Sohna and Vivian - My Brother's Keeper

She sighed again and heaved herself into a sitting position on the bed, the vaguely queasy feeling she’d come to associate with extreme hunger threatening to overtake her.

Didn’t I already get up and eat, though? she wondered, reaching for her robe. Or did I dream that? Not that I’d be surprised if you started wanting to eat twice a night now …

She padded downstairs to the kitchens in the dim light of minimal candles. Although servants kept the palace lit to prevent accidents in the night, the recent siege meant the lighting was only of the dimmest and most necessary sort (as at stairways and intersections), and that blackout curtains were drawn in every window. But once in the kitchen, Virginia found that the nightly snack she’d prepared for herself before going to bed was already gone.

“I did eat already,” she said to no one in particular. Her queasiness seemed to step up a notch with the declaration. “Okay, okay, I’ll eat again. Geez, do you have to be this much like your dad?”

Wanting to hurry and get back to bed, she chose some handy fruit - strawberries, grapes, and two bananas - Where did Wendell get those? Oh, I forgot, he’s shopping in New York now - and ate quickly.

Halfway back upstairs, however, she decided that had been a really bad idea. What had started as a slight queasiness before she’d eaten had suddenly blossomed into downright nausea. With one hand on the banister, she slid the other into the crease between her breasts and the baby in a vain attempt to hold her protesting stomach. She felt overheated, as if the air were closing in around her. Maybe if I go for a walk outside, she thought.

The slight breeze that wafted through the gardens helped some, but Virginia discovered quickly that she felt best if she kept walking, so she lifted the latch to the inner gate and continued on out to the formal grounds. It was a dark night; no moon lit the walkways, though with their surfaces of white gravel they remained visible as ghostly trails. In a way, she was glad not to see the rest of the outer garden - it had been trampled heavily by the invading army and still lay in shambles; she’d seen it in the daylight earlier. As it was, at night she could imagine it the way it had been. By now, the lilacs would have been finished and the roses started blooming. Not that she dwelled on the subject overly much; it only served to remind her of the sleep she was missing.

Why did I have to eat so fast? she demanded of herself. To hurry and get back to bed? Right, that’s a laugh. What’s the matter with me anyway? I knew I was queasy when I got up. When did I start eating to solve a problem? A year ago I’d never have eaten if I felt like that. And I said you were like your dad. I’m the one who’s turning into him! She tried not to think of how Wolf was not there and how much she wanted him to be, knowing it was useless to be angry that he was absent right when she was obviously getting sick, but a tear escaped her anyway. On a practical level, however, she wished she would just hurry up and toss her cookies so she could get back to bed.

It didn’t take her long to realize that she was about to get her last wish. Breaking into a cold sweat, she veered suddenly off the white pathway, inanely not wanting to make a mess there despite the ruined state of the garden. She’d just reached the relative cover of some still-standing hedges when she finally lost the offending meal, and was still standing there shaking, trying to decide if she really felt any better, when rough hands seized her from behind.

The nearly overpowering stench of mildew and rot made Wolf want to retch as he eased open the door to the Swamp Witch’s cellar. It had been bad enough upstairs in the close air of the little cottage; the odor of what lay beneath made what had been a psychological attack - the dread of what he might meet - into a physical one as well. With one hand rubbing the irritation from his now-watering eyes, he gritted his teeth and forced the door open all the way.

Rickety wooden stairs led down into darkness. He stood for awhile on the threshold, altering his eyes to their more light sensitive wolf mode and allowing them to adjust to the dimness. After a moment, he could make out the earthen floor below. Cautiously, he started down, testing the strength of the treads as he went.

At the bottom, a vague mist hovered near the floor, not thick enough to obscure the ground beneath it, but substantial enough to leave a film of condensation on his boots. An indeterminate background of static magic made his hackles rise, but he forced himself to stay calm and analyze it. After a few moments, he realized it was coming not from the mist, nor the now-empty bier which stood moldering in the center of the room, but from the many mirrors arranged around the room’s perimeter. His eyes grew huge and round as he stared at them, their clear and unfogged glasses, here in this humid atmosphere, hinting at their nature even to those who could not feel the magic’s presence.

