A Crimson Howl

Wax dripped down carved bone as the candles guttered in their holders, and Annalie quickly lit four more, not wanting to lose their warmth. Even a mausoleum as grand as this had been built with little thought for comfort, and wind slipped through cracks in the stained glass windows and marble walls. When the light steadied again, she knelt before the upright casket that bore her grandmother's name, trying not to shake while she looked at the remains carefully posed behind the glass.

Polished bone rested in a shroud dyed deep red. Gold gleamed where sinew and muscle had once been, pinning the skeleton together so that it stood upright, hands pressed together as if in prayer. Her grandmother had faithfully served The Lady of the Dead, and even now her silver-edged blades gleamed at her feet, nestled in their own crimson cloth.

Once, she had promised to bequeath them to Annalie if she'd wanted them. But Annalie hadn't, not then. Did she wish to have them now? No. The fighting callouses had long faded from her palms, and her body had the leanness of a starving beast, not a seasoned warrior. Even her faith had left her, first abandoned and then lost. Why had she even come here? What comfort did she hope to find in the company of the dead?

Still, she looked up at her grandmother, the flickering candlelight creating the illusion of movement. For a moment, the bones seemed to shift with breath, and the jewels braided into the thick, grey hair glittered as if the hollow skull bent toward her. It was enough to coax forth words that might have otherwise remained silent, unheard.

"What do I do?" she whispered, ashamed at having to even ask such a question.

The vast walls around her breathed silence. The little tongues of flame glittered like fireflies against the forest of caskets, so many wolves lost to time and yet still revered. Beyond the thick windowpanes, the moon rose huge and full, a sweet promise of hours of night to come.

Yet Annalie knew it was all an empty sort of peace. Somewhere out there, George slumped in a drunken stupor, and she flinched at the thought of what would happen once he roused. She had slipped away from him only once in their three years of marriage, and what he had done in response to that burned on her arm even now.

She inched closer to the glass, seeking comfort of any kind, and found herself tucking her legs beneath her just as she had as a child. The gesture was still familiar, still natural, ingrained from so many nights of settling at Grandmother's feet with one of the little chocolate marrow cakes that Iselda had been known for—the rich treat baked right in the split stag bone that the marrow had been scooped from—and listening to her spin stories by firelight.

Annalie's favorite had always been about the she-wolf who had crept out of the forest one winter night, slinking in her fur to find warmth from human fires. A villager frightened by her glowing eyes shot her from his window like a coward and she fled, hiding in the gloom of the churchyard for safety. There, her blood stained the graveyard roses red, and that was how the petals bloomed every year afterward, long after she had bitten the bullet free from her flesh and limped away.

"But why wouldn't they bloom white, again? If a wolf can shift into a woman then shouldn't a red rose be able to shift back to white?"

Annalie had asked the same questions each time, always hoping for a different answer, a happier answer.

And her grandmother had always smiled and given the same response.

"Sometimes one's nature changes too much. We can travel by foot or paw, child, but we can never go back along the path and choose differently, not without whatever scars we picked up in the meantime."

"Then I must make the safest choice, always."

Ah, what a bold declaration from one so young, and her grandmother had laughed, although perhaps with a tinge of sadness. Annalie now felt she understood the reason for that sadness: the knowledge that such innocence couldn't last long in life. And it hadn't—just long enough to get her into trouble.

The skeleton's teeth were still recognizable to her, their crooked whiteness dominated by sharp canines. If she were to run her tongue over her own fangs, she would feel a matching sharpness. Why hadn't she bitten him, the first time he had made her howl in pain? Why hadn't she caught his throat and choked the life from him?

Shame. That was it. It throbbed in time with her swollen cheek and nose. Dogs were beaten, not wolves. Dogs whimpered at their masters, not wolves with their mates.

Empty eye sockets remained pockets of shadow, and jawbone remained wired in place with delicate rose gold, but in her mind, she saw and heard her grandmother with perfect clarity while thinking back to the last conversation they'd had.

"He's human, silly girl. And you're sure you love him?"

"I'm sure I want to marry him."

The candles around her flickered with the ghost of her grandmother's sigh.

"That's not what I asked at all. What does he do, this human?"

"He's the biggest man in the timber industry. He owns half the forestland around the city."

"So, he's someone used to cutting things to the shapes he wants. Dangerous, dangerous..."

"Not dangerous at all; his business is secure and he's so rich that an alpha-king would look like a pauper beside him."

"Jewels are for the dead; they weigh down the living."

"Yes, but I'll be comfortable with him. Never having to fear about having my throat torn out or fleeing for my life from a pack coup. And no human will dare attack me, not with his last name attached to mine."

