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

  I knew that I would eventually have to leave the safety of the secret room, but Alison was still looking for me. I could hear her light, slippered footsteps upstairs as she searched our bedrooms. On the ground floor, two different pairs of booted feet tromped back and forth. One of the men had hobnails in his soles, and his footsteps click-clacked on the wooden floor. I listened, holding my breath, as he approached the pantry door. Instead of discovering me, however, he opened Mama’s chest of herbs and tinctures. I heard crockery breaking followed by his violent sneezing.

  “Bernard,” a man growled, “stop looking for food and find the girl.” The sound of his voice sent a ripple of cold down my back. It was the voice of a warlord, cold and cruel and laden with power. Even though his words had not been meant for me, some part of me instinctively wanted to obey him.

  “But sir,” the one called Bernard whined, “the wench had some sort of wolfsbane powder in here. We should dispose of it properly.”

  “I said find the girl!”

  Bernard did as he was told. I could hear him continuing his search through the kitchen. It sounded as if he were breaking things on purpose, and each crash made me wince. I smelled the sweet scent of honey from a broken crock, but beneath that was an unfamiliar odor. It was woodsy and rank, like a wet animal pelt, with a slight tang of copper.

  It occurred to me then that I shouldn’t be able to smell spilled honey from twenty paces, nor should I be able to hear the silken whisper of Alison’s gown as she descended the stairs. All of my senses seemed almost painfully sharp, as if I’d been living the last sixteen years with an onion sack over my head and had just now been permitted to take it off. What was going on? Had I gone mad from the shock of seeing my mother murdered? Or perhaps I’d hit my head when I fainted in the little stone room.

  I raised my hand, intending to sweep the hood back and check for head injuries, but every instinct told me to be still.

  A moment later, Alison’s voice shrieked, “Claude, where is she?”

  I jumped; it sounded as if my aunt were shouting in my ear.

  “Patience, pet,” said the same deep, commanding voice.

  “She’s here somewhere,” said Alison. “Can’t you just sniff her out?”

  “You think I’m your faithful bloodhound?” There was a note of warning in the man’s voice.

  “No, my Lord. I am just eager to claim my—I mean, our prize.”

  I caught a whiff of Alison’s perfume as she moved past the pantry door. It was overwhelmingly sweet, like funeral lilies, and I had to hold my breath to keep from coughing.

  The heavy-booted footsteps moved away toward the back door. “Her scent is on everything here, but it is several hours stale,” said Claude. He sniffed and continued, “And yet I cannot smell your sister at all. Curious. Are you certain the whelp is still in the house? Perhaps she slipped past you.”

  “Do you take me for an idiot?” Now it was Alison’s voice that held a steely note of warning.

  “No, I take you for a human.”

  Alison began pacing. “I saw her run in here. And I know she didn’t leave by either door. We’ve kept watch.”

  “Might she have escaped by a window?”

  “Adela was cleverer than I gave her credit for,” Alison said with a bitter laugh. “The windows are barred with rowan and iron; nothing could get out—or in—through that kind of protection. Unless the girl became a bird and flew away, she’s still here.”

  I felt my heart lurch upon hearing Mama’s name. I wished she were here. I would give anything just to have one more practice with her, no matter how many times she rapped my knuckles. Unshed tears burned in my eyes. I could not even cry for Mama lest I give myself away.

  Claude’s heavy footsteps moved farther away. He shouted for his lackey, Bernard, who from the sound of it had been breaking the chairs in the living area. He returned to the kitchen, and the smell of wet wolfhound doubled. Who were these men, and how long had it been since they’d washed?

  “Yes, m’Lord,” said Bernard, still sounding sulky.

  “Come here, dog,” said Alison. I could picture her proud, beautiful face looking down at him with scorn. “This shift belongs to the girl. Take it, learn her scent, and find where she is hiding.”

  “I am not your dog,” said Bernard.

  “No, you are my wolf. I grow weary of this search, so find her for me before I lose patience, cur.”

  “Sir, will you let her speak to me like this? I am a Lycan, not some noblewoman’s lapdog. We are superior to all men and beasts!”