“So many!” he exclaimed softly, distraught at the thought of the overwhelming task he faced. A few mirrors! he thought, mentally repeating what he’d been told. There have to be at least fifty!

“Ooohhh,” he moaned to himself. “I’m never going to get finished - well, not in time, anyway - my cub will be going to school by the time I finish here ... well, of course she won’t be going to school yet; it won’t take that much time, but ...” He scratched his head fitfully, staring at the mirrors as if they were a jury ready to convict him. “I have to be back in time for the baby to be born,” he explained to them reasonably, as if they had inquired about it. Suddenly realizing that some might actually be capable of genuinely questioning him, he tried to look away, but succeeded only in seeing his reflection multiplied tens of times in the frames behind him. Two cast his image back subtly altered, though he couldn’t have said exactly what had been changed, only that the results sent goosebumps down his spine.

His eyes snapped to the packed earth of the floor, studying the tips of his sodden boots. It was safe to look there ... wasn’t it, he wondered? Realizing he had started to hyperventilate, he tried to calm himself by chanting “The Swamp Witch is not here; the Swamp Witch is not here,” since she obviously wasn’t - her brand of magic was quite distinctive in ... oh, he couldn’t call it a smell or a feeling; it wasn’t really like that at all, but well, it was distinctive. And not here. But the mirrors, though not evil, had been used for evil purposes, he couldn’t help but think. Was there some miasma of residue ... ?

“NO! Stop it!” he told himself out loud. “You’re here; just do what you came here for. Move the mirrors, then you can leave.”

A trickle of sweat ran into his eye and he wiped it absently away.

“Right!” he declared, looking up.

The mirror across from him, framed in an intricate network of carved vines, showed him his own sweat-soaked visage, and oddly, also the vapor condensing from his mouth as he spoke. Hadn’t the room been cool - as a cellar would be - when he’d entered it, he thought? Humid, yes, but not hot. It had grown warmer as he’d stood there, though, until now it felt like a steaming jungle to him. He panted in the heat, dragging a hand across his burning forehead and the puffs of his breath ballooned before him.

It shouldn’t do that, he thought. I could see my breath when I came in, but it was cool in here then. I shouldn’t see it now.

“Never mind,” he told himself sternly, “It doesn’t matter. Just hurry up and move the mirrors so you can leave!”

Nevertheless, he didn’t move; just stood there absently staring at the mirrors in front of him. Where to start? he wondered. With something simple; one that wasn’t as powerful or dangerous as the others might be ... but which one was that? He frowned worriedly. I should know, I should know that ... but it was no use. He just couldn’t think.

“No!” he barked in exasperation. “I can’t think. How could I think in here; it’s so hot, my clothes are sticking to me, I’ve got a kink in my tail ...”

Well, that was something he could do something about, he decided. After all, who was going to see him here in the Swamp Witch’s cellar? He reached down into the back of his pants and dragged the offending appendage free, sighing in relief for a moment before the awful realization hit him: His tail was much, much longer than it had been when he’d left Wendell’s palace.

“What the ... but it’s not ...” He thought for a moment. No, it isn’t full moon. He’d made sure of that not too long before they’d left the Citadel. Not even the most militant wizards would have expected him to fulfill his mission in that condition. But not only wasn’t the moon full, she was waning, and barely a sliver of her was left in the sky. Why then would the fever have come upon him, why would his cycle suddenly change so dramatically, he wondered? Then, with sudden clarity, he knew. Virginia was in labor.

Labor was, however, the farthest thing from Virginia’s mind at the moment. She was curled up - as far as was possible - on the muddy ground of a small stockade, crying as quietly as she could so as to not attract attention. All around her, aside from an occasional guard, slept an army - one that hadn’t left the Fourth Kingdom despite what the Wizards’ Council had said. She had no idea what country it represented and didn’t care.

The band of scouts had taken her, bodily, from the garden of Wendell’s castle, and she hadn’t been able to do a thing: as when Rafe had kidnapped her, she had been unwilling to put up too much of a fight for fear the baby might be hurt. As it was, the leader had backhanded her across the face - her eye was swollen already - because she had thrown up on him. Thinking about it now gave her a small amount of pleasure - it wasn’t something she’d have been able to manage had she planned it, but she thought he really did deserve it just for being so stupid; surely he must have known she was sick before he’d captured her!