"But is it love? For the both of you? Oh, child, don't be dazzled by how brightly he might shine. A collar is still a collar no matter how many diamonds adorn it. He must love you, or he will only try to own you."

Annalie rubbed at her shoulder, feeling the heat there even through her thick wool coat. The binding sigil that lashed her will to his was a pretty-looking thing, the ink glimmering like moonlight even in the dark, but it had burned like hellfire from the day it had been tattooed into her skin. Even now, it stung at her, a malevolent presence sullen at how she'd been able to slip away because George was too drunk to properly control her. The leash dropped from clumsy fingers, the pull of its weight a reminder that it would be picked up again in the sober light of morning.

Annalie looked down at her hands, knuckles white from squeezing at each other. Every breath reminded her of the passing seconds and how they slid into minutes and then hours, stealing away this night of freedom. Her mouth trembled, and she hated herself for it.

"What do I do?" she said, again, her voice desperate enough to crack on the last word.

Footsteps whispered against the stone floor. The candles brightened as if bidding welcome to the new presence. Annalie jerked upright, cheeks hot as a priestess emerged from the gloom, hands folded at her heart and gaze cast downward. The darkness of her hair and robes blended her into the shadows just beyond the candlelight, and only her face appeared defined, amber-eyed and sharp-angled.

The priestess seemed unsurprised to find herself with living company, and held out a hand as Annalie backed away. "Peace. This is a place of safety."

Annalie shook her head. Peace? She hadn't known that for years. "It isn't for me. I didn't present myself to the alpha-king and ask for permission to be here."

"This mausoleum is part of the Lady's domain, not his. Besides..." A trace of a smile crossed the priestess' face. "I remember you, Annalie. We all do, and our blades will cut through whatever tries to drag you from this sacred ground."

How strange it felt now, that immediate trust. That simple concern. Annalie didn't dare let herself hope that such things could seep back into her life. "I didn't think an ex-novice who left to marry a human would be so well-received."

"The Lady watches over all, whether they bow their heads to Her or not. As for the rest of the pack...we Handmaidens hold ourselves aloof in our cloister, but our ears still twitch at any gossip. They miss you as much as we do. Ah, but you don't believe me. I can see as much in your eyes."

"I was so foolish," whispered Annalie. "I turned my back on everyone just for what I thought would be a safe life."

Then she turned away, unable to face that frank gaze.

A short silence passed before the priestess said, "You've been among humans too long; such self-flagellation helps with nothing. Or does feeling like you deserve this make his heavy fists and jealous nature easier to bear?"

Annalie worked hard to keep her voice steady as she said, "It's rude to answer your question with one of my own, but I must know something. Were the rumors true? Did my grandmother die of heartbreak?"

"People love to make tales out of nothing."

"That's not an answer. She died a month after I left. She was so strong...her body wouldn't give out unless there was a reason." It hurt more than anything, the idea that she had killed her grandmother through grief. The priestess' words had cut through and exposed her heart, and now it felt like it wouldn't stop bleeding.

Her answer wasn't any gentler. "I don't know what brought her into my care. Her heart stopped, yes—and now it's rotted away. But she was devout, and her bones have been blessed. Under a full moon, that may be enough to receive answers from those who can no longer speak."

"I lost my faith."

"She didn't lose hers." The priestess' voice remained calm as she added, "Look and you will find she's already answered your first question."

A chill shivered through Annalie as she turned at the priestess' words, sensing their power even as their meaning remained dim. Then she gasped, one hand flying to her mouth as her gaze fell on the skeleton in its casket. Blood streamed down an unmoving jaw, dark trails reaching the jeweled shroud that swathed everything from collar bone to ankle. The smell of it hung thick in the air, too, as if daring her to deny its existence.

Even as she stared, she grew aware of the strange way the fabric against her shoulder had begun sticking to her skin. Her hand fell from her mouth to blindly grope at the area. Wetness met her fingers, and then she finally looked away, gasping again at the blood now coating her hand.

Annalie ripped at her coat and then her dress, frantic until the skin of her shoulder was exposed in full. The binding sigil gleamed at her through the thick blood, uncomfortable as always in its distinctive, prickling way. There was no wound on the skin, there, and yet...so much blood...

"Do you understand what she's told you?" said the priestess. "The sigil must be destroyed if you don't wish to return to him."

"It can't be burned off or cut away," whispered Annalie. "He's told me that."

"It's not her blades that are bloody."

When Annalie said nothing, mind still reeling, the priestess took a measured step closer and gestured at the blood. "She answered, but it must be your blood. Your teeth. It's your skin, is it not?"

"And my choice," said Annalie, unable to hold back the bitterness over her younger self's foolishness.

