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It was another of the Red Dreams. They had happened frequently enough by now that Laurell could recognize when she was in one, but somehow that knowledge didn't really help. She thought she'd read somewhere that knowing you were dreaming gave you some level of control over it, but thus far it hadn't made a difference. They hadn't all ended in a red haze, but enough of them had that she thought of them as Red Dreams.
This one seemed different, somehow.
She was standing in the woods, but she knew right away that it wasn't the pack's forest. It smelled different. It felt different in some strange, undefinable way that she was still quite certain of. The air pressed thickly against her the way it does during the most humid days of high summer, even though the temperature itself was rather chilly.
It was night, but the moon shone brightly enough that she had no trouble seeing. Laurell wasn't usually afraid of the dark, but just knowing it was a Red Dream made her glad for the moonlight. A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the air. She swallowed and took a step forward. Since she didn't know where she was, she didn't know where she should be going. The only thing Laurell felt was a strong urge to move, to not stay where she'd been.
In most of these dreams Laurell felt like she was being chased. This time, she felt like she was being led. By whom or to what she had no idea. But she felt the compulsion all the same, and somehow she just knew that the dream wouldn't end until she'd reached the destination. It was eerily like being a passenger in her own body, just along for the ride to some pre-set conclusion.
She'd considered telling Geoff about them sooner than she had, but he'd been so busy with all the government stuff, and she didn't want to add to his stress. Besides, apart from that one incident with the screen door, nothing really bad had happened. He didn't seem angry when she finally 'fessed up, but even if he decided later that her lies of omission merited punishment, they would be fairly dealt with. Geoff had a truly good heart and wasn't cruel like the Odrulf in Denver had been. Odds were, he would find it almost as unpleasant as she.
She moved slowly, stepping carefully to avoid deadfalls and thorny plants. She wasn't at home outdoors like some of the others were and her clothes snagged frequently, hampering her progress still more. She could sense something trying to hurry her along, an insistent call not too dissimilar from the pull of the full moon, though she felt it in someplace different from her wolf. She peered through the branches at the moon, but the canopy was too thick for her to tell what phase it was. It was bright, though.
As Laurell pressed on, she became aware of a faint gurgling sound. She stopped, canting her head to one side. She hadn't noticed how eerily silent the forest had been up until that point. At first listen, she thought it was the sound of a slow-moving body of water, but that wasn't quite right. There was something too rhythmic about it, almost pulsing. It became less pleasant the longer she listened to it. After about a minute, the compulsion to move became too strong, and she pressed forward.
The distance between the trees grew and the ground became choked with underbrush, mostly leafy vegetation that pawed insistently at ankle height. Occasionally she'd find her way blocked by taller strands of woody shrubbery, forcing her to find another way around. Still, the sound persisted, just out of sight.
When Laurell forced her way through a particularly thick patch of foliage, she was surprised to find herself standing on a narrow dirt trail that didn't deserve to be termed a road. Two things happened almost simultaneously: she heard the sound more clearly than ever and, in so doing, recognized it.
It was breathing.
Thirty feet to her right, a horse lay on the ground, nearly blocking the path. With each breath, it gave a watery wheeze, its sides expanding and collapsing in a heaving motion. To Laurell, it radiated hurt. To Laurell's wolf, it reeked of prey. In either case, both were drawn to the beast.
"Oh, you poor, poor dear," Laurell spoke softly, afraid to startle the horse and add to its suffering. As she approached, she noticed that its eyes were rolling wildly in their sockets, foam dripping in thick curds from the corners of its mouth. Its flanks were red and bloody where ribbons of flesh had been whipped away. The blood was still fresh and freely flowing. When she was close enough to smell it, she stopped, balling her hands into fists. She was strong enough not to slip her skin at the mere sight (or scent) of blood but coupled with the emotional distress of the situation it was enough to tax her control. After taking several measured breaths, she moved closer, dropping to her knees beside the horse. Heat was radiating from it in waves, and at this distance she could see that its body was slick with sweat. There was no sign of a bit, halter, or saddle. She didn't know much about horses, but it seemed to her that someone had ridden the horse so brutally that it simply collapsed from exhaustion. Maybe it would be okay, but what could possibly be so important to warrant such mistreatment?
A low cooing sound bubbled from her lips as she reached out to brush the horse's mane, meaning to give comfort. A scream that seemed eerily human ripped from the animal's throat, and it flailed madly, twisting and bucking to avoid her touch. Laurell drew her hand back sharply, shocked and a little hurt. She meant the poor thing no harm, so why would it react so badly to her? After a moment of consideration, an explanation struck her: maybe the horse was sensing her wolf and was reacting to that.