Her tears returned quickly as she thought about her predicament, wishing for the thousandth time that Wolf were there; wishing he had at least been at the castle to notice she was gone, but instead he was away on that business for the wizards. She could hope for no rescue this time; she’d have to rescue herself somehow. The trouble was, she had no idea how to accomplish such a thing: she was locked in the stockade, a small, muddy pit with high straight walls of pointed wooden poles. If she weren’t pregnant, she might try climbing them ... but then, if she weren’t pregnant, she might have tried a lot of things to keep them from taking her.

She shifted position, grimacing as she soaked up yet more of the mud. What a stupid thing to worry about, she scolded herself, cried harder, tried to stifle the noise it made with her hand, and ended up smearing her face with the slimy stuff. She was just about to choke with self-pity when she saw, through the crack between the poles of the stockade fence, the captain who had captured her talking to a young guard. In the still darkness of the early morning, she could just make out the iridescent blue of fairy wings behind him. Forcing herself to remain quiet and still, not easy with her body aching from the capture and her illness, and insisting she change position every ten minutes or so (at least, she thought, her nausea had finally abated), she strained to hear what they were saying.

“You keep an eye on her,” ordered the captain. “And make sure she stays quiet. She’s our ticket to getting in that castle!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just remember, keep her quiet,” he emphasized. “She makes one peep, you make sure she can’t make another, is that clear?”

After a split second’s hesitation, the young guard replied, “Yes, sir.”

“You got a problem?” demanded the captain belligerently.

“I just thought that ...”

“You aren’t supposed to think, soldier! You follow orders!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t worry. She ain’t gonna be around long enough to need any of our food supply,” he chortled. “What there is of it anyway.”

Eyes wide with disbelief, Virginia watched him walk away.

He’d been out of her line of vision for only a few moments when she realized she was shaking violently. She couldn’t think. What could she do? Not just let them kill her, but how could she stop them? There was no way, no way at all, nothing ...

She began to sob in little gulping spasms that quickly turned into a frenzied gasping for air; all she could see a blur in front of her. The baby kicked her hard. She put her hand to the spot and cried harder, kneeling in the cold mud. Where is Wolf? I want him here, please ... please, please, please ...

“Please ...” she moaned, “please ...” and burst out crying, loudly.

The gate to her private stockade was abruptly thrown open, hitting the timbers behind it with a loud clatter of wood striking wood.

“Be quiet!” shouted a youthful male voice, still too high pitched to sound really authoritative. Virginia looked up at him, but could see only a blurry shape in the dark, holding a bright lantern. “Quiet, you, or I’ll ...” He turned the lantern and shone the beam upon her, whatever he would have done lost as his eyes fell upon her.

She wanted to say, “Or what, you’ll kill me? You’re going to do it anyway!” but no longer cared enough to bother. It wouldn’t get her out; why waste the energy, she thought, sinking down farther into the mud, still sobbing fitfully.

The guard stared at the young woman groveling in the mud in front of him, pregnant almost to bursting, he thought. She didn’t look like a threat; he’d been told earlier that they’d captured a major member of the pro-wolf faction. He didn’t know what he’d expected - a half-wolf, maybe, or at least someone who looked wicked, as if they took some perverse pleasure from setting the wolfs on the respectable population of the kingdoms. Not this - not someone who reminded him all too well of his young aunt, whose unborn child would now never see its father. It had been his loss, in a battle of this foul war, as well as the loss of his older brother (the act which had precipitated his kingdom’s march on the Fourth), that had spurred him to join the cause. His father already gone to lead the Eighth’s army, he - Reginald, second son of Gregor, had left home despite his mother’s protestations that he was too young and should stay in any case to protect the succession.

The regiment he’d found - away from his father’s command (he knew his father would likely send him home as well) - must have known his identity; there just were not all that many blue fairies except those in the hybrid royal house, but they had gone along with the deceit he had invented to explain himself. He’d been ready for blood - to give those wolf-lovers what they deserved; what they were obviously asking for! - he’d been ready for anything ... anything except this.

What possible reason could his commander have for killing a pregnant woman? So their rations wouldn’t be stretched to feed yet another mouth (or two), he understood, but if she were to be held for ransom, as he’d been given to understand, why not let her go upon its fulfillment? Was she that much of a danger?

