“Thanks again for getting the books I requested. The librarians wouldn’t allow me to enter the restricted floors,” Anya said.


    Knife in hand, she traced delicate Sumer-runes into the large square of parchment before her. It lay on the floor of Hugh Artois’ office, and she had covered most of it with an arts-circle. Around its edges, seven tomes lay open, each to an anatomical diagram of a fantastical blood-beast. She had been working on it since midday, and the sun had recently gone down.


    “My sincerest pleasure. It is rare to encounter a student with such a keen appreciation for the masterworks of the past.” Hugh replied. He sat at his desk, working on restoring an old illustrated manuscript with a magnifying glass and an array of paints.


    The duke’s office lay on the ground floor of the institute, and a tangle of tree-roots formed the basis for its roof structure. Some long-ago woodworker had carved a panoply of scenes along the broadest roots; in the largest, a group of naked wolf-men charged after a strange many-horned beast. At the head of their party, a gilded stag with candles affixed to his antlers sounded a horn. On one side of the room, the roots had been trained to a series of arches, and beyond them lay a few dormant flowerbeds, abutting the edge of a gloomy grove of ancient pines. The room was naturally a bit stuffy, so Hugh had opened a doorway built into one of the arches.


    “Are you quite alright? You have shed quite a volume of blood,” Hugh said.


    “Nothing a few days of drink and rest can’t fix.”


    “I have read a few of those books, you know. You are skirting up against the old goetia, and the formless tongue that lie beyond it. A cavalier attitude will lead only to ruin.”


    “I appreciate your advice, dedushka, but I know my limits.”


    “Then I will not pester you further.”


    “There, that’s it.” Anya completed the outermost circle. “I’ll go get the others.”


    She had left Yvon, Alain, and Renee in the library while she worked. Between the surprisingly heavyset beaver, and the weasel, she would probably have enough blood for the ritual. Probably.


    “Not yet. I have a trinket for you.”


    Hugh set down his tools and wheeled to a shelf, opening a wooden box to remove a weathered silver bowl. Anya approached, and saw that it was intricately carved in the style of the old northern tribes. It seemed to show a group of wolves and bears returning in triumph from a hunt, though like the root-carvings above her a proud deer stood at their head.


    “A unbound arts-focus. Created around two thousand years ago for a Gaulish chieftain. It should greatly increase the efficiency of your arts.”


    Anya leaped back, as if the thing would crumble from her mere glance. Foci not bound to a specific draugr were extraordinary relics. They belonged to kings and the most accomplished of court magi. Certainly not a bloodstained doe.


    “What?! I…I can’t use this!”


    “Why not?” Hugh smiled. “Beautiful, is is not? It is a Artois family heirloom, I am the sole living member of the House of Artois, and I would prefer it be put to use rather than collecting rust on a shelf. At the very least, give it a try.”


    The wolf lightly pushed it into her hands. The second her fingers brushed against its blemished surface, her arts-sense seemed to clarify, like two tones aligning in pitch. She could feel the blood rushing through her veins, the constant dance of meat, water, and air that kept her body from careening into dissolution. Even the meandering growth of the trees in the garden, strata set down over years of snow and sun, echoed in her mind.


    Feels good, doesn’t it?


    Enkidu whispered in her ear.


    “Wah!”


    Anya fell backwards. She could feel the draugr’s pungent, organic breath, hear the stretching of his tendons and the rattling of his branching horns. One of his many hands pushed her away from the circle, preventing her from smearing hours of work.


    “Perhaps I should have warned you,” Hugh chuckled. “Long ago, a shaman dreamed his way into Nowhere, and carved away a sliver of its foundation. The fracture he left behind was sealed within this bowl. It is sensitive to water, so keep it dry lest you be lost in its depths.”


    Anya set the bowl within the center of her circle, more to get away from Enkidu than anything else. The clarity faded, as if sunlight was being sucked from the world.


    “Thank you, Duke Artois. I will not forget your generosity.”


    Anya curtseyed, and went to retrieve Yvon and the others a few stories up. She found him drafting replies to business correspondences; something about selling Parisian gowns through an intermediary in Kiev.


    “Time to go.”


    “By all means.” There was hunger in the wolf’s eyes.


    He made to rise, but Alain took hold of one of his paws.


