The Intuition: Part 15, Wolfprints from London
A Horror Story
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The coach groaned and creaked over the rough mountain road, and its four occupants sat facing one another in pairs, their expressions grim with jouncing and swaying.
“I begin to think I would have fared better had I remained a guest of Dr. Adler,” Falke said.
Tom snorted. “It were no part of my plan to cart you off with us, nor that one, neither.” He nodded toward Elke. “You got Billy to thank for that. But I can tell you that Adler quack would’ve had your brains for pudding, so you can say ta and shut your gob. Ain’t that right, Billy?”
Will gazed out the window at the forest drawn thick about them and imagined running beneath the trees on four strong legs, imprinting the soft earth with iron claws, hunting. Marcu and his men rode behind or beside the coach, their sturdy half-wild ponies scrabbling sure-footed along the steep and rocky trails in the shadows. Will thought he could hear their hearts pumping, even over the noise of the coach. His nostrils twitched at the cold scent of miles of spruce and fir, and he was reminded of the forest-ringed meadow he had visited with Falke and Elke—that meadow in the land of death.
“Hmm? Yes. You are much better here, Falke, breathing the fresh mountain air.”
The doctor sat back against the hard, cracked leather of the seat and tilted his hat forward over his scowling brow. He crossed his arms over his chest and refrained from comment. Tom flicked open a penknife and began, with some risk, to clean his fingernails. Will returned his gaze to the forest, listening to the grating jingle of the harness bells as the cobwebs of reverie wove around him. Soon, the metallic voice of the bells turned to the cold chiming of blade upon blade, and the clatter of the coach’s wheels against the Carpathian road became that of a carriage passing along the cobbles of Commercial Street.
London, East End, 1877
“This is madness! That brain I’ve been so carefully cultivating will be battered to the pulp of idiocy. Your hands will be ruined. What are you thinking, William? What would your mother say to this? I forbid it.”
Algood stormed about the room, sweeping books and models from the lessons table and waving handfuls of Will’s meticulous notes. With a violent motion, he released the papers into the air where they flapped in wild spirals before settling to the floor. Will, seated by the window overlooking the street, clenched his hands where they rested on his thighs. It was the only sign he gave of rising temper.
“Do not speak of my mother, sir. You knew nothing of her beyond what her body could provide you. Now she is gone, and with her the last barrier between my father and me. I will not be kept a slave in his stinking shop. It is time I made my own way.”
Algood stopped his pacing. “My boy, I have extended the invitation to share my roof and board. You are a valuable assistant to me. Leave that lout of a sire of yours and make your future here in the surgery.” He came to stand near Will and grip his shoulder. “We have a bond, young William. I need not remind you of it, I think?”
Will’s lip curled. “A bond. You monster, you’re no better than Big Hal and far less honest.” He stood, and even at sixteen, he dwarfed Algood who fell back in alarm. “Who are you to forbid me anything? It’s money I need. I can get it fighting in Back End. Tom says he can get me work at the docks.”
Algood blanched. “But your studies, everything you’ve worked for all these years, all I’ve taught you.” His voice began to rise again. “All I’ve shown you!”
“What you’ve shown me haunts my nightmares, sir.” Will stepped close to Algood, forcing him back against the table. “And now it must be exorcised in pain and blood; whether it be my own or that of an opponent, I care not. Good coin will lift me out of here more smartly than all your fancy speech and devilish practices.”
He brought his hard face close to Algood’s sweating one. “I know what you did to Mum, with your infernal blades. Were you drunk the night she came to you for help? Were your hands shaking when you cut the disease from her? She bled her life out in her bed, you bastard, and I came to kill you then, but found your house empty. Tom persuaded me from my purpose. He has reasoned with me since, or I am afraid, James, I should have carved you like a Halloween turnip.
Will stepped back. “Now, let’s hear no more of forbidding this or that. I thought it only right to tell you of my decision. I shall not trouble you further.”
The break was complete. Will carried his ghosts from Algood’s house without a backward glance, and Tom met him in the street.
“I’ve found work for you down the docks with me, boy-o,” he said, clapping Will on the shoulder as they walked toward Wentworth Street. “Got a cozy little room behind the warehouse, too. We’ll be snug as rats, we will. Maybe we’ll ship out on one of them merchants as sail to Chinee.”
