Storm Wolf (40 page)

His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness outside. Not only was it the darkness of predawn, it was the darkness of a tremendous rainstorm. Torrents of rain lashed against the new glass that had replaced the window broken by the werewolf’s arrival. Flickers of lightning illuminated the street below, revealing great pools and puddles on the cobblestones. Thunder rumbled in the air around the city.

Timotej climbed back into his great bed and attempted to go back to sleep but was able to do little more than doze. Finally, after an hour or more of tossing and turning, he made his way to the study. He discovered that some of the servants had also been awakened by the cannon’s roar and asked one to find the maid to bring him his tea. She appeared, in her nightshift, bearing the tea tray about half an hour later. She set it before him on the desk.

The rugs and furniture had all been restored to their usual positions, and the scratches on the floor were hidden by the rugs except for those small areas where the wood was exposed. The maid glanced at the marks on the floor near the windows and stood before the desk, awaiting any further instructions.

“Alexei told me that the werewolves of Estonia fight the storms,” Timotej blurted out as he stirred his tea. “Do you think the storm will attract him? Bring him back to Prague?”

“Perhaps he has been struggling with the storms up the river,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps that is why no one has seen him here in the city.”

“Well, if he has been fighting the storms, I must say that he seems to have been singularly unsuccessful.” Timotej sipped his tea and snorted. “If the river is flooding here, he must have failed miserably.”

The maid chewed her lip. “Perhaps…” she began, and then stopped.

Timotej looked up at her. “Yes?” He was ready to dismiss her, but there was the possibility that she might have a clever idea. After all, she had thought to give Alexei the dill and holly, and these had evidently spared the guests of the inn from being murdered by the transformed Alexei.

“Well, it occurred to me that perhaps our Alexei needs some help.” She seemed to be searching for the right words. “I’m thinking that maybe the storm is greater than one werewolf can vanquish. If there were two werewolves, Alexei with a greater, stronger werewolf, then perhaps the two of them could fight the floods together and keep the towns safe.” She cocked one eyebrow at her master.

Timotej held the cup before him, his arm frozen in midair. “Another werewolf?” The idea had never occurred to him that a second such creature might be around.

“Well, no—not another werewolf from Estonia. But maybe another werewolf in Prague, someone who knew how to use the wolf skin that Alexei brought,” she suggested. “Someone who could vanquish the storm before it gets much worse.”

Timotej set down his tea. She had a point. Maybe there was need of a second, more powerful werewolf. “The flooding can’t have become so dire yet,” he agreed. “Despite the cannons firing. Another werewolf, with Alexei’s assistance, might be able to save the city.” Timotej explored the idea forming in his mind. “Surely Alexei must be somewhere nearby. He must be following the storm, realizing that it is beyond his capability to master it alone.”

Timotej began to like the idea. The new werewolf would deliver Prague from the exaggerated threat of the flood and be hailed as the savior of the city.

The appearance of the new werewolf would also vindicate his occult studies, which he knew were snickered at behind his back by his fellow nobility. Not only would the occult be proven real, but even useful and important, and the man who proved it so would be hailed a hero twice over. His place in society would rise. His opinion would be sought after, his patronage vital to anyone who hoped to succeed in the world.

“Yes, perhaps we should attempt to create another werewolf to do what Alexei on his own is unable to accomplish. I will consult my books,” the master announced, turning towards the overflowing shelves. He gestured to the woman standing before him who, taking the hint, curtsied politely and backed out of the room, careful to close the door on her departure.

The maid had a fairly good idea what would happen next.

“He’ll unwrap the wolf skin that Alexei brought here and that he’s been so afraid of touching until now,” she told the coachman she met on the stairs. “He won’t know how to fight the storm, but it will keep him busy for a while, and when he comes back home, we can all be gone. Gone down the river or out to the farms and higher ground away from Prague. When everything is safe, we can come back and applaud his bravery for remaining here despite the danger.”

“Sounds to me like you got this all thought out, thorough-like,” the coachman agreed. “As long as you’re sure no more odd goings-on will happen here.”