  I frowned; apparently, these people were quite mad. Wolves? Lycans? They were talking nonsense. If I hadn’t been so scared, I might have laughed.

  “I am your alpha, and she is my mate. You will follow her commands as you would my own. Or do you wish to challenge me?” Claude growled, low and dangerous, and any thought of laughter fled. I shivered like a rabbit hiding from a hound.

  Bernard stalked through the house, his hobnailed boots clattering as he searched. Alison left the kitchen, but Claude remained. I could still smell him, still hear the heavy, tidal sound of his breathing. After several minutes, Bernard returned.

  “She is not here, m’Lord,” he said. “Might be the wolfsbane, but I can’t sniff out a trail that’s less than four or five hours old. She was definitely here this morning, but now.…” He trailed off.

  “That’s impossible,” said Alison. Something shattered in the living room; I hoped it wasn’t the pretty stoneware vase from the mantel. Mama would be furious if it got broken.

  No, I reminded myself. She won’t be angry or happy or sad about anything ever again.

  “Curious,” Claude repeated thoughtfully. “She must have escaped after all.”

  Aunt Alison harrumphed; I imagined she was pouting again. “Maybe.”

  There was a long pause. I thought perhaps they would give up the search and leave, but then Alison said, “Tell the coachman to ready the horses. Have Bernard drag the body in here, and then burn the cottage down. If Giselle is still inside, we’ll smoke her out. If not, we’ll still erase the evidence of my dear sister’s…accident.”

  Accident? Accident! The backstabbing harpy couldn’t even bring herself to use the word murder. I vowed I would make her pay for what she did to Mama. One way or another, I’d avenge my mother’s death. But first, I had to find a way to get out of there before they burned the cottage down around me.

  5

  I couldn’t let them burn down everything I loved. Alison had taken away my mama, and now she wanted to take away my home, too. I wouldn’t even get to give Mama a proper burial.

  I heard the men moving around the cottage, piling what sounded like dry brush and branches against the walls. It hadn’t rained in almost two weeks, and there was plenty of kindling to be found in the woods. They’d have no trouble torching the cottage—and me inside it, if I didn’t act soon. I tried to imagine what Mama would do in this situation, but thinking of her at all was too painful. All of my training seemed to have deserted me when I needed it most. Instead of a warrior, I was a scared little girl hiding in a cupboard. Mama would have been ashamed of me.

  The tears began to fall in earnest then. I’d never been a pretty crier, unlike some girls, and I knew that my face was getting all scrunched up and as red as Mama’s hood. Not that it mattered. I’d never been as beautiful as my mother, nor as strong or brave. Now I would die a disappointment to her in every way, without having lifted a finger to avenge her death. I had failed.

  Stop blubbering, said a voice in my head. It sounded a lot like Mama as she coached me through a particularly grueling practice session. Get up, go to the door, and wait until they’ve gone around the other side of the house. Then run.

  This was excellent advice, of course, if only I could get my legs to move.

  “Needs more brush on the west side,” Claude ordered. Even though he was outside in the yard, his voice still sounded as loud and clear as if he’d been in the room with me.
“Bernard, fetch the paraffin lamps from the carriage.”

  A minute later, I heard glass smashing as Bernard hurled the lamps against the walls of the cottage. And then I smelled the smoke.

  Time seemed to slow down. I stood gracefully, pivoting like a dancer as I kicked open the secret door. My legs, despite the pins and needles from lying cramped up on the floor, felt strong, and the wooden doorframe splintered at the impact of my booted foot. In the kitchen, smoke was already beginning to reach its ghostly fingers through the windows.

  The smell of burning brush and paraffin was strong, but I smelled something else, too. It was the familiar bouquet of oiled leather and vanilla. Mama was in here somewhere. I had to find her body; I couldn’t let her be denied a proper Christian burial. I stood still for a moment and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. It was the oddest sensation, as if I could smell a map of the cottage. Sickly lilies—that was Alison. Claude was animal fur and blood, while his lackey Bernard smelled more like wet dog. A whiff of cabbage and ale; I supposed that would be the coachman. Cinnamon from that morning’s porridge, burning candle wax, the musty odor of mice in the pantry.