A small thought crept into his mind that she might be capable of practicing some magic to deceive him ... even now, she might be influencing him in a bid to escape! Quickly, he averted his eyes from hers lest he be caught in the hypnotic spell, and backed up to slam the gate closed, then realized he hadn’t yet gotten her quiet.

“Be qui ...” he began, then realized it did little good to simply say the words. Captain Barston had given him orders to beat her into submission if necessary, but, seeing her, he doubted he’d be able to go through with it. Unless, of course, she was really trying to magically influence him; unless she was as evil as she’d have to be for them to want to kill her - then he could flog her until she lost consciousness, he thought, take revenge for his brother and uncle! But not unless he were absolutely sure - he could never look at her and do it unless he were sure.

Why? he argued with himself. Of course she must be a witch the enemy is using - why else order her death? Why claim her as a major member of the opposition? I should just beat her - beat her until she screams and bleeds and the baby dies in a bloody hemorrhage!

“No,” he whispered. No, what am I saying? I don’t have to guess, I can ... but why should I bother when she’s obviously the enemy or she wouldn’t be here? Why waste time? Barston will hear her and come back and wonder why I didn’t do my job; just slap her until she shuts up! Now! It’ll take too long to do ... No, just ...

He made the gesture with his hand - an old one his mother had taught him as soon as he’d reached the age of reason, a simple fairy spell she’d said would be invaluable for a member of the royal family: a way to tell if someone were ensorcelling you, bending your will to theirs. With a snap of the wrist, he let it go, glancing furtively up at her eyes, the finger sign of warding ready.

He didn’t need it. The woman stared at him through swollen blue eyes, frightened and guileless. Confused, he stared back, not even realizing his mouth was open until she spoke.

“Please let me go,” she whispered breathlessly, little hesitating hitches between her words from sobs that hadn’t completely ended. “Please ...” There was no magic in the entreaty.

Oddly, in his head, he heard an argument telling him his mother’s magic was useless and that he needed to kill the woman in front of him immediately or have his side face dire consequences in the war, but he pushed it away, knowing it was false, realizing then that he’d gotten it wrong, that the thoughts he’d had about saving the woman’s life were his own thoughts and the others were false, not the other way around as he’d been led to believe. Frightened, both because of the power it would take to exert such influence on someone from afar, and by the sudden uncomfortable idea that the influence might extend farther than just over himself. It wasn’t something he really wanted to think about, though, so he pushed that away too, and just focused on the woman.

“Please,” she croaked softly, “Please don’t kill me ...”

Of course she’d heard that, he realized.

“No, shhh!” he said, realized it wasn’t much different from everything he’d said to her before, and knelt down to face her. “Shhh! Can you walk?” he whispered.

She blinked, looking at him incredulously, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He swallowed, himself, realizing only then what he intended to do and that it meant not only desertion, but treason. Or did it, he wondered? What was really going on? Were they in fact all being led? If so, wouldn’t justice be his duty? He was risking a lot, true ... his title, his position, his freedom ... possibly his life. What if he were wrong?

No, that’s that other voice!

Abruptly, he made his decision. “Let’s go! Shhh!” he told her as he took her by the arm to help her stand. She stumbled for a moment, unsteady in the trampled mud and her own ungainly body. Her pregnancy was a lot farther along than he’d at first noticed, and he wondered if she could make it to where they had to go. He knew she’d try though; she’d have to - to stay here meant her death, and she knew it. With his finger to his lips, he led to the gate, and finding the way clear, closed it behind them.

Virginia followed her captor out of the stockade, still unable to keep from shaking. His hesitation when he’d seen her and the few murmured words he’d let slip as he considered his course of action giving her hope that he truly meant to set her free, but she couldn’t be sure. It was possible he was only leading her to a punishment ... or to her death - No! Don’t think it! You’ll start crying again, and you can’t afford to make any noise out here! At least you’re out of the stockade, which is better than inside it! She hoped that was true, anyway.

Still, she thought, the fact that the young guard had insisted she remain quiet coupled with his own noiseless progression continued to give her hope. When he set the lantern down at his post and began to walk away, gesturing for her to follow, she was almost certain he intended to lead her to freedom.