“Let’s get the others ready, so we can all leave as soon as he does.” Worrying about the safety of her relatives in the countryside, as well as the servants’ safety if they waited too long and got caught in the terrible storm and flooding, she parted from the coachman in haste to tell the rest of the household what was afoot.

In the study, Timotej waited to hear the sound of the maid’s footsteps fade down the hallway. Then he scurried to the back shelf where he had so carefully placed the wolf pelt. He set it on the table where the candles and tray of magical tools had been during the exorcism.

The paper and string were as he had left them. The dill frond, still tucked under the knot, was shriveled and dry, but still green against the tan and beige of the wrappings. Timotej’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed. Did he dare? He touched the knot.

A ripple of power startled him. He snatched his hand back. Perhaps a warning to be heeded?

“No,” he decided. “Not a warning. A harbinger of greatness to come.” He smiled. He tore open the wrappings, tossing the dill carelessly aside.

The pelt lay on the table, the crinkled paper underneath it. It looked so… ordinary. His feet sank deep into the thick rug on which he stood and his toes flexed with nerves and anxiety, digging deep into the soft fibers. He reached toward the pelt.

Again he snatched his hand back, startled by what he now realized was the shock of static electricity—so recently explained by the British scientist Michael Faraday, whose stunning 1832 work had finally made its way in German translation into Timotej’s hands—snapping between his fingertips and the fur. He hesitated and then reached forward again, gently prodding the fur. Nothing. Heaving a sigh of relief, he picked it up with both hands and shook it.

The pelt cascaded to the floor. The head lolled to one side and the limbs splayed out on either side. Tufts of fur came loose and floated gently about Timotej, one settling on his shoulder. Timotej peered at it in the flickering gloom of the study, reciting to himself bits of Alexei’s life story.

“He said that it was enough to simply put it on, to wrap it around himself. He didn’t draw a magic circle or anoint himself in any way. Did he say the head went over his left shoulder? I wonder if that is important. I mean, does it matter which shoulder the head goes on?” He practiced crossing himself once or twice in anticipation of removing the skin later. After his great triumph. He could already hear the cries and acclamations that would greet him. Although the city would be saved, that was tangential to his real purpose: winning fame and honor, glory as the one true
kouzelnik
in the city. Probably throughout the Kingdom of Bohemia. Certainly in the Habsburg domains. Maybe in all of Europe. His presence would be sought everywhere. He would be even more famous than the musician Franz Liszt, whose death four years ago had rocked the world of European culture.

“Alexei said the cunning woman instructed his grandfather to remove his clothes. The wolf skin had to touch human skin.” He dropped his nightshirt on the floor. Draping the pelt over one arm, he strode to the windows, pulled back the heavy drapes, and opened the panes. Although it should have been bright with the rosy hues of early dawn, the world outside was dark. Rain pelted him. He cast the wolf skin across his shoulders.

Alexei’s description of the experience of transformation left Timotej totally unprepared for the sensations that swept through him. He gasped and winced as it seemed a half-dozen of the largest, strongest field hands on his country estate pummeled him with great cudgels. Bones snapped and fragments pulled apart. His joints were dislocated and knuckles cracked with ferocity undreamt of. He bit his lip, afraid the servants in the house might hear if he cried out, might come running and interrupt the process.

A tremendous blow across his lower back caused him to double over and cry out, and as he cried, he heard the scream warble, shift timbre, and become the long, extended howl of a wolf. As he lurched forward, he saw the pelt close around his arms and hands. Fingers grew thick and stubby, filling the space within the paws of the wolf skin. Fingernails extended into claws. The rear limbs of the wolf wrapped themselves around his legs and he could feel the tail root itself into his buttocks as if seedlings were sending out roots into the surrounding soil. His tongue, unable to fit in his mouth, rolled out over sharp fangs and he almost bit himself. Attempting to keep himself erect, he stumbled back and then fell forward onto all fours, claws clicking on the floorboards beneath him. The pelt knit itself together across his chest, growing as tight as a stylish vest that had become too snug. Timotej gasped and forced himself to breathe even as his ribs constricted around his lungs.

Finally the transformation seemed to finish. The last joints popped. Cartilage snapped for the final time. Timotej shook his head and refocused his eyes, learning to see the world as a wolf does. New scents of lightning and animosity that nevertheless seemed immediately familiar assailed his nostrils. Sharper hearing detected distant sighs and eddies of the wind and air currents.

