Wolf at the Door

Prologue

Prussia, 1802

The first child was found just after dawn, before the snowfall.

The body was overlooked by the initial group of searchers, dusted with a thin layer of white that disguised it as a fallen tree or some other forest detritus. It was the blacksmith who thought to look closer, and condemned himself to a lifetime of lost sleep and nightmares. The body had been unspeakably defiled, torn to shreds with pieces left scattered. The smell that rose from the corpse was sickening, and the blacksmith barely managed a shout before he fell to his knees in the freshly-fallen snow to bury his face in his palms.

The parents were told a wild animal was to blame. There was no closure in the news. Animals couldn't be blamed for the evil they did, animals couldn't be held accountable for taking something so precious. But on the night the child was buried, his father was taken to a tavern to drown his sorrows. After several drinks and insulated by the dark shadows of the bar, one of the men spoke up with a hushed voice: the child was killed by animals, yes. But wild? Hardly. Their believed the death was brought about by a man who transformed into a wulf by the light of the moon. One of the men, a hunter, claimed to have seen such a transformation with his own eyes.

The grieving father berated them and left their company, spitting on the ground as he went. To be confronted with horror stories, nursery tales, when his son was freshly in the ground.

Three nights later, a second child was discovered. Unlike the first, this girl had been taken from the sanctity of her bedroom. The window was found shattered, the sash blowing in the breeze and a thin dusting of snow lay on the floor underneath. This missing child was easier to find. The searchers merely had to follow the trail of blood to her remains.

Suspicions were no longer confined to drunks in the tavern. A priest blessed the little girl's remains and gravely warned the hunters to be careful when they pursued her killer. The shape of the wounds resembled the bite of a wulf, and the ferocity of the attack was similar to what wild dogs would do. But everything else about the attack pointed toward a keen, if sick, intellect.

A wehrwulf was targeting their children.

Chapter One

November 1812

The drunkard snored. Even in sleep, he groped her and crowded her. Johanna remained awake after he was spent and bore his weight with resignation. He wasn't an unattractive man. He was slender, he kept his face clean-shaven, and he was a mostly tender lover. But lying on her stomach with him draped over her like a coat she couldn't help but wish him ill. Eventually, he shifted in his sleep and Johanna managed to free herself.

Her underclothes were piled on the floor where they had been tossed. She dressed quickly, layering them on to cover her nudity as the man behind her continued to snore. The money was folded on the table by the door, and she stuffed it into her pocket. Taking the money meant she was what he had called her, that she had no defense against the slur of whore, but she preferred name-calling to starvation.

The tall red collar of her dirty uniform jacket covered her throat, and she arranged her hair until it sat in a more masculine manner. She was tall for a woman, but short for a man. Strangers assumed the soft lines of her jaw and the timbre of her voice were signs of youth rather than gender. The curls of her black hair framed her equally dark eyes, and she knew several burly soldiers who had backed down from a fight after being caught in her glare.

She finished dressing and checked the final result in the mirror. Several of the buttons were missing from the jacket, but she'd made do with string. Her uniform sash held the two halves closed, despite being rather threadbare itself. It wasn't the most beautiful uniform anyone would ever see but it kept her warm. She glanced back toward the bed where the man was still sprawled obscenely. She blew him a kiss and slipped out of his rented room.

Patrons were sparse in the downstairs tavern. It wasn't quite midnight yet, and the truly late crowd had yet to crawl in. She saw the barmaid who had initially invited her upstairs, but her ardor faded when Johanna quietly confirmed she was missing a basic bit of anatomy necessary for the offer on the table. She'd discovered the hard way that it was best to get the information out as early as possible. The barmaid glanced at her, smiled to show there were no hard feelings, and went back to plying her next potential customer with alcohol.

Johanna left the tavern and stepped out into the frigid night air. The wind found the threadbare spots and tears in her clothing to kiss her skin, and she threw a thick coat around her shoulders as she walked to her horse. Gunther withstood the cold better than she, standing calmly in the stable and staring out at the thick clouds as she approached. He was tall, dark gray, muscular, and he had a scar running down his side where an arrow had barely missed him. She ran her hand over the wound and Gunther turned his head toward her.

Time to move on, Gunther.

She led him out as the first fat flakes of snow began to fall. She paused to pull a shawl from her pocket, draping it over her head before securing it with a string. She climbed onto the saddle, adjusted her weapons, and turned north. In minutes, she had left behind the village whose name she'd already forgotten. She had spent too many years in Spain, much too long on the road.