They threaded their way through the semidarkness of the camp, passing murky blank shapes she supposed were tents, zigzagging between them to better avoid the dim lanterns set out at the guardposts. Fortunately, the lanterns were shaded so that the enemy - Wendell’s army, she realized - would not be able to detect them at a distance. They were barely visible here, used mainly as the guard had used his to observe her, with a panel that opened on one side, the way she might use a flashlight. Eventually they reached the edge of the camp and stepped out into the forest; a change she could not so much see as feel: The air grew at once cooler and more still, and the ground upon which she walked became littered with dead leaves and twigs instead of the heavily trampled earth. She stopped, cringing, as something snapped under her foot.

The fairy whirled at the sound and stood for a moment, listening to the darkness. Satisfied, he straightened up and she saw his hands form a slight gesture before he pointed at her feet. Fairy magic,> she thought apprehensively, recalling the way the three sprite-like fairies in the Deadly Swamp had mischievously separated her from her father. The boy ... man ... teenager? who now led her was the only fairy she’d seen at the camp (though admittedly she’d seen only the four who had caught her plus this one). What if he ... Stop it! Just ... stop it! Quit thinking about it, just go!

When she did take a step she was surprised to find she could no longer feel the forest floor beneath her feet but instead felt as if she were walking across a thickly carpeted room. It made no sound whatsoever and she suspiciously wondered if her feet were even touching the ground at all, though she kept going as fast as she reasonably could to put distance between herself and the camp, slowing only when she felt a cramp in her left side and beneath her belly.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she pressed the light button on her watch, peering at it anxiously before letting her breath out. No problem, she thought when she saw it’d been a little over fifteen minutes since the last one, which had been eleven minutes fourteen seconds after the first. It can’t be labor, they’re getting farther apart, not closer. Must be that false labor whatever-it’s-called or just gas from whatever made me sick before - that’s what it really feels like. Oh, well, it’s better than throwing up. Nevertheless, when it happened four more times in the next hour, though nothing so painful that she couldn’t keep walking and in no real intervals she could set her watch by (which she’d imagined labor pains should be like), she began to worry just a bit, though she knew she was probably being silly about it. She still had another two weeks to go before her delivery date, after all, and these gas pains were nothing like labor ... were they?

With the break of dawn, however, she suddenly forgot about trying to count minutes and seconds when she saw, far in the distance, across the mist-shrouded valley before her, the high, weather-scarred peaks of Dragon Mountain. She had something more solid to worry about now: they had come out on the wrong side of the army camp from Wendell’s castle and were now well on their way to the Ninth Kingdom.

“We’re going the wrong way!” she blurted out.

Her youthful benefactor regarded her with an air of assumed worldliness and patiently explained that no, they were going in exactly the right direction if they didn’t want to be followed and captured: The army would assume that she’d head back for the Fourth Kingdom’s capital, and the soldiers could go much faster than (he implied) she could in her condition.

Pursuit was not something she’d really thought about once they’d gotten clear of the camp without anyone raising the alarm, but he was right, they were bound to notice she was gone sooner or later, and if they had to guess in which direction, they’d be sure to choose the one back to the castle from where they’d taken her. Only ...

“But why would they guess we’d gone that way?” she asked, starting to panic. “Wouldn’t they just follow our trail and know which way we went?”

The boy smiled devilishly.

“We didn’t leave a trail,” he said smugly, wiggling his fingers suggestively.

“You used magic?” she asked.

“Fairy magic,” he told her. “Not detectable. Not by them, anyway.”

“Dogs can’t even follow it?”

“They don’t have dogs,” he assured her. It didn’t escape her notice that his reply did not answer her question.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He sounded exactly like a teenager that had been asked one too many questions by a parent. “Dogs have to be fed. There isn’t enough.”

“Not enough food?” she asked. When did this happen? she wondered.

“No, not enough food,” he repeated as if she were a bit slow.

They walked in silence a few moments, picking their way down the gradual slope towards the valley.

“Of course, it doesn’t mean that once they don’t find us in that direction that they won’t look this way anyway,” he ventured.

Great, she thought, and tried to pick up her pace a bit.