He moved toward the window. He lifted his mighty head and howled out into the weather-ravaged morning. “If Alexei is anywhere nearby, he will certainly hear that,” thought Timotej. He waited and, as there was no apparent response, howled again into the wind.

Timotej took a half-step back and then leapt out the window. His paws discovered their footing in the air and scrambled above the house. He circled the neighborhood and found that the darkest, thickest mass of clouds hovered over and behind St. Vitus Cathedral in Hradčany. Eager to demonstrate his newfound prowess, he rushed towards St. Vitus.

Timotej discovered that running through the air at such a steep angle towards the Gothic cathedral, grasping the air with each paw and thrusting the wind behind him like so many pebbles, was as tiring as running up the steep hills to the castle. He gasped for breath, lungs burning and limbs beginning to ache. Winded, he paused just above St. George’s Basilica and looked about.

The river was rising quickly. Logs, trees, broken rooftops—debris of every sort was floating in the water and getting lodged around and under the broad stone pillars that upheld the old bridge. Townsfolk swarmed about the alleys and streets, some gawking at the river and some trying to get away while they still could. Wagons rumbled through great puddles and pools of standing water. A few were already trapped in the flooded streets nearest the riverbank, wheels wedged in the mud between the cobblestones. Rain continued falling, sometimes in gentle curtains and then in lashing torrents. Wind whistled among the spires of the cathedral and the Loreto cloister, the chimneys of Hradčany.

He could hear the creatures lurking in the clouds. Squeals that could easily be mistaken for the wind. Deep growling that might be thunder if it were heard, but would more likely be felt in the bowels. They seemed to be swarming just beyond the apse of the cathedral, high above the Golden Gate and its brilliant mosaic of the Last Judgment, which still served as the principal entrance to the church. Timotej launched himself through the air towards them, much like a reckless young man might jump from a cliff towards a lower bluff in a contest with his brothers. Timotej sailed through the rain, past the moist surface of the clouds, into the dark mist swirling and heaving in imitation of the river surface below.

Timotej’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the new darkness he confronted. The minor storm devils had never seen such a creature intruding into their domain before and needed to adjust to his presence as well. Timotej hovered in midair, treading the air much as a seal might tread water to remain in place, shrill laughter suddenly assaulting his ears. A hand grasped and tugged on his tail. Another demon, seeing that a startled glance backward was the werewolf’s only reaction, grabbed the beast’s tail and pulled hard with a sudden snap of the wrist. The great werewolf jerked his head around, snapping his massive jaws at the unseen assailant. A sharp shriek pierced the air as his fangs closed on a leg of the attacker, an instant too slow as it darted away.

Other devils, wrapping themselves in fragments of cloud or shreds of mist, were more daring and plucked the werewolf’s ears or tugged on the tuft of fur at the base of his breastbone. One wrapped its own jaws around the foreleg of the wolf and bit. The werewolf reared up, howling in surprise as much as pain, snapping at all the various sources of his torment. The devils jumped back and tripped, surprised at the werewolf’s agility. Timotej caught one in his mouth, shaking the cloud ribbons from the devil and snapping the thing’s spine with a loud crackle. Cries of anger rose around him.

The devils became less concerned with hiding themselves. Timotej saw one snatch a scrap of lightning and hurl it in fury, not taking the time to aim carefully. The lightning burst past the wolf’s cheek and ricocheted off his shoulder; a burn sizzled where it had hit, the fragrance of burnt flesh and fur curling into the storm. Another grabbed a handful of rain and threw it into the werewolf’s belly. The werewolf stumbled to one side and then jumped at a crew of three hoisting a cauldron of thunder. The cauldron fell on one’s foot, spilling the thunder out. Thunder flowed and rumbled across the hilltop, knocking over a handful of other devils in its spreading wake. The cauldron, having smashed a devil’s foot, rolled away. The devil with the broken foot hopped about in pain, clutching its toes, howling. The other two stumbled away, ripping open a tear in the cloud mantle, which allowed a glimmer of sunlight and blue sky to pierce the storm.