Page 40 of The Howling
Bessie sorts through the racks, pulling out some clothing and setting it aside before looking over me with a practiced gaze.
“Are you healing from your injuries?” she asks.
I squirm uncomfortably. “Sort of. My chest still hurts. I think I broke a couple of ribs.”
“Broken bones are the hardest to heal,” Bessie says as she pulls a rail over to me. “Even for a skillful healer, and Harold is not a skillful healer.” She purses her lips. “But hopefully I can help.”
REAVELY
Istare into the fire and drum my claws on the counter, making deep indentations in the polished oak. No doubt Bessie will make me pay for my destruction later.
I dislike immensely being separated from my Wynter. While she should be safe with the witch—I’ve known Bessie since I was a pup—I want to be by her side.
It makes my fur itch all over. It makes me want to shift form, simply to assuage the deep discomfort in the pit of my stomach. I have known this little creature for no time at all, but she is bound to me in ways which I wouldn’t have thought possible.
“Barghest!” A hiss outside has me turning on my heel and marching out into the gathering gloom of the evening.
Before he can get away, I have the healer, Harold, by his collar, and he swings in my grip, protesting.
“I only wanted to know how the human is,” he grumbles.
I put him on his feet but don’t let go of his clothing.
“She is well.”
“I have some medicine for her.” He fumbles in his robes. “I brewed it after treating her. I was going to bring it to you but…”
“I had a Wyrm visitation?” I nod. “You were wise to avoid the castle.”
His eyes dart from me to the shop and back again.
“Is she…your mate?” he asks.
“What do you think?”
“I think a mated Barghest will bring Chilburgh back to life,” he says with a smile and a nod at the dark shape of the castle on the hill behind the village.
“She is a human.” I look longingly at the shop. “I would die for her.”
The sentiment surprises me, but I keep it to myself. Killing a Barghest is not a simple task, but as the thought crystallises in my head, I know what I will need to do when the time comes.
“Then she is your mate,” Harold says quietly. “Here.” He presses a small blue bottle into my hand. “Make sure she takes three drops a day.”
I release him, and he scurries off, disappearing up a ginnel, relief following him like a cloud. I uncork the bottle and sniff at it, recoiling at the scent.
I doubt very much my Wynter will want to take this brew, not if it tastes as horrible as it smells. She liked my favourite sweet treat, so she is not going to like something this sour.
I make sure he has gone, and I empty the contents into a nearby plant pot before pacing past the window of the seamstress’s shop and back again. The pacing feels good, so I continue back and forth, emptying my mind of everything except my mate’s sweet face.
“You’re going to wear out the road.” Bessie’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “I’ll have to charge you for that.”
She has her hands on her hips, glaring at me. I let my lips ripple in response with a snarl which would send fear into anyone’s heart.
I amtheBarghest.
“Where is my mate?”
Bessie sighs. “Wynter,” she says pointedly, “is preparing herself. I’ll send the other items on.”
