Little Red Riding Hood: Werewolf Slayer (Merlin's Hoods Book 1) Read online

  Little Red Riding Hood: Werewolf Slayer 1

  Merlin’s Hoods Series

  Carl Waters

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Red Hood: Book One

  FREE STORIES

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  WANT MORE?

  PLEASE HELP

  Red Hood: Book Two (Excerpt)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  WANT MORE?

  Vampire in the Woods (Excerpt)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  WANT MORE?

  PLEASE HELP

  Also by Carl Waters

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Bright Sons Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-939805-06-5

  For my sister, Kristiana

  When you think of Grimm's fairy tales, they are deeply, deeply psychological. They're so powerful, so bloody, and really, really disturbing. Think about five-year-olds reading that stuff. Even 'Little Red Riding Hood' is a really freaky story. Grandma is gobbled up by a wolf, and the wolf is going to eat the girl. That's scary stuff.

  Denis O’Hare

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  After reading Little Red Riding Hood: Werewolf Slayer, you’ll have the opportunity to read excerpts of its sequel and prequel.

  Sign up for the author’s New Release mailing list to find out when the sequel, Little Red Riding Hood: Werewolf Slayer (Book Two) and the prequel, Vampire in the Woods are released. Also learn how you can get both stories for free.

  Click on the link below to learn more.

  www.BrightSons.com/RRH2Update

  1

  France, November 12, 1193

  My mother shone like a bonfire in the light of the setting sun as I struggled to keep up with her swift pace. She was the Red Hood, sworn to serve King Philip Augustus as protector of the land, and she wore her mantle with pride. Made from soft crimson wool, her hooded cloak was the badge of her office. I had rarely seen her without it, even at home in our cottage. Sometimes, it seemed as though she were the Red Hood first, my training master second, and only then, at a distant third, my mother.

  One day, perhaps soon, I would join her and receive my own crimson cloak. As I imagined donning the red hood and giving battle with France’s enemies, the toe of my boot caught on a fallen branch and I staggered, barely keeping my balance. Mama did not turn, but I knew she had heard my clumsy blunder. She moved like a silent, fleet-footed deer through the dense forest, never faltering, never slowing, while I crashed along like a wounded bear.

  I tried to hone my senses as she had taught me, extending my awareness into the world around me. Far off, the trumpeting cry of geese on the wing heralded the end of autumn. Dead leaves crackled beneath my boots, and in the air I could taste the chill of the coming winter. I smelled a hearth fire nearby; that would be our cottage, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. There was a fine venison stew bubbling over that fire, I knew, and fresh bread, and a bit of cheese, too. Perhaps, just this once, Mama would end my training early for the day…

  “Giselle,” Mama called from several yards ahead, “keep up, unless you wish to complete your archery practice in the dark.”

  I bit back a sigh and quickened my pace.

  When I wasn’t training with one of the many weapons from her armory, Mama kept me busy gathering supplies for winter. Today, we were hunting herbs in the forest. I carried the leather packs stuffed with healing plants while she marched ahead, jabbing her quarterstaff at the earth whenever she spied an herb to dig up. I, of course, did the digging. It was not that I minded the work; my hands were callused from bow and sword and staff, and although I was small for my sixteen years, I was as strong and as fast as most of the boys from the nearby village. But while Mama was off having adventures and fighting bandits, I would be left at home to scrub the floors or oil the weapons.

  It wasn’t fair.

  “Mama,” I said, hurrying to match her stride. She was as short as I was, and yet I nearly had to jog to keep up with her. “Let me come with you the next time you ride out. I could be your squire.”

  “No. There’s some heartsbalm under that log; be sure to get the roots.”

  “But I could knit myself a hood like yours and fight by your side. Two warriors are surely better than one!”

  “More like one and a half warriors,” she said drily. “In a real fight, you would only serve to distract me and likely get us both slain.”

  “But—”

  “Enough, Giselle.”

  Scowling, I trudged over to the log and began tugging the spiny, broad-leaved herb from the ground. I shoved it, roots and all, into my bag and dusted off my gloved hands. When I looked up, Mama was standing over me, looking down with something like sympathy in her eyes. Her face was a mirror of my own, the cheekbones a little sharper, the complexion a little darker. She looked no more than twenty-six, my elder sister rather than my mother. I had always thought her a great beauty, but somehow, although we shared the same features, my face managed to be nothing more than a pale, plain imitation of hers. She reached down her hand, and after a moment of hesitation, I took it and allowed her to pull me to my feet.

  “Giselle, I know how you feel. When I was your age, I wanted to slay dragons alongside your Grandmère. But you are not ready yet.”

  “You always say that. I’m beginning to think I’ll never be ready in your eyes. I have mastered the quarterstaff, the halberd, the longbow, the crossbow, and the dagger.”

  Mama shook her head. “But what of the sword? The battle-axe?’’