    “Vonnie, there’s something I would like to make sure of. What if Anna’s ritual works, you get a body that’s as strong and quick as you could’ve dreamed, and, well, nothing changes. Whatever is eating at you inside is still there, just as hungry as ever,” Alain said.


    Yvon stopped, and pondered.


    “I imagine I would be devastated. Old scars ripped anew.”


    They locked eyes for several moments, communicating without words. The beaver’s gaze was vulnerable, entreating.


    “I have somehow managed to muddle along thus far, and you have managed to put up with me long enough to keep me on the proper path. I imagine this pattern shall continue,” Yvon replied.


    Alain nodded, seemingly satisfied, and Anya led the three of them to Hugh’s office. After some protesting, Yvon stripped and put on a far-too-large skirt Renee had scrounged up. Anya instructed him to lie on his back within the circle, and Alain and Renee held down his arms.


    “I’ll deaden your senses much more this time, but you will still probably feel a great deal of pain. Try to stay as calm as possible.”


    Anya lightly pressed a hand against his flank, feeling his abdomen pulse with his breath. So much churning life within him, waiting for its chance to bloom.


    She climbed onto his stomach, kneeling and steadying herself against one breast. Even if he was a sedentary creature, his chest muscles held a ghost of firmness, a dream to pounce and run. She smelled his masculine scent, and something in her stomach twisted.


    No time for distractions.


    She raised her knife.


    “Work of life, I am the ?a naqba imuru, heritor of Utnapishtim and witness of the sanguine mysteries. Hearken to my voice, for I am thy keeper.”


    Not too shabby, though you’ll never compare to him.


    Yvon’s body squirmed beneath her fingertips. The dried blood of the circle began once again to flow.


    “Wha- what’s happening?!” Yvon asked.


    “I need to open a gate to Nowhere. Don’t worry, the resonance should stabilize in a moment.”


    “It is so red. By the saints, it is all so red, even when I close my eyes.”


    I need to get closer to Nowhere.


    A flash of bitter cold, and then a vast, soundless reverberation. Like being dunked into the great northern sea, only below the water was clarity, so much clarity her mind threatened to shatter. Yvon was right, it was all such a vivid, inflamed red. His body seemed to unravel before her, flesh expanding into a labyrinth of tissue and fluid. Every inch was at her fingertips, and the workings of her mind sent aberrant ripples spiraling through the whole.


    Having fun? If you’re mucking around up here, I might borrow your body for a moment.


    She felt something hot and slimy try to shimmy past her, and forcibly dragged her mind back to reality. Her rushing thoughts stabilized, though the red remained, corroding the edges of her vision. Enkidu remained outside her, where he belonged.


    What a letdown. I could’ve turned this city into a bloody smear by sunrise.


    “You’d have fifty silver spears through your neck before you made it out of the Institute. Now shut up and get to work.”


    I suppose you are right. A shame your kind have gotten so good at killing us.


    Lines of blood burst forth from the necks of Alain, Renee, and herself, forming twin helices around the knife. The blinding clarity surged further, far more than it ever had before.


    “Yvon! Still alive?”


    The wolf slowly nodded.


    She brought the knife down, piercing his heart. His blood mingled with her own.


    Bones first. Use Irina’s circular design, and make sure the tendons can distribute the force evenly. Grow a second heart mirroring the first; I’ll need the extra bloodflow later. Feel inside his spine, tune the nerves…


    Anya placed her other hand on Yvon’s torso, and forced it downwards. His skin invaginated around her, and she was inside him, feeling his pulsating heart. He shivered, dousing her hand in waves of fluid warmth; her own tiny body seemed so insignificant, a mote in his thundering rhythm. Their heartbeats began to synchronize, hers slowing down and his speeding up.


    “This flesh is my flesh, this blood is my blood. I call, and it answers.”


    Her hand deformed, splitting into dozens of root-line filaments. They extended around bone and tendons, hungering like the roots of some blood-gorged desert plant. Soon she found feel every twitch and quiver in his body, crashing down in waves of red-hot sensation.


    Yvon screamed as her hand-roots pushed deeper into him. His belly spasmed upwards, and Alain and Renee strained to keep him in place. By the saints, it felt good to be over him, his body like a puppet on her hand, hearts pumping as one. She liked this. She probably liked this a little too much.


    “Don’t fight it! I need to feel what I’m doing for this to work! Think about something nice, like Sofia’s breasts!”