The priestess waved it away. "We are not rabbits. We do not freeze in the face of fear. You made a choice, once. Now make another one. Leave him—or return."

The implacability of the words drove Annalie's gaze back to her grandmother's casket. The trails streaming from the jaw had already dwindled to sluggish trickles. Her stomach twisted at the thought of biting into her own flesh, of mauling herself until the sigil was ripped apart.

Yet even as she hesitated, a shadow flickered past one of the lower windows.  Annalie flinched, already hearing George's voice in her head even as she knew that he couldn't step into pack territory. No, he  would simply pull her will back to his, back to their elegant, empty mansion in one of the human districts of the city. Could she bear it, again?

As Annalie pushed aside the ripped fabric to fully bare her shoulder, the priestess knelt beside her, face expressionless. Her hand felt warm and sure as it clasped Annalie's free one. "Courage has nothing to do with being unafraid."

Annalie just shivered, feeling her breath come short and fast as she willed her teeth to grow sharp. They ached in her jaw as she twisted her head until the sigil gleamed at her, as soft and deceptive as starlight while it pulsed. Before the sick pit in her stomach could rise up in her throat, she bit. Blood and magic burst in her mouth, and nausea swelled as she bit again for a better grip, whining as pain throbbed bone-deep. Not from her teeth, no; that was its own form of agony. This unsteady, panicked sensation was the sigil faltering against her torn skin, trying to make her stop.

When she felt flesh fall loose in her mouth, Annalie gagged and recoiled, the world swimming around her as she spat at the floor, eyes squeezed shut to avoid seeing anything.

A yip rose above her ragged breathing, and then a whine. Not from the priestess—from somewhere outside. In the moonlit land that peered through the mausoleum's opened door, shadows flickered. Wolves. Some in their fur, others in their skin and dressed. All of them paced past each other, edgy and snappish from the air thickening with her fear and pain. Her pack had found her.

"They can't help, yet," said the priestess, also watching them. "But they're waiting until they can."

Annalie's only response was a gut-deep sob. The sigil pressed its will against her, frantic as her pulse. It was damaged, but not destroyed. She would have to take more. The thought made her heave, and blood and bile spattered the floor.

The priestess' robes flowed like ink as her hand tightened against Annalie's. "Everything comes with a price. Even freedom."

Annalie gasped in a few sick breaths, wishing there was another way out of this. Blood and drool trailed from her mouth as she looked up at the glittering skeleton. The candlelight flickered over the bones, and for a moment, the shrouded ribs seemed to shift as if with breaths, and the smooth brow seemed to dip as if looking down to where she crouched. Her grandmother's voice rang through her head as clearly as a bell. Whatever happens, there will always be a path back home, and it will feel the same beneath your feet no matter how much you've changed.

Another sob escaped her, but then Annalie turned to her shoulder once more, teeth desperate as they found the heat of the sigil through the blood. She was ruining her arm just as she had ruined her life by choosing him. She could have spent her grandmother's final weeks with her. Could have spent the past years of her life running with her pack, running with a wolf who wanted every part of her, not just her pretty face and the sound of her voice as she agreed. Her life would have been harder and plainer, but it would have been whole...

The noise that came out of her was less a scream of pain than a howl of rage as she gave the sigil her hardest bite, yet. Then—slackness. Not just in her arm, but throughout her body. Even as she gagged again, her breath coming out in great, heaving gulps, the scorching desperation of the sigil faded into the simple, raw agony of wounded flesh.

When the priestess reached out to press a cloth against her shoulder, Annalie knew it was over even before she said, "Welcome back, Annalie Northwell of the Northwell Pack."

Annalie just shook her head, clutching at her bleeding arm. "I don't feel better. Not at all."

"That comes with time." The priestess' hand on her good shoulder was nothing more than a light touch, but Annalie still recognized it as a gesture for her to get up. She did, eyes dazedly finding her grandmother's bones once more. The blood had disappeared from the shroud, and the skeletal grin was nothing more than polished bone and bared teeth.

As Annalie reached up to push hair damp with sweat back from her eyes, the wedding ring on her finger flashed at her. The sight stirred a growl in her throat, the first one in years. This time, her teeth bit against precious metal instead of binding magic, but she spat it out with the same fury. The ring fell to the floor in a wink of diamonds, their glitter snuffed out as it rolled into a pool of her blood.

Around them, the candles flickered, and for a moment Annalie thought she heard her grandmother's laugh of pride, and she knew then that she was still loved. Then the hands against her flexed, gently coaxing her to move, and she turned and let the priestess guide her out of the mausoleum.

As they stepped through the doorway, the crisp night air shivered with the first howls of the pack welcoming her home.