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The Seventh Charm: The Dog

THE LADY ELEANOR of Rookskill Castle catches Colin out before breakfast. She will not be interrupted this time, as she was with little Amelie. Eleanor, done with pretense, finished with kindness, won’t be stopped or delayed any longer.

“Tsk,” Eleanor says to Colin, scolding. “You know the rules. You’ve seen what happens. You should not be wandering about.”

Colin’s face drops; Eleanor is pleased. She’s planted such perfect seeds. “I was only . . .” His voice trails off. His eyes study the ground. He waits.

“There, now.” She pauses. “I think I have a suitable punishment. Do you like dogs?”

Colin’s face lifts again. For a moment he looks suspicious, and then his eyes brighten and he nods so hard, he might rattle apart.

“My favorite hound has whelped and her pups need attention. You can take care of them.”

It’s clear that this is anything but punishment to Colin. He dances around her as they walk. The chatelaine thumps against her hip; she has the dog charm clutched in her fist, ready.

Eleanor pushes the barn door aside, then closes it behind. “This way,” she says. She leads him past the empty stall to where one is dimly lit. Cats scatter into shadows as they pass.

Colin jumps and skips. To him, the barn smells of damp and hay. Maybe they were wrong about the Lady, if she loves dogs.

As they step around the stall door they see the slender hound and a pile of mewling puppies.

Eleanor reaches down and lifts up a puppy and hands it to Colin. She wipes her hand on her black coat, disgust filling her. To her, the barn smells of feces. The hound bares her teeth but doesn’t dare bite her mistress, a mistress now made more of metal than of soft flesh, metal that would cause great pain to the hound and her babies.

Growl at me, you filthy cur, thinks Eleanor. You’ll be sorry when I throw your pups into the well and turn you out into the snow.

But Colin is in heaven, cuddling and cooing. The pup’s eyes are still closed and it’s a small brown-and-white ball in his arms. Colin turns his bright eyes to Eleanor, talking baby talk to the wee thing.

It’s perfect: she slips the silver chain with its small dog charm over Colin’s head and whispers the accursed words.

Your life will linger dark and deep.

She’s seen the change six times before: the cry of pain and then the jaw gone slack, the eyes that dull, the vacancy as the boy’s soul leaves his body and becomes hers.

Hers.

Her chest grows tight and she closes her eyes. The boy’s soul is joined to her thirteenth charm, held there with a bond formed of dark spells. Eleanor swells with the power of it, feeling the bliss surge through her as it has before, each time more strongly, and she tilts her head back and laughs out loud.

Her laughter rolls through the barn, shrill and piercing. The living things scatter before the sound as if it contaminates the very air.

The hound bares her teeth again and her throat fills with a growl, as the boy Colin sinks to his knees, clutching the pup, sinks to the mother and her other babies, and becomes one with them, acting like a whining, whimpering puppy, accepted by the hound as another of the forlorn creatures of the barn.

Eleanor draws herself upright, her metal arm’s gears whirring and clicking. She points her claw finger at the hound and says, “I will take care of you before the end.”

Her thirteenth charm now carries the weight of seven souls, and Eleanor bears it, limping, staggering, bending, but also with dark joy.