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    He gritted his teeth and managed to subdue himself, though the adrenaline surging through his veins remained.


    The work began. Yvon’s body began to lengthen, muscles engorged with fresh blood, new organs burgeoned to life. His snout grew as his teeth sharpened to long knives. He was becoming something ancient and terrible, something that triggered a fear-instinct lodged deep in the primitive regions of her brain. When rabbits went on all fours, the dark was always close, and the shadow of a wolf meant inexorable death.


    She lost track of time, floating amongst clearest crimson. Yvon eventually calmed enough that Renee and Alain were released, and Renee followed Anya’s directions, locating whatever diagrams she needed for her work. Alain comforted Yvon, allowing the wolf to squeeze his hand and nuzzling against his snout.


    “There. It’s done.” Her hand reformed, slipping out of his chest with an audible pop. She tumbled off Yvon’s torso, and set down her knife. The crimson faded, and she was left with a head as mushy as rotten hay.


    “Anna? Here, get up. Never easy coming down.” She felt Hugh reach down to scoop her into a chair, and he pressed something to her lips. Whisky, burning in her throat. She regained a shred of focus.


    “Is Yvon alright?”


    “Anya? By St. Tristan’s baubles, what have you done to me?” Yvon rasped faintly. His voice was now a gravelly bass.


    Anya smiled in relief.


    “Hey, if you can talk, I can’t have screwed you up that badly, right?”


    She looked down at Yvon. His new body was around three times her height, an efficient mass of fur and lean muscle. As Alain helped him sit up, she saw that his spine was slightly hunched, and his massive hands were attached to long, grasping arms. His claws were nearly twice as long as her fingers, and she reckoned he could hold her entire head in his palm. His face had roughly the same proportions as before, though it had acquired a streamlined angularity. On his chest, a vertical scar where she had entered him.


    “Every one of my muscles feels like it was crushed under a horse’s hoof,” he replied.


    “I had to grow them mostly from scratch. If you want them to function well, you’ll need to use them.”


    She slid off the chair and knelt next to his head. Heartbeat steady, breathing regular, and the stigmata were still there. No toxins clogging up his blood, so she’d probably hooked up the pipes right.


    “Do you like it? We can always have another go,” Anya asked. She laughed at the mortified expression that overtook his face.


    “No, I mean, yes, I couldn’t be happier! Your smell is so much sharper than before. I can smell breakfast on your lips, exhaustion in your sweat, and, um… Have you always smelled like that?”


    He blushed, and hastily covered his groin.


    Doesn’t he have a wife? He should know what a grass-eater in season smells like.


    Alain helped Yvon to his feet, and Renee handed him a pocket-mirror. He opened and closed his hand, marveling at its solidity. Anya noticed a subtle change in his posture; it was looser, as if his form no longer threatened to collapse in on itself at the slightest disturbance.


    “It is strange to look at my face in the mirror and not wish to tear it to shreds.”


    “All good?” Alain asked.


    “Marvelous,” Yvon replied. A dopey smile spread across his snout.


    “Anya, while you were working, I could feel it, when I wasn’t screaming my lungs out. There an austere precision as sharp as any knife. It reminded me of Sofia, in truth. But also…confidence, enveloping me, rendering fear an impossibility. You are truly extraordinary.”


    Before Anya could respond, there was a commotion in the hallway. Alain moved to brace the door, but it burst open under the weight of a sow in a baby-blue dress.


    “It’s Benoit! They took Benoit! The servants told me you were at the institute, so I came as quickly as I could!”


    Manon trailed off as she became cognizant of the tableau before her. Her chestnut eyes darted to the bloody knife in Anya’s hand, to the arts-circle on which she stood, and at last to the dark mass of tooth and claw and muscle at the center of the room.


    “Hmmph!”


    She tried to scream, but Renee already had a hand over her mouth.


    “Sorry, dearie. Can’t have anyone come investigating. There’s nothing dangerous here, so how about you take a few deep breaths and tell us what’s going on.”


    Alain closed both doors, and Renee released Manon.


    “Anna? Saints preserve us all, what did you do!?”


    “A few physical enhancements is all,” Yvon spoke, taking a step back. “My mind is still my own, and you have no reason to fear.”


    He seemed to shrink inwards, and began to fidget with his claws.


    “It’s all good. I swear.” Anna took the sow’s hands in her own and gave them a slight squeeze.