Now that she was home where she belonged, in familiar territory, she couldn't help but think that she was out of place. But if she had returned because she didn't belong with the army, and if she didn't belong here, then where the hell was she supposed to go?

She was five miles outside of Holm when she saw the first signs of trouble. Red cloth was tied to tree branches at eye level. She ignored the obvious signs of caution and rode on until she reached a tree that had fallen across the path. Gunther refused to continue and she scanned the woods for alternate paths. It was then that she spotted the man in the crotch of a tree, carefully aiming a flintlock musket at her.

Johanna pulled her sword from its sheath. Show yourself, highwayman.

Another man emerged from the opposite side of the road with a crossbow. Gunther backed up few steps.

Soldier? the crossbow man said.

"That's right. Leutenant Johan Brion, late of Napoleon's army. If you mean to rob me--"

Crossbow Man shook his head. No one comes into Holm. We are under siege by a beast.

Johanna tensed. What manner of beast?

Crossbow Man looked toward his partner. It's of no concern to outsiders, the musket wielder said. Turn around and leave.

The next nearest village is ten miles away. The snow will be up to my horse's whiskers by then. I'm frozen half to death and I wish only for a warm place to sleep for the night, and perhaps a hot meal. In return I shall do whatever is in my power to stop this beast of yours from attacking again.

The man with the musket came out of the shadows and approached cautiously. This is not a case of poor farmers shuddering in the night while the wind blows through the cracks of their homes. The beast has taken our children.

"A wulf. Johanna was finished playing dumb. From the moment she'd seen the red cloth, she knew what awaited her ahead. You are hiding from a wulf with the cunning of a man. How many children has it taken?"

The men exchanged glances. Four in the past three months. We'd heard rumors from other villages but we discounted them. Crossbow Man ducked his head. His hair was cut short to his skull, and he wore a wild rust-colored beard that mostly obscured his mouth. His clothes were dirty and mended once too often to be aesthetically pleasing. She doubted they even held out the cold wind. And yet here he stood, punishing himself for not heeding the warnings.

I've faced beasts such as this before. Give me shelter tonight, and I will remain until the beast is dead.

The man with the musket looked eager. Finally, he nodded and Crossbow Man lowered his weapon entirely.

"Welcome to Holm, Leutenant Brion."

#

The town's priest refused to bury the children in the church cemetery. He was worried, and many townspeople shared his fear, that the bodies would reanimate as wehrwulves. So the four small corpses were buried in a field far outside of town, watched over by a group of volunteers with axes and rifles in case of any dark resurrection. Johanna passed the sad field as the men, Augustus with the crossbow and Karl with the flintlock, escorted her into town.

The guardians looked as if they had grown from the spot where they now stood. They were still, gray, and silent in their duty. Only their eyes moved, following Johanna as Gunther carried her into their village. Johanna nodded a greeting to one, and he turned his face away. The streets of Holm meandered and curled around a small town square, like arteries and veins leading inexorably back to the heart.

The town square held an ancient iron bell in a tall wooden tower, and Karl entered through a door at the base. Seconds later the bell swung, and its peal echoed through Holm like a call to prayer. People appeared as if manifested by the sound, and Johanna soon found herself surrounded by sickly, fretful faces. She looped Gunther's reins tightly around her wrists and forced herself to remain stoic.

Karl and Augustus spoke quietly with a man who wore the robes of a priest, and he angrily approached Johanna. His face was cadaverous, with a thick bush of hair clinging to his chin and upper cheeks. His eyes were small and very blue. The wind picked up the few strands of hair from the top of his head and whirled them about like cyclones. When he spoke, his voice was stronger than she expected.

"Leutenant Brion, I am Father Abrom. Whatever these men have told you, it was untrue."

"You have lost children to a wulf. I require a place to sleep and a meal, and I intend to pay for it by ridding you of this menace."

That will not be necessary.

Johanna scanned the group that surrounded her. She could see from their expressions that they did not agree with the priest's declaration and she straightened her posture in the saddle.

You must say the words, priest. He furrowed his brow. Say that you would prefer to bury another child. Say that you would prefer to allow this beast to slaughter your people than to offer a stranger comfort. All I require is a bed and a meal, and in return I will life the blight that has fallen on your homes.

Abrom lowered his head in mute anger, remaining silent until someone behind him spoke. He can board with my family.

We have a larger stable for his horse, he can board with us.

