“Then can’t you be civilized and leave me alone?” she pleaded.
“Why would you even want to be alone? It isn’t natural,” Brandon said with an offended, gentlemanly sniff.
“There are twenty-three wolf men on this island,” Cox said. “Our command of the others is vague at best. Some of them won’t ask. In the end, we’re all beasts, and the full moon is coming. Let one of us look after you.”
They would save her from damage, and keep her for their own use.
“Let me look after you,” Brandon said pointedly.
“You’re a fop,” Cox spat. “You hardly know which way you’re pointed.”
The gentleman laughed. “We settled this once before, we can do it again. It won’t come to a draw next time, I’ll warrant—”
“That’s right, it won’t—”
“Stop it!” she shouted. “I’ll look after myself!”
The two wolves stepped a pace or two apart and had the grace to look abashed.
Brandon gave a quick nod. “My dear, at least tell us your name.”
Right now, her name felt like a weapon they would use against her. To civilize her. “No,” she said, and the growl came through. Her wolf had fought before, she would do again.
“We could just carry her off,” Cox said to Brandon.
“The entire point of the exercise was to have the lady’s cooperation.” The gentleman called back up the hill, “What if we shared you? A month with me, the next with Cox—”
Then she did scream, hands tangled in her hair, and the sound had the edges of a wolf’s howl to it. She doubled over as the beast cried out. Wolf would break free and tear them all to pieces, she could do it—
“Girl . . .” Cox said warningly.
“Let’s be off, shall we?” Brandon said, brushing grass off his neat trousers. “We’ll leave you to it.”
The pair of them walked away while she crouched, gasping, struggling to keep hold of herself. At last, after a minute or so of breathing as slow as she could, the beast stilled and she was able to look out with human eyes and take stock.
The men left the knife and candle on the hill for her.
Since taking them would feel like putting herself in their debt, she didn’t. The knife stayed unclaimed and the candle burned out.
Five more days passed. She could feel the full moon before it rose, sense the coming light against her eyes, the tug against her gut. The creature within began scratching, pain on the inside of her ribs as if they formed a cage it could break free of. Nothing could stop what was about to happen to her. This was the true punishment. The Lord of Wolves, all the wolf packs, offered protection. That was the pact so many of them made. Submit and be safe. Know your place and keep to it, and those in power will shelter you. She had thrown it all away and hadn’t regretted it a whit until this moment.
She wondered which of the wolves on this island would find her first, then rape and kill her.
Refusing the tears that threatened, she carefully undressed, folding and setting aside skirt, petticoat, bodice, shift. She couldn’t afford to rip them during her transformation; she had no others. That she would return to wear these clothes again was an article of faith. She must believe it would be so. She was strong, her beast was stronger. Together they would survive. They’d made it this far.
She marked her territory, small as it was, again and again and again.
She and her beast had had nights on the moor that were glorious. Miles of space, no one to answer to, she could run and run and run, as free as she’d ever been, wind in her fur, dew on her tongue. Her first months as the beast were difficult, as her skin ripped apart and her bones broke and reknitted and her own mind felt otherworldly. But the reward had been those nights of freedom.
It hadn’t lasted. The Lord of Wolves, his dukes and henchmen, had wanted her. England wasn’t big enough for them all to run free, they told her. She must submit to one of them, any of them. Instead she fought, and fought, and fought. And now here was where fighting had got her.
The moon rose, her human body stretched and broke, and her long, despairing howls joined the others on the Island of Beasts, their song reminding her that the other wolves were here, they knew where she was, they could find her. She ought to be silent, she ought to hide—
But her beast was furious and so screamed out, Come find me if you dare, I am strong, I am monstrous!
A smuggler of whisky rowed his boat past the island that night, and heard such a cacophony of wailing and moaning that he knew the stories that the ghosts of every sailor and fisherman ever lost at sea had washed up on that desolate rock must be true. He dug into his cargo and threw a bottle of his best into the waves as an offering and didn’t stop praying until the shadow of the island was out of sight, and its terrible howling gone quiet.
She awoke naked in her den, tangled in her skirt, and safe. She must have snuggled into the fabric and used it as a bed. It smelled like home. The whole place did, which was why her wolf had come back here. She’d been able to come back here.
She never remembered much from the nights of running as a wolf. Images and feelings. The taste of blood on her tongue—so she’d been able to hunt. Her full belly told her she’d eaten. Her wolf had slept contented. Looking herself over, again and again, disbelieving—she hadn’t been damaged. No one had touched her.
After putting on her shift and skirt—she couldn’t be bothered to lace up her bodice or even put back her hair—she walked on the beach. Closed her eyes and breathed in the sea air. Smiled for the first time in weeks. She had survived. Somehow, she was still standing, and it felt glorious.
A glint in the surf caught her eye. A glass bottle shoved up on the sand, sliding back on the wave, then rolling up again. Splashing barefoot in the water, she grabbed it up, studied it. It was a full and sealed bottle of whisky. A blessing on her morning. She might not have much, but oh, this was a thing to bargain with.
She hiked back to her den to hide it away until she decided what to do with it. Found Brandon and Cox there at the same place, halfway up the hill. Waiting for her.
They looked like wolf men after the night of a full moon always looked, with shadowed eyes and unkempt beards. Even Brandon hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and had scruff on his cheeks. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his collar open. Cox squinted in the sun, frowning in her direction, if not directly at her, and crossed his arms.
However much she wanted to turn and run, fast as her two legs could carry her—or better, let her wolf loose, she could run so much faster on four legs—she stood her ground. They didn’t seem angry. Their gazes turned away. Seemingly bored, Brandon scuffed his shoe in the grass. Cox went barefoot.
Brandon finally smiled. “Good morning, there. Did you have a good run? Can’t say you look particularly well rested, but then who can, after such a night?”
She looked frightful, her hair in a tangle down her back, her shift and skirt wrinkled and stained after so many days. And found she didn’t care. This was the Island of Beasts. Propriety was a secondary consideration. They regarded her exactly the same as they had before. She was a wolf woman after the night of a full moon, and that was fine.
“I had a . . . a decent night, I think. No better or worse than any other such night, I suppose.”