  Ah, my old enemy the battle-axe. She knew that was my weakest weapon. I struggled to even lift the thing, let alone use it with any accuracy. “My sword work is getting better,” I said. “You told me so yourself.”

  “Perhaps next year, you might ride with me.”

  “What? No! Two summers ago, when I dressed as a boy and bested Pierre Caron in hand-to-hand combat at the village fair, you said that I might be ready next year. And then, last winter when I brought down that boar with only my bow and knife, again you said that I might be ready next year. How long must I wait? I will be the Red Hood someday—”

  Mama stopped so suddenly that I walked into her back. She spun to face me, the tenderness gone from her eyes. They were pure ice now, and despite myself, I took a step back.

  “Can you best me in combat?” she asked, her voice deceptively calm. “Shall we draw daggers? Or perhaps the falchion? I know that you cannot wield an axe, so I won’t even suggest it. Until you can defeat me in all of these, you shall not wear the hood. So it was when I earned the title from your Grandmère, and so it shall be with you. I ask again, can you best me?”

  I tried to meet her gaze, but after a moment, I faltered. “No, Mama. I cannot best you.”

  She walked on. What choice had I but to follow? I trotted after her, hefting the leather s
atchel higher on my shoulder. I stayed alert in case she decided to make her point with the quarterstaff. Mama was fond of surprise lessons that usually resulted in my gaining some new and interesting bruises. She was impossibly fast and strong, and skilled with every weapon under the sun. I had heard stories, whispered in the village tavern, of her bravery and fierceness in battle. Mama was a warrior, and it seemed I was not even fit to be her squire.

  “You do have some skill,” she said as we began the journey home. “Your unarmed technique is good…for a girl. Unfortunately, the Red Hood is not often called to fight little girls.”

  That stung more than a slap from the quarterstaff. We walked the rest of the way in silence, save for the sound of leaves underfoot. I stomped on purpose, not caring if I made more noise than a carthorse in a chicken coop. Mama ignored me, which only made me angrier. It would serve her right if I rubbed grease on the hilts of her daggers so that they flew from her hands when she tried to draw them. Or perhaps I might season her stew tonight with a pinch of hotfoot powder.

  As we neared the cottage, however, Mama stopped suddenly, every muscle taut beneath her red cloak. She held up a hand, motioning me to stop. I stood behind her, straining my senses. I heard the whicker of an unfamiliar horse and the jingle of a harness.

  Someone was at our cottage, a stranger, waiting for us.

  Mama rested one hand on the pommel of her sword as she approached the yard. There, beneath the spreading alder tree, stood a man I’d never seen before. He was tall and wrapped in a leather overcoat, and as soon as I stepped into the yard his dark eyes fixed on me and a leer spread across his thin lips. Just looking at him made me feel as if a snake was slithering down my back, and I quickly turned away.

  Before Mama could confront the trespasser, the front door of our cottage swung open. A lady stood there, dressed in a fine gown the color of old blood. Her long, honey-brown hair was threaded with gold and pearls, and a heavily jeweled necklace circled her throat. Although I was quite sure I had never seen her before, there was something familiar about her. She smiled, showing her teeth, when she saw my mother.

  “My dear Adela,” she said. “It has been too long.”

  Although her words were pleasant, her voice was sharp as the blade of a knife. She and Mama stared at each other for a long moment. Neither moved, but I could feel the tension between them, taut as a rope. There was something insincere about the lady’s smile. Although she was as beautiful as a princess in the fairy tales Grandmère used to read to me, her smile was brittle and cold and did not reach her eyes. Whoever she was, whatever she was doing here, I knew with a certainty I could not explain that it would not be good.

  At last, Mama spoke. “Giselle, say hello to your Aunt Alison.”

  2

  As I bustled about the kitchen, I tried to recall ever having met Aunt Alison before. I had a vague recollection of a doll that she had sent me, a doll with long red hair and painted blue eyes, but I couldn’t remember when I had gotten it or what had become of it. Mama had spoken little of her sister, only that they’d had a falling out many years ago. She and Aunt Alison sat by the fire, deep in hushed conversation. I caught only a word or two as I hurried through my chores. I hoped at least that the unexpected appearance of a long-lost relative would distract Mama from my neglected archery lesson.

  The coachman planted himself at the rough wooden table in the kitchen and dug into the bowl of stew I laid out for him. He grunted his thanks as I handed him an earthenware mug of ale. As quickly as I could, I prepared a tray with three more bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread sliced neatly on a platter. We had just enough cheese so that everyone would be disappointed with their share, and, remembering my manners, I placed my portion beside Aunt Alison’s bowl.

  I hurried from the kitchen and sat down on the low couch beside Mama, laying the tray on the table where everyone could reach it. Aunt Alison had sat down in Mama’s usual spot, a high-backed chair that now looked more like a throne with such a regal lady sitting in it.