No. Abrom's voice was sharp and he glared over his shoulder briefly before facing Johanna again. If he is going to remain in town, then he shall stay at the church. Now get back to safety. He waved them off and, as the crowd dispersed, turned to glare at her. Come. I will show you the way.

Johanna dismounted. Abrom led her down one of the twisting roads, the buildings rising up on either side of them like walls in a worm's tunnel. People watched from alcoves and entryways, and curtains fell back into place as she turned in their direction. The steeple of the church rose above the surrounding structures, a black silhouette cut out against the velvet blue sky. Exhaustion began to descend over Johanna as Father Abrom showed her where she could put Gunther for the night.

She left him in his saddle, delaying the post-ride ablutions until she was ready to settle down for the night. She told him she'd be back as soon as she could before she followed Abrom into the sanctuary. A tall, deep well stood between the doors and the inner sanctum. She peered into the font and saw her face reflected in the flat surface of holy water. The pale blond wood of the pews stretched out ahead of her, and tapestries depicting Biblical parables hung on either side of the lectern.

You may sleep in the back room. There is bedding, and it is not exposed to the wind. You should be comfortable there, if not exactly warm.

"How much do you know of the wulf, Father?"

He paused and turned slowly, keeping his head down to avoid looking at her. "I am not convinced there truly is a beast. Wehrwulves are a child's tale."

Johanna shook her head. I have seen them myself, Father. Possessed souls with the ability to become hideous beasts at will. These men and women use their beastly side to perform reprehensible tasks. To satisfy their unholy hunger. She moved slowly down the aisle between the wooden pews. Why do you think he takes children, Father?

Abrom rested his hand on the back of one pew. You should prepare for bed. It is late, and I am tired.

Were you planning to go out? He didn't reply, so Johanna moved slowly forward. The children don't fight back. Is that why you choose them, Father Abrom? She drew her sword and held it low by her side. Do you beg for forgiveness, Father? Or do you merely pray that your hideous crimes will not be discovered?

Abrom lifted his head. His eyes were now dark yellow, and he was baring his teeth. You should have left when I gave you the chance. He backed up a step and bent his knees. His face changed shape, and Johanna rushed forward. Father Abrom lashed out at her with one hand that was now a hideous paw. She ducked away from the extended claws, and Abrom retreated between the pews.

Johanna jumped up onto a seat, wielding her sword with both hands as she waited for the wulf to reappear. The sacred robes ripped and tore, and the half-man, half-wulf creature scurried out into the aisle. It loped to the altar and Johanna used the pews as stepping stones to pursue it. Abrom leapt toward the pulpit, and Johanna landed a few feet away. She held the sword blade-down and waited for Abrom to lunge at her.

He leapt off his back legs, and Johanna swung her sword up like a pendulum. It caught Abrom in the chest, and his forward momentum caused his body to sink onto the polished steel. Warm blood flowed down the blade and onto her hand, under the cuff of her sleeve. Johanna pulled back and the sword fell from Abrom's body. He dropped to the ground, flanks heaving with his dying breaths. His eyes tracked her as she stepped closer to him.

You'll transform when you die. I suggest you do it now. Meet your God in the form he gave you.

The dark hair of the wulf receded and left behind pale, almost blue human skin. The wound puckered and shrank, a dark red seam running from his collarbone down across the right side of his sunken chest. Johanna pressed her blade against Abrom's throat.

Why do you prey upon children?

Abrom glared at her and then jerked his head upward. Her blade sunk into his neck and killed him.

Johanna cried out in surprise and pulled back, but it was too late. Abrom lay motionless, nude, and drenched with blood that was now dripping down the altar.

Damn. Damn, damn. Her nostrils flared and she smelled copper in the air. She also smelled the death throes of the priest and pressed the cuff of her sleeve against her nose. War had taught her there was no dignity in death, none whatsoever, and she fled before the smell could attach itself to her. She dipped her sword into the holy water, cleansing the priest's blood before she slipped it back into the scabbard. She left the door to the sanctuary open to the elements, wishing she had gotten some rest or at least a hot meal before the wulf revealed itself to her.

She climbed into her saddle, clucked her tongue, and urged Gunther out of the stable. She was rushing out of town when the first cry went out. The bell in the town square began to ring once more, this time with a more distressed urgency. The snow fell in her face, obscuring her vision for seconds at a time until they dissolved on her eyelashes. She tensed her jaw, squinting so she could see ahead of her. She had to get away before the villagers set out in pursuit. To them it would appear as if she slaughtered the priest in cold blood; they would never believe he was the wulf.