She turned her attention inward and was shocked to realize just how close to the surface her wolf actually was. She felt a peculiar thinness in her flesh that usually indicated the preternatural part of her was clawing for release, pressing physically against its fleshy prison. This close to a wounded, panicked animal, the wolf was slavering, eager to end its misery and feast on its entrails. She should have found that notion upsetting, but she didn't – such was the dichotomy of being a werewolf. No matter how gentle or kind the human was, the wolf was an entity unto itself, with its own wants and needs. And what it wanted and needed was to feast upon the meal that had been laid before it. Why had it taken her until now to notice the wolf's proximity?
Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment and she took a slow, circular breath. Surprisingly, that was all she needed to keep the wolf under control, and when she opened her eyes to look at the horse again, she didn't feel the same desires. Usually when it was this shallow, seemingly held at bay only by the thickness of her skin, it would take all the concentration she had to keep her bipedal form – and even then it might not be enough. Geoff and Lou and some of the others were strong enough to pull back from the precipice of a shift, but once things got to a certain point, the momentum was too strong, and a shift was inevitable. At least, until tonight.
Maybe it's because this is a dream? she wondered.
Maybe it's something else, another part of her mind (at least, she hoped it was part of her mind) answered. She wasn't sure she understood what that meant, but she was sure she didn't like the notion of some other voice inside her head. She stood up abruptly, taking a hasty step back. This seemed to ease the horse's anxiety.
"I'm sorry!" she said to the animal. "I wasn't going to hurt you..."
Are you sure about that? that same voice, hers-but-not, echoed in her mind.
"Shut up!" Laurell cried, wondering to whom she was actually speaking. There was no response. It was only at that moment she realized that if the horse was still this exhausted, whoever had ridden it might still be close. If she wanted an answer to her question ("What could possibly be so important to warrant such mistreatment?") she need only continue in the direction the horse had been traveling.
If you wanted to dish out some justice on the animal's behalf, following the trail would also work. Laurell knew that thought wasn't her own, but she recognized it as Geoff's influence on her. The notion brought the ghost of a smile to her face.
"Goodbye, mister horse," she said as she stepped carefully around it. She still wasn't sure whether it was curiosity or retribution driving her, but she moved briskly down the path. After a few minutes she quickened her pace, almost running, using some of the preternatural speed she usually had to keep bottled up in public. She couldn't break into an all-out sprint, however; the path was still unfamiliar, and she had to slow for its twists and dips. At certain points she thought she recognized tire ruts, meaning the trail was at least somewhat frequently traveled. She wondered who created it, and why they didn't make at least a little effort to make it more passible. The moment that question crossed her mind, an answer followed it: this was a secret route frequented by bandits and smugglers, and it didn't appear on any map. It was kept as hidden as possible to prevent accidental discovery. Laurell didn't know how she knew that, but it felt right.
Distantly, she wondered where she was that smugglers and bandits still operated – and on horseback no less.
Before she had time to puzzle that out, Laurell became aware of sounds from up ahead. It was a voice – no, voices. Several of them, speaking urgently, but in a language she didn't understand. She thought it might be French, or maybe Portuguese. The words were flying too quickly for her to be certain. She came to a stop so she could better hear, creeping forward cautiously, trying not to be noticed. The path turned sharply left about fifty feet in front of her, and as she approached the bend, the voices became louder. They must be just beyond it. Laurell frowned. She wasn't exactly sure how to sneak up on someone. Geoff could do it, and if she'd ever asked, she was sure he would teach her, but she never broached the subject and he never pressed. Now, she wished she had taken the initiative. It seemed vitally important that she not be seen.
I can show you how. Laurell wasn't sure if that was Geoff speaking to her, the voice of her own wolf, or that other, hers-but-not voice, but given her lack of other options, she was inclined to listen. She opened herself up to this other influence, letting her body move as if by some dimly remembered instinct. She slinked into the underbrush, heedless of the sting of thorns and brambles. Her footfalls were mere whispers, and even the rustling of the foliage as she crept forward seemed muted and unremarkable. She passed through the forest with an ease she'd never experienced before. It made her feel strong in a way she never had, like some great creeping predator from whom all creatures should run. Was that the way Geoff felt all the time? Maybe she should ask him to teach her this stuff for real.