  “Come girl, let me have a look at you.” Aunt Alison’s gaze swept over me critically. I was all too aware of how I looked, with brambles in my hair and wearing old breeches and a long tunic that better suited a farmer’s son. I had dressed for labor in the forest that morning, not for visiting with company—although if I had to be honest with myself, even my best dress would look like rags compared to Aunt Alison’s finery.

  I smoothed my wrinkled tunic over my legs and tucked my unruly brown hair behind my ears. I glanced at Mama from the corner of my eye and saw that she was frowning. She reached for her stew and poked at it absently with her spoon for a moment before setting it down again. This, more than anything, troubled me, for Mama usually ate like a plowman. If she had lost her appetite, then something was definitely amiss.

  “You’ve grown,” said Aunt Alison. “When last we met, you were little more than a babe in arms. I suppose you don’t remember me.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, well, I’m here now. Perhaps tomorrow you can show me around that charming little village we passed, and you can tell me all about yourself.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Mama.

  “Ah, Adela. Always so…blunt.” She turned to me. “Even when we were children, your mother was a bossy little thing. I see she has not changed.”

  “Alison,” warned Mama. I recognized that tone; it usually meant an extra hour of chores or another half-hour of battle-axe training.

  “Calm yourself, sister. I’m here because I have news. Wonderful news!”

  “Oh? It must be important indeed if you would travel all this way just to tell me.”

  “I am getting married,” Aunt Alison announced.

  “Then I am happy for you both,” said my mother with the same expression on her face that she had when she knew the butcher was trying to sell her old meat. “Love is the greatest gift we may ever give or receive in this world.”

  “Save your pretty words for the wedding,” said Aunt Alison. “I want you both to be there.”

  “Really?” I exclaimed. “Where are you to be married? Who is your groom? Will I get a new gown?”

  Aunt Alison laughed. “We shall be married in Paris in one month. My fiancé is one of the most important and influential men in France,” she added, letting her fingertips trace the golden embroidery of her gown. “Not to mention one of the wealthiest. You shall have as many new gowns as you like.”

  I turned to Mama. “Oh, please say we can go!”

  To my surprise, she clasped her sister’s hand and said sincerely, “Only death could keep me away.”

  “Good,” said Aunt Alison. Her smile showed the points of her teeth as she continued, “That is precisely what I wanted to hear. I had thought that since you were a widow, you might be jealous of my happiness.”

  If Alison’s barbed words stung Mama, she did not show it. “I know that we have had our differences, but if you have found love then I am truly happy for you.”

  “Love? What has that to do with anything?” said Aunt Alison, her pretty face twisting into something sour. “Through my husband, I will be one of the most powerful women in France.”

  “That is no foundation for a marriage,” said Mama. “When I wed Giselle’s father—”

  “Don’t speak to me of Louis! You stole him from me, just as you stole my birthright. I should have been the Red Hood, not you!”

  Aunt Alison was breathing heavily, and spots of high color stood out on her pale cheeks. I looked from her to Mama and back again, poised to leap between them if it should come to a fight. All the while, our dinner sat untouched on the table.

  “I stole nothing from you, Alison,” said Mama. “Why bring up old wounds from the past now?”

  “You have been the Hood for almost twenty years,” said Alison. Her full lips formed a girlish pout that looked odd on a grown woman’s face. I could not imagine Mama playing the coquette as her sister did. “It’s not fair! Mother s
hould have split the duties between us.”

  “And should we have split Louis between us as well? It is not my fault that he loved me, nor that I was better suited to be the Hood.”

  “I trained just as hard as you did,” said Alison. “I had just as much of a right to it as you did.”

  Mama touched the hem of her red cloak almost reverently. “The hood chose me, Sister. Even if you had greater skill—which you don’t—you craved only power, not the responsibility that comes with it. It would never have linked with you.”

  Aunt Alison leapt to her feet. “I’m faster than you!”

  “And I am stronger,” said Mama. She stood, and although she was several inches shorter than her sister, she radiated power and quiet strength. In that moment, I realized that I truly was not ready to be the Hood. I heard my own arguments to Mama that morning echoed in Alison’s words, and hearing them from her lips made me understand how childish they sounded.

  “Prove it,” Alison spat.

  “You have never beaten me, little Sister, and you never will.”

  Aunt Alison leaned forward, baring her teeth in a sneer. “We haven’t sparred in over twenty years. I’ve been practicing.”

  “While you’ve been practicing, I’ve been fighting for my life.”

  The air between them almost hummed with anger.

  “Um,” I said, “would anyone like some tea?”

  Both women turned to me, identical expressions of puzzlement on their faces. Apparently, they had forgotten I was there.

  “Giselle, it’s late. Go to your room.” said Mama. “And lock the door,” she added in a low whisper.

  “Let the girl stay,” said Aunt Alison. “Let her see that the great Red Hood is too much of a coward to spar with her own little sister.”