    “Alright, alright. If it’s your work, it must be all proper.”


    “You said something is wrong with Benoit?”


    “Benoit! He was taken, taken away, and will likely have an apple in his mouth by morning! Father told me to find Lord Clary and beg, but I’m no good at convincing people, and the wolf has a heart of stone in any case, so, so, so I’ll never see Benny again…”


    Manon fell to her knees before Anya and began sobbing uncontrollably. Anya leaned in to comfort her, and soon her fur was soaked with the boar’s warm tears.


    “Taken?” Yvon interrupted. “Give me a time, a place, a name.”


    “Did I botch your eyes? She is in no position to answer!” Anya exclaimed.


    “Then find a way to calm her down. Quickly.”


    Renee handed Anya a handkerchief, and Anya wiped the tears from Manon’s eyes.


    “…I heard it from the constable, the one father bribes so Benoit gets decent food. A wolfess and a bear took him away two hours ago, and the guards let them do it. Maybe he is already gone, and his offal is rotting in the Sequana. Ahh!”


    Her tears flowed anew.


    Yvon looked to Alain, then Anya, then Hugh. He rapped his claws against his temple for what seemed an eternity.


    “You should-” Alain began.


    “I suppose we ought to do something about Benoit,” Yvon said, cutting her off. He walked to the window-wall and ripped down a curtain, wrapping it around himself into a makeshift cloak. He then took a piece of thick rope from the garden outside, and ran it over his shoulders and around his waist.


    “Anya. Climb on my back.”


    He crouched down. His paws left deep imprints in the soil. Hesitantly, Anya climbed up onto the rope.


    “What are we doing?”


    “I have an idea of where they took the boar. With luck, we will get there in time. Now hold on.


    He pawed the ground experimentally, braced, and exploded forward. Anya felt her stomach collapse into her belly as the rope went taut and the stars wheeled above her. His gait was odd, long bounds punctuated with spring-bursts, but nonetheless the distance melted between his steps. He vaulted upwards into a tree, pivoted off a firm bough, and soared over one of the Institute cloisters and into the street beyond. His balance was flimsy, his steps one slippage from death, but somehow he forced his way onwards regardless.


    “Are you out of your mind? You’ll run your head into a wall at this rate!”


    “Have faith in this wolf, dear rabbit, if only for a moment longer.” Yvon’s lips flapped wildly in the rushing air. Beneath them, a dumb grin was plastered on his face.


    He leaped again, soaring upon a shed, and from there to the copper roof of a nearby townhouse. His feet made muffled crashes upon its peak. Below her, the burning lights of the city swayed vertiginously. The wolf cleared each gap between adjacent rooftops, though Anya thought each would be the death of her, and the labyrinthine city seemed to converge to an open plain, dotted with shimmering alleys and blue-shadowed chimneys.


    “This must be how the old wolves felt, coursing with the north wind at their backs and the moon shining upon their fur,” Yvon spoke.


    “You can feel it then? The change?”


    “Can I feel it?” It runs like molten gold in my veins. I feel I could catch the horizon in my jaw. Hyah!”


    Yvon flew through the air, clearing a mid-sized street in a single bound.


    “Why did you decide to help?”


    “The law is one matter, but the murder of a Clary claimee by a rival family gives us room to act.”


    “Really? Is that all?”


    Yvon ignored her.


    He leaped to the roof of an old brick building with filled-in windows, and ground to a halt. It possessed an interior courtyard, in which around a dozen lavish carriages were parked. They were still in the posh part of Parisi, and the building seemed wholly out of place among the plaster and marble facades of its neighbors.


    “Here.”


    “Where are we?”


    “The auction house for the old meat market.”


    Anya gulped. Yvon found a covered skylight, and forced its rusty cover open. The air that emerged smelled of wolves and death.


    There was a doe below them, likely around twenty years old. She stood naked save for silver chains on a stone stage, and a group of wolves in crimson masks roved around her, scraping claws along her skin and making testing bites against her flesh. Strange barrow-runes were inked into her flesh, in patterns that seemed to writhe under Anya’s gaze.


    “Three thousand and two hundred livres,” the lead wolf called out.


    Turning her head, Anya saw that the stage was half-ringed by concentric seats, filled with all manner of masked hunters in fine clothes.


    “Your response, Lord Vignaud?” A scarred hawk barked.