Too bad she never remembered these dreams after she woke up. If this was like all the others, she would have no way to remind herself to seek him out.
The path had been diverted around a large oak tree, and Laurell had instinctively moved to the cover on its right side, which meant that when the trail made the sharp turn to the left, she would be able to conceal herself behind the tree to get her bearings. She pressed herself against the trunk and eased herself around it just enough to take a peek at what lay ahead. About twenty-five feet down the path, the underbrush fell away into a small clearing. Seven men were crowded together in a semicircle, looking down at something she couldn't see. Despite the silvery light of the full moon, three of the men carried torches that cast twisting, almost living shadows on their forms. Two of the men were wearing some kind of old-fashioned military uniform, while the others wore hooded cloaks that all but hid their faces.
Wait.
The full moon?
All at once, it was like blinders were ripped away. She felt a sickening, twisting surge somewhere within her, and the struggle she hadn't been experiencing before leapt to the fore. Her wolf was dangerously close to the surface – it had been for some time, but someone (or something) had kept her from feeling the effects. Power tingled along her flesh, raising goosebumps. It was more than just the lupine energy preceding her own shift. There was another power too, different, raising her hackles and leaving her nostrils with a burning like ozone. From a sheer magnitude perspective it seemed greater than even Geoff, and he was the most powerful wolf Laurell had ever known.
"No, no, please!" The words fell from her mouth in a piteous moan as her head swam with the sudden sensory overload. If it was truly the full moon, she would have no choice but to shift and those men would be in danger! She didn't have control of herself in shifted form yet and she might attack them. Laurell didn't usually fight the change the way Mark did, but here and now she tried, gritting her teeth and attempting to claw back control. A bolt of pain ripped through her as she felt the strain of bones on the verge of cracking. She whimpered. It wasn't even the full moon in the waking world. Surely here, in this dream, she had some kind of control, enough to stop this. It wasn't like she was actually shifting.
Are you sure about that?
What?
A fresh surge from her wolf sent her stumbling forward, out of concealment. She fell to one knee with a mewling cry, her eyes squeezing shut to block out any visual input. Maybe that would free up enough of her brainpower to allow her to fight the shift until she was safely away from the men. One of them raised a cry of alarm, and they all turned toward her.
"You there! What are you doing?" a voice cried out. Laurell whimpered again, opening her eyes a crack. The speaker was one of the men in uniform. He looked vaguely familiar, though she was sure she'd never met him before. His hair was a faint reddish brown, tinged with gray and slightly receding, while his thin lips were curled into a disapproving frown. He took a step toward her, his hand dropping onto his belt. The action drew Laurell's attention to the fact that he was wearing a sword on the belt, and his hand was lightly resting on its handle.
She shook her head doggedly, trying to tamp down her wolf enough to speak. "Please," she gasped. "Stay away!" To her own ears, the words sounded grating and barely intelligible, and she had no idea what the men actually heard. She tried to stand, but the movement caused a fresh jolt of agony, and she sank to the ground once more. Her heart thudded in her chest, fluttering like a trapped animal. She grasped madly at the earth, her fingers digging deep furrows in the soil. As she struggled, she let loose a low, guttural cry that was more animal than human.
"She's one of them!" another voice called out.
Laurell's vision had shrunk to pinpricks. A sudden wave of fear crashed over her, powerful and nauseating. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
You mean more wrong than shifting in front of the men?
She wasn't sure whether or not that was her own thought, but she did know the answer: yes. Something even more horrifying was going on, even if she didn't understand exactly what it was. The fresh panic only further weakened her control, and she felt a low, wet snap as one of the bones in her arm broke, starting the process of reshaping her form to its lupine state. The pain compounded her struggles still more, and she collapsed on her side, curling into a ball.
"Go away, go away, go away!" She wasn't sure whether she was speaking to the men or to her wolf. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she wailed miserably. In rapid succession, three more bones cracked, and her right arm twisted grotesquely as joints realigned to transition to a wolf's leg.
"We have to kill her. This is too close," came a third voice, strangely calm given the situation.
"Yes." She heard the distinctive sound of metal on metal as a sword was drawn, and when she looked up the first man was advancing toward her, a grim set to his features. Behind him, the cloaked men had ranged in a line, blocking her from whatever it was they had been gathered around. Two of them had drawn daggers and were wielding them defensively, while the other uniformed man had produced a large pistol of a type Laurell didn't recognize. It was a muzzle loader, and the man was rapidly (but not frantically) ramming a rod down its barrel. He was regarding her with more speculation than fear, his eyes narrowed and calculating.