Will shrugged the hand away. “I’ve talked with old Sternhauser at The Dilly. He says he’s got some young rough-and-tumblers he’ll start me on. I’ll get half the purse, and I’m bound to draw a crowd being the son of Big Hal and the Duchess.” His lips twisted. “I’ll take your dock job, as well. We’re getting out of here, Tommy.”
“You don’t have to fight, Billy.” Tom tempered his concern with a stab at humor. “It’ll ruin your pretty face. The ladies won’t like it.”
Will stopped and turned toward Tom. “I want to do it, Tom. It’s more than just the money. There’s something inside me I must let out, or it will consume me. Something like a ravening wolf. It wants blood and is not choosy about how it gets it. I don’t care a fig about my face.”
He walked on alone, leaving Tom struck dumb and chilled at his marrow. Later that evening, Tom would stand in his corner, push the sponge between his teeth and take his shirt from him as he prepared to meet his opponent, a young sailor covered in tattoos. The fight went by in a roaring silence for Will, who was cognizant of the loud and rowdy spectators, yet could feel nothing.
“Come to scratch,” old Sternhauser cried, drawing the center line in the dirt of the battle ground.
Will stepped to the line, taking the measure of the sailor with what seemed only the most casual interest. He was a big, well-muscled lad, older than Will by several years. It did not matter. The wolf paced the cage of Will’s bones, eager for mayhem. Quick and savvy from years of enduring Big Hal’s mercurial moods and hard fists. Mapping his opponent’s weaknesses with the cool eye of an anatomist, eager as a butcher to take him apart. The fight was over before it began, for Will sought more than just a purse, more than the acclaim of the ragged crowd. He sought to exorcise the wolf, its uncanny strength and bloody-minded desire.
The sailor’s mates carried him away between them in an old cloak. Will won three more fights before the night was done, and though he bore his cuts and bruises he had also earned a name. Lord Dovedale was born, and the fancy vied to back him as he limped away, uncaring. He thrust the purse into Tom’s hands, cracking the blood on his own knuckles with satisfaction.
“Keep it safe,” he said. “Big Hal will pour it down his gullet if I have it by me.”
He saw Algood among the spectators, his black bag in his hand, his expression pained. Will left without acknowledging the surgeon, pressing his hand to his battered ribs and relishing the ache.
As the coach lurched to a stop at the squat and sooty inn of Targu Umbrei, Will pulled his wandering mind back to the present and looked around at the weary faces of his companions. Only Elke appeared unbothered by the rough travel, undismayed at the scatter of rustic dwellings and the farmyard symphony of cattle, goats, and chickens. Her gaze met his, cool and lucid, a promise glowing in the glacial depths of her eyes. He looked away as an unaccustomed chill crept over him and flung open the coach door.
The inn was little more than an elongated house that featured a second door for the dim service room. Will turned from it and strode across the stony ground to where Marcu and his men were unsaddling their ponies. A farm boy had brought hay and grain for the beasts. The three men who rode with Marcu made their way to the inn, their lively conversation stilled as they brushed past Will. Behind him, he could hear Tom bantering at Falke. Mind the mud, Doctor, if you’d not have pig shit mucking up your fine shoes. Here, pass me the dollymop, and I’ll set her on the flagstones safe as houses.
Marcu looked up at Will as he approached, his expression tense and resigned.
“Lord Dovedale, you will meet my prince before another night falls. I have sent many prayers that you will find a way to help us from our strife. I hear no answer.” He patted the rump of his horse as it fixed its attention on the good grain before it. He pointed eastward. “Look up, sir, and you will see the towers of Stanca Corbului above the forest. Prince Grigore awaits us there. His house here in the village is ready to accommodate Dr. Falke and the lady.”
The pointing finger swept downward to indicate the end of the packed-dirt street. Will turned to see a vine-covered stockade, the heavy doors of its gate open to show a stone courtyard beyond.
He shook his head. “I care not what the doctor chooses to do. The woman comes with us.”
Marcu spat, his brow furrowed with heavy thought. “I fear you will carry her to her death, my lord.”
Will breathed in an immense lungful of the stimulating mountain air and looked again toward Stanca Corbului. He chuckled and turned a broad smile on Marcu, showing all his strong, white teeth.
“That won’t be a problem.”
I'm so late to this party I'll just have to buy the book. Very exciting!
Ahh oooo werewolf in London!