In a few days, perhaps. When their children have remained safe in their beds... when they have not had to break through the frozen dirt to bury another infant... perhaps then they would realize she had saved them. Until then, she was in danger.

As she rode Gunther through the frozen wood, her mind raced with the information. If the wehrwulves were killing children, she had to stop them by any means necessary.

Chapter Two

She was back in Borodino.

Their fearless leader ordered them into the mouth of the monster, ignoring their enemy's weaknesses to make a show of his own strength. Johanna kept her head down and watched the two men in front of her die. Their blood stained her uniform collar as she opened fire, baring her teeth and closing her eyes as she fired blindly into the Russian cavalry. She was barely awake, groggy, and it was easy to imagine this was just an awful nightmare.

The smoke burned her eyes and choked her. It was like Lucifer himself had joined the fight. She stepped over small hills, glancing down when her boot caught on something and realized that she was stepping over the bodies of her fellow soldiers. Someone grabbed her and she fell, landing amid the corpses, and dropped her gun. She grabbed the dagger off her belt and slashed blindly until warm blood spattered on her face.

Johanna escaped from the man she had just killed and retreated. She pushed through the ranks of her own people, gagging on smoke and the nausea that threatened to topple her. Napoleon wouldn't retreat, but by God, she would. She reached clean grass and breathed deeply, the world still smelling of smoke. She was weak, bloody from wounds she didn't remember receiving, half-blinded. She turned and looked at the battle she had just escaped from with her life. She breathed deeply, nostrils flaring, and continued walking away.

She woke from the dream with a cry of surprise and fear. Her heart was pounding and she rolled onto her side, grabbing her dagger as she waited for her mind to catch up with the rest of her body. She had escaped. Borodino was hundreds of miles and six weeks behind her. She was far enough from Holm that the search party would have turned back for home long ago. She was safe, and she was alone. She swept the hair out of her face, eyes closed, and struggled to slow her breathing.

Johanna had fallen asleep in the shelter of a tree, wrapped in furs to keep warm. Gunther was a few yards away, happily pushing his snout through frozen grass to find a thawed treat. Snow was still falling, and the sky was a uniform shade of gray-blue. It was impossible to tell how long she had slept, if the sun was up and being stifled by the clouds or if the same clouds were merely reflecting the shine of the snow.

Whatever the time, she knew sleep was a lost cause. She stood and removed her furs, folding them before calling Gunther to her. She replaced the furs in her pack and took out an apple. She offered it to Gunther, who eagerly accepted the unfrozen snack. She stroked his neck as he crunched, her nightmare reminding her of how he'd taken her from that hellish landscape. She kissed him and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other in an impatient display. Johanna smiled.

You ready to go, huh? Well, let's go. She looked into the distance, eyeing the path she planned to take before she climbed into the saddle. She spurred him forward with her heels, and Gunther began to walk. She wanted him to run, wanted to cover as much distance as possible, but she knew that their lives might later depend on Gunther having his energy. Her face was ice, and she touched her nose to make sure it was still there.

She knew she was a coward. Everyone who said a woman had no place in war, who laughed when she told them of her plans, had been proven right when she stole Gunther and rode as far and as fast as she could in the opposite direction. Perhaps now was her opportunity to regain her dignity. If wehrwulves were hunting children, she could hunt them down. She could make them pay for their crimes. Through their blood, her courage would be redeemed.

The snow was falling harder now. Johanna tugged the collar of her jacket up around her chin and wrapped a scarf around the lower part of her face. It was a long ride to Liessau, and the storm would only get worse.

#

It was most of a day's journey, and she passed out of the storm in less than an hour. By the time she reached her destination, the sky had grown dark once more and another wave of flurries was beginning a descent around her. She was frozen to the core, fearing that her hands would fail to release the reins. It would have been an honorable end, to die on horseback. But this was no battle, and she would never be a hero.

The village of Liessau was enclosed within a waist-high stone wall. Many stones had fallen or vanished since the last time she passed through town, and she wondered if it was a result of the wars or simple neglect. The trees overhead were bare, the piles of fallen leaves carpeted by snow and enclosed in a shield of ice. Johanna tugged down her scarf to reveal her face, passing businesses with closed doors and shuttered windows. Only a few people braved the cold and the snow to peer at her as she passed.

They saw her uniform and knew that her presence here, so far from the fighting, was shameful. To be the first soldier returning, and to return alone, could only mean desertion. She kept