Her last conscious thought was that maybe if she died in the dream she would wake up.
Then the wolf took over.
The threat of the approaching men kicked her shift into even higher gear as the wolf's instincts of self-preservation gave it that last nudge, crossing the tipping point where Laurell's control was overwhelmed. Her back arched painfully, fur sprouting through her skin as bones and muscles shifted painfully under her flesh. By the time she was rising on four legs, the swordsman was on her, slashing downward fiercely. She felt the red bite of steel as it parted fur, flesh, and muscle, and rolled away from its source with a howl of pain. The man had been going for a killing blow, but since Laurell had been curled in a fetal ball at the start of her shift, her head and neck were not quite where the man had expected. Instead, her right shoulder was sliced to the bone, causing a sharp, throbbing pain with each step as she circled the men, her body low to the ground. A nearly continuous growl rumbled from her throat.
In this form (and, in truth, before the shift as well), Laurell possessed enough speed to run away from the men and leave the danger behind. If they were human, they stood no chance of catching her, and even on horseback it would have been a hard-fought chase. If she possessed any of her human intellect in this form, things might have gone differently, but the wolf had full control of things. It was hurt and angry and it wanted to fight back.
The man with the sword hunched over, presenting her with a smaller target, his sword held almost perfectly vertical so its point protruded several inches above the top of his head. If she were to leap at him (which was the wolf's first inclination), she risked impaling herself on the weapon. She snapped her jaws at him, trying to startle him into flinching, but he remained steadfast, his eyes never wavering.
"George," the pistol-bearing man said evenly, "I am loaded with silver, but you know how tricky it can be. See if you can draw her out." He sighted down his arm at her, taking a large step to one side. Laurell didn't understand the words being spoken, but they pulled her attention away from the first man. The two were just far enough apart that she couldn't keep both in her field of vision, which she liked not at all. Her head swiveled from side to side as she moved to keep pace with the second man. When he realized that's what she'd been doing, he stopped. Despite his cool demeanor, she felt a curl of fear rising from him. Good. He was right to be afraid of her.
"Doing my best," George responded. Laurell felt less fear from this one, though his pulse had ratcheted upward. The sword was wet with blood – her blood. Her nose quivered at the scent, and she felt a fresh surge of anger and outrage. She reoriented on that one; he seemed the larger threat and had already hurt her once. She compressed her weight, ignoring the pain as the movement opened her wound still more.
"Steady," the second man breathed. "Wait for it..."
Laurell ignored the sounds. She would deal with that one in a moment. She sank a bit lower, her belly almost touching the ground, and then sprang at the first man, arrowing toward his midsection, forcing him to bring the blade lower to defend himself. If nothing else she could knock him off balance and take him when he was on the ground. With her focus all on George, she neither heard the report of the pistol nor felt the projectile tear a hole in her side. It was just enough to throw off her attack, however, and George leapt deftly to one side, bringing his weapon down with a grunt as she passed by him, close enough for her furred form to brush against his legs. The blade got stuck in one of her vertebrae and the momentum of her leap ripped it from George's hands. She skidded to a halt, her paws scrambling wildly for purchase as he tried to reorient for another attack, but these new wounds were more serious. The silver shot from the pistol had tumbled about inside her before becoming lodged in her hipbone, puncturing several organs in the process. George's blade had cut a crescent-shaped swath of flesh from her neck, the ragged wound pouring blood and matting her fur. Breathing had become suddenly more difficult, and she had to stop and collect herself, swaying on her feet.
That momentary pause was all the other men needed.
They broke formation and surrounded her, stabbing and hacking at her with their daggers. She tried to twist away from the barrage, but her body wasn't reacting fast enough to her brain's commands. In a moment of blind panic, she snapped her jaws wildly and felt a brief wave of satisfaction as her teeth bit through flesh, the tang of blood filling her mouth. But where one man fell away screaming, another took his place, and she was too weak to fight back. She collapsed onto the ground, her own blood pouring into the ground and turning it into a tacky sort of mud.
It was only then, when it was far too late, that the notion of trying to flee entered her mind. She tried to stagger to her feet, but she was too weak to do so. As her consciousness started to fade, she felt a deep discordant buzz settle into her mind, filling her entire world and somehow blocking out the pain. Underneath it, like some exposed nerve ready to jolt at the slightest touch, was a feeling of savage glee, of victory that seemed to come from someplace (someone?) else entirely.
And then she was gone.