  I searched for Mama’s scent and followed it like a trail in the air to the second floor. They’d taken her upstairs to her bedroom. She smelled like comfort, like home. But there was something different now, something darker. The sweet odor of decay wafted through the air. It had only been a few hours since her murder, but I could smell the aura of death clinging to her like a shroud.

  It was too much for my newly sharpened senses. I doubled over, retching. Smoke was pouring in through the windows, filling the ground floor with choking clouds. I wanted to run up the stairs and fetch Mama’s dead body and look for her prized battle-axe, but the fire was growing fast and I didn’t have time. I could hear it crackling as it devoured the only home I’d ever known.

  I ran for the back door. The latch was hot and singed my palm, but I pushed past the pain and bolted into the yard. I thought the red hood would give my position away if my pursuers glanced in my direction, but they were too interested in watching the cottage burn.

  Alison, dressed in a white gown trimmed with ermine, stood in the arms of a towering, black-bearded man. He was richly but somberly dressed, his only ornament a gold medallion around his neck. Gray streaks silvered his temples, and his red eyes must have been a reflection of the fire. Behind them stood a shorter, stockier man dressed in dark leathers. Bernard, I presumed. He had golden eyes that I couldn’t explain. A little distance away, the coachman tried to calm the horses. They reared and rolled their eyes, their hooves slicing at the air.

  “I think the little bird must have flown away,” said Claude. He rested his hand on Alison’s shoulder. “The hour grows late, and the horses dislike the fire. Bernard and I will sweep the woods one more time before dark, but there is no need for you to linger here. Go back to Paris; I will bring you news when I have it.”

  “No,” said Alison. Even from this distance, I could see the fire reflected in her cruel, hard eyes. “I want to see it burn. I want to watch her burn.”

  I had never hated anyone as much as I hated her in that moment. If I’d been armed with anything more than my boots, I might have attacked her then and there. Part of me wanted to anyway, and damn the consequences.

  I must have moved or made some sound, because Aunt Alison turned toward my hiding place behind the chestnut tree. A smile dawned on her lips.

  “Oh, splendid,” she said, as if she’d just been invited to dine with King Philip. “Look who’s decided to come out and play!”

  Anger scorched my cheeks. “Play? Is this a game to you? You killed my mother and burned down my house for a title?” I flapped the red cloak at her. “Why do you want to be the Red Hood so badly?”

  Aunt Alison’s smile became a grin. “Oh, that is delicious. Sainted Adela never told you, did she? In that case, give me the tatty old thing, and I’ll be on my way with no more unpleasantness.”

  I raised my chin defiantly. “I’ll never give it to you. You’ll have to take it off my dead body.”

  “With pleasure,” purred Alison. “Claude, be a dear and rip her limb from limb?”

  “Pet, I think she’s linked with the hood. I’ll have to change to get it from her.”

  Alison pouted. “Just be quick about it. And don’t you dare get any blood on my new gown. It may never wash out.”

  Claude stepped away from my aunt and nodded at Bernard, who cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck as if preparing for a fight.

  “Let’s see how brave you are, little Red Hood,” he snickered, stripping off his leather jerkin.

  I weighed my chances of taking the two of them on. Bernard looked like a tavern brawler, and I knew a few dirty tricks that could take him down. Claude, on the other hand, was over a foot taller than I and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. I’d be lucky to get a punch in. One of Mama’s lessons returned to me: When faced with a losing fight, the only way to win is to run. Live to fight another day.

  I tensed my leg muscles, preparing to sprint for the woods. I risked a glance over my shoulder. It was a little over ten yards to the edge of the forest; could I make it in time? There was only one way to find out.

  A ripping, shredding sound drew my attention back to Claude and Bernard. They were…changing. The men were growing taller, their muscles cording and wrapping around their limbs like snakes as the seams of their clothes split. I heard a sickening crack as their lower limbs elongated and bent backward like an animal’s hind legs.

