Page 17 of Eternal

She was Elissa, the Princess of Goian. And for the first time in his existence, and powerful enough to take root despite the barrenness of what his mind had become because of the witch, Wulfric had wished he were a man so he could claim the beauty for himself.

In the days he had been held captive in the witch’s abode, he had quickly learned that the longer he demonstrated an air of docility, the less of the potion the witch administered to him.

He pretended, all the while observing and understanding, and became more and more obsessed with the sweet-scented Elissa of Goian, the human he could never have.

He understood their plans to save the little boys of the village at the foot of the mountainous castle where her father, Zadimus, the king lived, unleashing a reign of terror upon his poor subjects.

He was intrigued by their plan and he didn’t doubt the cunningness of the ability of the witch to pull it off.

He had been so far gone that when his brother had come to rescue him, as a lone wolf, he had refused to leave his prison at the heart of the witch’s fire only because it was there he could lay his head on his paws and observe the beautiful maiden, Elissa.

She was goodness epitomized, something any living creature, man, or animal could see vibrantly inside her. And he wanted her.

Despite his older brother’s warning, and his failed attempts to bring him back home to his pack where he belonged, Wulfric had remained steadfast as he telepathically explained the witch’s plan to his brother.

What the witch proposed, his brother had said was a direct violation of the balance of nature. Men should remain men. Wolves should remain wolves. The two could not be mixed or melded.

But Wulfric would not be swayed.

He bided his time well, keeping himself meek and unobtrusive as the witch bled his veins, hour after hour then transfused his blood with that of the fair maiden’s, only to pass it through his veins once more.

The witch filled vials of their combined blood then filled a cauldron with the vials on an open coal fire. Smoke twirled around it, and she read from a book, chanting in strange murmurings. She then removed the vials and carefully packed them into little velvet pouches.

While the witch attended to the lacerated skin of the princess, it was Elissa herself, who, while still petrified of him, knelt at his side and gently swabbed at his many wounds from where the witch had taken his blood. Her touch had been both like a bolt of lightning and the softness of a petal from a rose.

In the unusual circumstances of their relationship, of the passing of their blood through each other, and despite the witch whose gaze started to penetrate Wulfric with harsh suspicion, there was a level of serenity that Wulfric experienced in the confines of the abode.

He was happy when Elissa was happy. That they had saved the little boys of the village, made her happiest.

But that tranquility was soon ruined when one of the witch’s sources came charging into her shelter with news that Zadimus had discovered his daughter’s part in the plot that had destroyed his plans. He was sending for her head: the reward, a full treasure chest.

Chapter Seven

Eager to see what happened next, Farren turned the page, and its whisper in the quiet of the room danced delicately in the air around her. As the story progressed, her heartbeat had picked up, and now she couldn’t wait to see what the wolf, Wulfric, was going to do to save his Elissa…

Wulfric had stopped pretending his meekness. He had risen to his full height, breaking the iron chains that kept him bound and shattering them with such force that, when he flung them into the air, they cracked the windows of the witch’s abode.

He growled and roared, menacing and fearsome, and yet unsure of what he had to do next.

The witch’s messenger had fled in terror well before Wulfric had freed himself completely. But when the witch had taken his Elissa’s hand, her expression frozen with fear, and began to drag her toward the door, Wulfric knew he couldn’t let them leave.

The instant his Elissa stepped foot outside, one of her father’s men would put an arrow through her throat so he could sever her head in exchange for more riches than any mortal man would ever see.

Snarling with vicious intent, he leaped toward the door, cordoning them off before they could make their escape. His whole demeanor frightened them enough that with their exit blocked, the two females huddled in the corner of the abode.

For a moment he observed the cold way that the witch regarded him. As long as he kept her away from her spells and potions and the books that held her magic, he would be safe. But there was something impure in her gaze, while his Elissa, as regal as a queen, even while she quivered in tremendous fear, looked at him with a curiosity that seemed to speak to an entity within him he couldn’t see but could only feel.

He had to save her.

With nothing to lose and hoisted only by simple logic, Wulfric used his snout and toppled over the cauldron, laid to rest over a bed of lava-hot coals. The little vials of blood, an extra supply he had heard them say, crashed to the floor, and the thin red liquid spilled and stained the wood.

Unconcerned with the heat, or that he cut his tongue in the process, Wulfric lapped at the blood, slurping it up and ingesting it. The taste that burst into the roof of his mouth was quintessentially Elissa, and as his bloodstream absorbed this new substance, one the witch had already set her magic upon, something else started to happen inside his body.

His plan had been simple, and one-dimensional. If the potion could turn little boys into wolves, then why couldn’t the potion turn alpha wolves into men. He wasn’t interested in the herb the witch had also collected then revived with magic that served to reverse the shift. All he wanted was to be able to protect his Elissa.

The change didn’t happen gradually. No. It transpired with the force of a tsunami and had Wulfric howling in agony as the bones under his skin contorted and changed their shape. His skin burst open and new structures emerged, and none without a degree of torturous severity making him believe this was the way he would die.

The shift from Canis lupus to Homo sapien, from quadruped to biped, took every ounce of strength he had in him, and by the time he was done, he found himself without a shred of fur, balancing his new body on one knee and one fist against the floor, his head bowed.

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