thick sweaters, berry preserves and honey.

Hans had discovered them early in his search for ingredients. They'd been a gold mine of information as well.

Old Engel waved to Hans as he approached. Her plump cheeks were rosy, and curls of her iron gray hair stuck out from underneath her black kerchief. Her eyes were a watery blue, faded as if they'd stared at the sun too long, in her weathered, wrinkled, browned face. “Eh, got a present for you,” she said, pointing behind her seat.

Hans smiled. Old Engel wasn't as disabled as she pretended to be: He'd seen her stand quick enough when a bee came buzzing. But he indulged her and walked behind her seat. A large burlap sack sat on the ground. Hans picked it up and walked back around.

“What is it?” he asked as he opened it. It was full of pungent leaves, green but starting to wither.

“Thorn apple,” Old Engel said.

“Really?” Hans asked, looking back at her, amazed. He couldn't believe it. It was only midsummer! Yet now he had all the ingredients he needed to create his potion and cast his spells.

“Farmer
Thalberg
had a run of bad luck, brought in some sheep to be slaughtered, and that as well,” she said, nodding. “Now, you know to be careful with those, eh?”

“Yes, I will. Thank you, Grandmother,” Hans said, using the honorific she'd gifted him with.

“I know you're a good lad, but those are powerful strong,” Old Engel insisted. “You test them out first, you hear me?”

“I will. I will!” Hans promised. He already had the herbals waters prepared. If he could get the first batch of these leaves soaking tonight, it would only be a day, maybe two, before he could finish.

“Thank you, so much,” Hans said, gladly counting out the coins into her calloused hand.

“Now, before you go, I want you to meet my granddaughter. Petra. Petra! Come here.”

Hans stood with the sack clutched to his chest, his cheeks flaming.

Women his own age confused him, with their soft curves and sharp tongues. He was never certain how to talk to one.

Petra had a laughing smile, beautiful blond curls sticking out from the edges of her kerchief, and clear blue eyes. She didn't wear black, but a coarse brown apron over her old-fashioned, pale blue blouse and skirt. She curtsied as she held out her hand for Hans.

Hans shifted the bag to his right arm, then realized his mistake and shifted it to his left so he could hold out the appropriate hand. “Very nice to make your acquaintance,” he said, stumbling over the words.

“The pleasure is mine,” Petra replied. “
Grandmama
said you were making a potion.”

“My grandpapa was an
Apotheker
,” Hans explained. He'd given this reason a lot. “I'm just experimenting with some of his recipes. I work in the
Laboratorium
.”

“How exciting!” Petra said with another charming smile.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Hans said, “I,
uhm
, must go now. Nice to meet you.”

“You'll have to tell us how the experiment went,” Petra replied.

“And be careful!” Old Engel called out, always having to get in the last word.

# # #

Hans found it appropriate that the night he was finally ready to cast the final spells was
Johannisfest
, Midsummer's Eve.

If they'd still been in the countryside, all his relatives would have gathered in the village square that night for a bonfire, though several families would also have their own celebrations on their farms. They would have ritually sacrificed dried hops to clear away any bad spirits. After the ceremonies, the teenaged boys would take turns daring each other to jump over the flames from farther and farther away.

Here, in Hildesheim, there was only the one big bonfire in the market. However, they also had fireworks.

Hans was disappointed that he'd miss those, but he really wanted to finish his spell. He'd taken to trying little spells, easy things from
Grandpapa's
books, slaving away at the hot wood-burning stove. He'd explained it to Father as practice for the lab, experiments with precise measurements and exact timing.

Father had been pleased that Hans was finally showing such an interest. And Master Koenig hadn't threatened to send him home early again, though Hans suspected that if this spell didn't work, come the end of the year he would be out of the
Laboratorium
.

Hans hated it all. He hated the hot stove and had burned himself frequently. While
Grandpapa's
concoctions had been pungent, Hans' frequently reeked. He'd never been good at magic, but he worked at it, determined to prove himself.

Father left to go celebrate with the rest of the town—and to drink himself into unconsciousness, Hans suspected. So Hans worked in an empty house that night.

Hans put on his white lab coat over his navy blue work shirt. He was already sweating in the tiny kitchen, but he wanted some protection from the splatters. The single tiny window looked out over the backyard and their square of greenery, but it didn't provide much fresh air. A white-painted kitchen table sat in the center of the room, its top covered with the various potions, herbs, and charms Hans had already prepared. In the corner was a stained copper sink, with a crotchety hand pump for bringing up water.

A black cast-iron stove hulked against one wall, already filled with burning firewood. Hans had two pots boiling on top, ready for the final herbs.