By noon she’d learned he was Gwendolyn’s brother - he’d asked her if his sister was being humanely treated as a prisoner, and she could tell he hadn’t really believed her reply that Gwen was staying at the Wizards’ Citadel by her own choice so as to stay out of the war (the wizards had convinced her that nothing she could do or say to her parents would be able to break through the effect of the curse). But although Virginia could tell from some things Reginald let slip that he suspected some sort of magical influence might be creating the reasons for the war - for which she was grateful, as he’d told her, when she’d asked, that this was the reason he’d let her go - she’d also been able to tell that he had no love for wolfs.

“A wolf killed my brother,” he’d told her simply, if irrationally, since Queen Riding Hood III had described exactly how she’d found Gunther frozen beneath the ice. And when Virginia had tried to correct him, he’d acknowledged that the queen might have found his remains that way, but that nevertheless, the death blow had ‘obviously’ been struck by a wolf. ‘Obviously’, he’d said, because Gunther had been on a crusade to eradicate all the wolfs; therefore only a wolf would have the motivation to kill him. When she’d pointed out that his death could have been accidental, he brushed off the suggestion as extremely unlikely: His brother was an excellent horseman and outdoorsman - accidents didn’t happen to him.

Ordinarily, Virginia would have sighed and patiently continued trying to chip away at his resistance - after all, she reasoned, he’d been able to see through the curse well enough to let her go; he might eventually be able to see through this part of it too - but by noon she’d come to realize that time was not going to be on her side. By then her contractions - she could no longer think of them as anything else - had narrowed to six or seven minutes apart; still not as exact as clockwork, since they varied by as much as twenty seconds either way, but strong enough - and steady enough - she knew they had to be the real thing. Still, she said nothing to Reginald about them, figuring it would do little except further burden him. He’d find out soon enough, she thought, wondering for the first time in a long time if the baby would look very wolflike at birth and how her wolf-hating companion would react if it did. Oh, Wolf, she thought, is this what you meant by ‘knowing’ you had to be here when the baby came? Did you foresee all this happening? She knew she shouldn’t be thinking about him; it just made her cry, but she couldn’t help it. Stifling a sob, she brushed away a tear that escaped as she thought, It’s too late now, though ...

Surprisingly, she made it to late afternoon before finally giving herself away. They’d gotten as far as the base of Dragon Mountain where Reginald had called a rest. Along the way, she’d been able to disguise the occasional gasps she’d let out when the strongest contractions had hit her as panting exertion from the exercise of constant walking. Now, however, she had no such excuse.

“What’s the matter?” he’d innocently asked her.

As calmly as possible, she told him she thought she might be in labor, then steeled herself for his reaction. He stared at her for a moment as the information sank in, then surprised her by not flying into a panic. I watch too much TV, she thought wryly.

He bit his lip and glanced up at the mountain looming over them, then back at her.

“I don’t suppose you could make it to the Ninth Kingdom, then,” he said, “Which is too bad since the dwarves always try to stay neutral during any wars. We’d be safe there.”

He paused, but she was having another contraction and didn’t answer. How far apart were they now? she wondered. Two minutes?

“I guess we’d better head for Kissingtown,” he decided, and stood up.

In the distance a wolf howled mournfully. Virginia’s head snapped up as relief washed over her. She recognized that howl.

Reginald’s head snapped around at the sound at the same time as Virginia’s did.

“Oh, no ...” he murmured, automatically taking Virginia by the elbow to propel her into quick movement before the beast could overtake them - if they had sufficient lead time, that is. He knew if all else failed, he did still have his sword, but though he didn’t doubt his ability to save himself that way, he had no practice with trying to save another who could not fight. His thoughts of flight were brought up short by the inane grin that had suddenly spread over his pregnant ward’s face, however.

What is the matter with her? he wondered irritably. Out loud, he merely said, “Come on!” knowing they had no time to spare for explanations now. Inexplicably, she yanked her arm away from his grip and stood her ground, still smiling.

Elf-sucking wolf lover! he thought angrily. She’s going to get us killed! She’ll find out soon enough why Wendell should never have signed that pardon when the beast gets here! He turned away, telling himself he could move faster without her and that she deserved what she was going to get for being a wolf-lover in the first place, but couldn’t make himself actually leave: He knew his conscience would bother him for the rest of his life if he did. When the wolf howled again, much closer, he resigned himself to having to stand and fight it, and peremptorily drew his sword.