  Then Bernard—or the thing that had been Bernard—snarled, and when I looked up at his face, it was not a man who looked back but a wolf-man. His fur was brindled, and his eyes were flat and the same color as the sun. He licked his black gums, revealing a muzzle full of jagged yellow teeth. I looked at Claude, who stood a head taller than Bernard. He was covered in black fur, save for a blaze of white at his throat. His red eyes glowed.

  “Give us the hood,” he snarled, his teeth mangling the words in his elongated jaw.

  My first thought was to give these demons the hood and be done with it. Perhaps they’d let me live once they’d gotten what they wanted. And then perhaps we’d have cakes with honey and braid each other’s hair.

  My second thought chided me for my cowardice. Stand and fight, said my mother’s voice in my mind.

  In the end, I did neither. I kept my last promise to Mama and ran for the woods. There was something about the cloak that Mama wanted me to protect and something about it that these demons wanted. Grandmère was the Red Hood before Mama, so she’d have the answers. Grandmère’s cottage was a day’s journey away. An ordinary day, that is, not one where I was fleeing the burning wreckage of my life. I ran, leaving my mother, my home, and all of my possessions behind. All I had left was the red hood.

  I reached the relative safety of the trees and sprinted along the game trail, mentally reviewing the map of the terrain as I ran. Several miles of wilderness and a very wide, very cold river lay between me and my grandmother’s house. I had never made the journey by myself before, and under any other circumstances it might have been an exciting adventure.

  “Go,” Claude growled, his deep voice rumbling through the still evening air. “Fetch the hood and bring it to me—along with her head.”

  6

  My boots hardly seem to touch the ground as I ran. I dodged tree trunks and low-hanging branches without losing speed, and when I leapt over a swiftly moving stream, I felt as though I were flying. All around me, I sensed the living forest. From the wind in my hair to the squirrels in their nests to the very trees themselves, I felt connected to it in a way I never had before. I nearly laughed for the joy of it, until I realized that it came at a price.

  It was the hood.

  The moment I had donned the cloak, my senses had sharpened. Now I discovered that I could run faster and longer than I’d ever been able. I wasn’t even winded, even after sprinting for half a mile. Marveling at my new ab
ilities, I stopped paying attention to where I was going. That was when the toe of my boot caught on a treacherous rock. Instead of falling flat on my face, however, I instinctively rolled, turning my momentum into a somersault and leaping to my feet again.

  I paused, breaking stride for the first time. Was this why Mama was such a fearsome warrior? Had all of her power and grace come from the hood? That would certainly explain why Alison wanted it so desperately. If the cloak were magic… I felt silly even thinking it; I had outgrown fairy tales long ago. But if the cloak were magic, I realized, then why had Mama trained so hard? Every day she had put herself through the same grueling regimen she expected of me and then practiced for another hour or two.

  Perhaps the red hood made the wearer stronger and faster and bestowed keener senses, but there was more to being a warrior. Mama had shown me that a true warrior values honor, dedication, and discipline. I only wish I’d appreciated it sooner.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I whispered. My breath came out in a little puff of mist. The sun had set and it must have been cold, but I didn’t even feel it. In addition to its other powers, the cloak was also quite toasty.

  Something crunched behind me. I spun just in time to see a pair of razor-sharp claws descending toward my face. I dodged both of them. The shaggy, dun-colored beast—Bernard, I realized—lunged at me a second time, and I gave him a sound kick to the tenders. He snarled at me, more wolf than man, and bared his yellow teeth.

  We both stepped back, circling each other slowly. There wasn’t much room to maneuver, and Bernard had the advantage of a longer reach and built-in weapons. I was armed only with my wits and whatever protection the red hood offered. This fight was not going to end well for me if I stood my ground.

  Bernard cocked his head to one side, never taking his gaze from me. “Are you lost, Little Red?”

  He chuckled, and his hot, rank breath washed over me. For the second time today, I was not grateful for my heightened sense of smell. I tried to think of something clever to say, but all I managed was a squeaky, “No!”