After sharpening his knives with a whetstone, Hans started cutting up the peppermint,
mugwort
, and valerian. The cool scents mingled and reminded him of Grandpapa. Hans used the plain gray stone mortar and pestle to grind up the star anise and cloves, and to crush the periwinkle petals.

Hans moved as slowly and methodically as he could, going back to check the recipe more than once. He found himself rushing, though. Finally, the night was here when he could
do
something about his life. If this spell worked, his whole life could be different.

The first step of the preparation for the thorn apple leaves was already complete. Hans had pounded them with the mortar and pestle, covered them with water and lard, put them into an old earthenware pot, then let them sit for a day. When he lifted off the lid, he had to take a step back as the astringent, musty smell came rolling out.

Old Engel had been right. They were powerful. But Grandpapa had said two cups of the leaves, so that's what Hans used. He carefully lifted the pot off the table and set it on the stove. When the lard melted, Hans stirred it, not letting it boil. Once all the leaves were softened, he strained the liquid, carefully measuring out two cups of it, then adding fresh herbs to the liquid.

Now, for the final steps. Hans reheated the other potions, muttering more than one spell as he cooked and combined ingredients, ending with the liquid from the thorn apples.

Twilight had come and gone, and true night was setting in by the time Hans was ready. The
Kraftsuppe
smelled sour and bitter. He curled his lips back as he lifted it, stopping himself from taking a step away from it.

Even his hound soul wasn't sure this was a good idea.

Hans put down the bowl and walked over the window, looking out over what he could see of the garden, his hound soul looming closer. They both missed the country, so much.

He could never tell Father, but if they'd stayed, he would have applied as a teacher's aid. Not for
Gymnasium
, no, but for the little ones. In his dreams, Hans saw himself leading them through the green grass near the one-room school, a daisy chain of little lights, laughing at his clumsiness and marveling at how many things he could smell.

But Father never would have allowed it. Playing with children all day wasn't a worthwhile occupation for someone of the hound clan.

With a sigh, Hans turned from the window, walked back to the table, and lifted the bowl. With his hound soul at his side, he opened his mouth and poured down the potion.

The vile, foul potion gushed over his tongue, making him gag. It stank worse than anything Hans had ever smelled before, even the bloated duck corpse he'd found in the marshes. He forced himself to swallow, coughing, his eyes watering. Then he drank some more. His hands shook with the effort of keeping the revolting liquid down, but Hans persisted.

Before Hans could fetch himself a glass of water to wash out the taste of burnt hair and rancid oil, the world tilted to the side. Hans felt drunk all at once.

This wasn't right. According to
Grandpapa's
notes, a slow tide of awareness should rise through him.

What had he done wrong?

Hans raced to the open book, forcing his eyes to focus.

He'd done everything right. Made all the secondary potions correct. Then he'd mixed—

Hans sighed. He'd reversed the amounts of two of the potions, and had ended up doubling the amount of the thorn apple liquid.

Darkness approached from all sides. Hans whined, but it was too late.

The door opened, and Hans fell through.

# # #

Hans stood under a gray cloud-filled sky. An angry sun burned at the horizon. Everything smelled dead, like dust from an ancient tomb. Nothing grew here as far as he could see in any direction—the land ran flat to the horizon, full of ashes.

Yet Hans knew he wasn't alone. Something pressed at him, first from one side, then the other. He couldn't see what it was, but he knew something was there.

When Hans poked at his hound soul, he screamed, a thin call that bled quickly away.

His hound soul was wreathed in shadows, black formless things that surrounded the basset hound, stinging his sensitive nose and pricking his shoulder, back, paws—everywhere.

“Stop!” Hans called, but there was nothing to hear him.

Now, shadows formed around Hans as well. Or maybe they'd been there all along, and only now could he see them, give them a name.

They wanted in. They wanted him. They wanted his life, his breath, his vision.

And they wanted out.

The shadows were trapped here, on this dead planet, a planet they'd killed.

They were parasites, with no life of their own. They needed the lives of others so they could continue to exist. They were dying, here, starting to eat one another.

They showed Hans the magic he'd be able to do with their help, such as confusing the minds of people like Master Koenig, so he'd always be able to stay in the
Laboratorium
. Father would be proud of Hans, and their family would be recognized, finally, by the sight hounds in the court. They showed him a charm he could imbue with a wisp of shadow so he could have any girl he wanted.

On and on came their honeyed promises as they stroked him, petting his hound soul now. Hans let himself be lulled with the tales and images—Father standing beside him as he worked, beaming with pride. Maybe even a medal or two for things he'd discovered through his experiments, properties and chemicals the shadows showed him.