Virginia heard the ring of steel as it left its scabbard. “No!” she shrieked, aghast.

“Listen!” he scolded her, “I don’t care what you think you know about wolfs. They might be able to look like real people, but they aren’t. They’re evil. They kill for the pure pleasure of killing. They killed my brother. So just stay out of the way!”

She started to argue, but they were both interrupted by a rustling in the leaves. Reginald’s eyes had no sooner darted to the spot when the wolf came charging out, moving at an unbelievable speed, his fangs bared. Mesmerized by its appearance - he’d never before seen one in the flesh, he thought - he stepped backwards and hesitated a split second before raising his sword. Still, he thought he might have been able to strike the creature a crippling blow if Virginia had not chosen that moment to shove him violently aside. His foot slipped and he fell heavily to the ground, his sword clattering away. Desperately, he turned back just in time to see Virginia open her arms wide to the beast as if to embrace her own death. He cringed, expecting her throat to be torn out, but incredibly, the thing hesitated for a moment, sniffing at her as a pet dog might, then knelt beside her as she sank to her knees, apparently in the throes of another labor pain, stroking her belly with its wicked claws so gently her robe did not even snag.

Reginald glanced at his sword, lying several steps away in the bracken. If he were quick, he might just make it before the beast could react, he thought. The trouble was, he couldn’t make himself move, and though he tried to tell himself it might be because he was seeing something miraculous, he was afraid it was simply that he was too much of a coward: he remembered how the wolf had moved faster than he’d thought possible. But then, he reasoned, it’s doing a lot of things I didn’t think were possible ...

His thoughts cut short as he watched its bones and muscles alter, its skin rippling with the change in a way that made him queasy. It took only a moment, then a man knelt in its place and he realized with a shock that it was no pet of Virginia’s, but her lover. Reginald’s confusion gave way to revulsion. How could she lower herself to couple with that thing? he wondered, realizing at that moment the exact nature of the baby she was about to deliver.

Involuntarily, he dove for his sword, his only thought that he had to rid the world of such an abomination. Grasping the hilt like a swashbuckling hero, he rolled over it to his feet, fully expecting the beast to be spit on the blade as it rushed him, but it had all but ignored what he was doing, focusing its attention completely upon Virginia. Still, it growled at him menacingly as he cautiously approached it, sword at the ready.

“Put that down!”

The command carried a surprising amount of authority, like a mother reprimanding an errant child.

“And you,” Virginia continued, shaking the wolf’s arm, “Stop that.”

The wolf quit growling and whined, “But Virginia ...”

“I said put it down,” she repeated severely to Reginald. Reluctantly, he lowered his blade. “What exactly were you going to do?” she demanded.

With a shock, he realized that he’d risked his life to get the sword with the thought of killing her baby, though he didn’t tell her so. What’s the matter with me? he wondered. Even if it were necessary - of course it’s necessary, the thing is a monster! - He gritted his teeth to hang on to his original thought, forcing the hate back down - Even if it were necessary, I couldn’t do it until it’s born; not without hurting Virginia! More evil thoughts assailed him - telling him he had to act now, quickly! - that he wasn’t sure were really his, and he wondered if whatever had tried to influence him back at the army camp were at work again here. It was difficult to tell - obviously whatever it was wanted him to hate the wolfs, but that was something he’d always done ... wasn’t it?

Virginia had apparently not really expected him to answer her question. In the background, he could hear her explaining to her wolf how Reginald had saved her life. Strangely, the wolf seemed to accept what she’d said - in fact to act in all the respects that mattered as if he were a normal man. He seemed genuine, but was it really a trick as the voice (of reason or influence?) in his mind told him it must be? The fairy trick he’d used to determine Virginia’s innocence was useless against the magic of nature beings ...

Nature beings? he thought suddenly. Yes, they are! So how can they be evil? Nature isn’t inherently evil ... But the wolfs are; they always have been; it’s just their nature! No, wait ...

He was still dithering, trying to figure out which course of action was the correct one when a shadow fell across the small clearing and the forest grew ominously quiet.