    A bear in the first row gave a thumbs down. Several guards forces the wolves from the stage, and another group was allowed to examine the doe.


    “What’s going on?” Anya asked.


    “It is an auction for the doe. Vignaud has taken her from his northeastern holdings, and aims to make a substantial profit.”


    “They’re all nobles, right? Don’t they have plenty of claimed grass-eaters to devour?”


    “Look at the doe’s marks. She is a haegtesse, a witch of the northern circles. Without those chains, she could kill all these men with a flick of her fingers. She is an exotic delicacy, fit for a high saint-day feast or the plying of a court official.”


    An esper stripped of her arts. A body made meat.


    Anya surged forward, and felt Yvon’s massive paw close around her torso.


    “What are you doing? We need to save her, don’t we?”


    “Look at the knights posted at the walls. Most of them will be accomplished magi, as are several of the hunters in attendance. We will have a few moments to act and make our exit, but no more. Do you plan to leave Benoit to his fate?”


    “Of course not, but…urgh!”


    She struggled, but his new form was far too strong. Her own fault, she supposed.


    “Would you tell Miss Beaufort that we have failed her? Control yourself.”


    Anya relented. Below, an acceptable price was found. While her expression was proud, her legs trembled as she was led away. Yvon gritted his teeth, and opened and closed his claws.


    “The de Neveuxes got her, bastards every one of them. Her end will not be swift.”


    “Don’t say that!”


    “Shhh. There he is.”


    A scrawny boar was led in through a door in the back of the stage. He was naked, and his body was covered with cuts and bruises. Dried tear-stains ran under his deadened eyes.


    “Number seven of the night, male boar, five feet and nine inches, one hundred and eighty-five pounds. Seller is Lady Lajoie,” the auctioneer called.


    A wolf woman in a flamboyant feathered hat rose from the audience.


    “He’s the heir to the Beaufort Cloth Company, you know. Claimed by those Clary bitches, so he’s as tender as they come. I promise he’ll be real good fun. Pierre, let’s set the minimum at five thousand,” the Lady said. Her words were sinuous, coiling like snakes.


    “Why so high? There’s nothing special about him,” Anya asked.


    “His family is wealthy and influential, and all his life he has never feared predation. For a certain kind of hunter, his terror now, his abjection before a miserable death, is all the sweeter for it,”Yvon replied.


    “But he won’t die. We’ll save him.”


    “Right.” Yvon flexed his claws again. “Can you deal with the people next to him?”


    “All at once? Give me a moment to set up a syncope.”


    Anya drew her blade, and focused on the life-sources below her. It was hard to focus on multiple bodies at once, but she could overlap them in her mind, treat them like a single entity. Find the blood vessels feeding the brains, and dilate.


    “Done.”


    Yvon threw open the skylight and leaped down, hitting the stage just as its other occupants lost consciousness. He picked up Benoit, leaped for the skylight…


    …and couldn’t make it, crashing back to the stage. After a moment of stunned silence, the knights drew their weapons and made to charge.


    “There’s someone up by the skylight! Get him!” Someone shouted. Blind fear shot through Anya’s spine. She pulled away as a spray of fire flew past her.


    They’ll kill him. They’ll kill you. Run. Run. RUN!


    “Catch!”


    Benoit’s limp body shot through the skylight. Anya leaped to break his fall, and felt his weight crush down on her. Then Yvon was through the skylight, scooping both of them up in his arms.


    Something hot and wet flushed onto Anya. Blood? No, urine. St. Georgei be praised.


    The next ten minutes were a blur of street-lamps and grasping shadows. They were followed at first, but Yvon easily lost their pursuers before they reached the institute. At last, they crashed into the garden just outside Hugh’s office, and Yvon stumbled into its wavering light.


    “Benoit!”


    Manon nearly ripped him from Yvon’s arms. Closer up, Anya could see that he was in bad shape - his fur was matted, he smelled like soot and musk, and his legs were soaked with fresh urine.


    “Benny, brother, are you alright? What did they do to you?”


    The sow continued to shake her brother, but he did not respond. His limbs were limp, and his eyes were murky, unfocused.


    “Please, answer me!”


    Panic crept into Macon’s voice. Her grip on his shoulders strengthened, until her knuckles went white.


    “Anya, is there something wrong with him?”


    “Physically, nothing a bath and rest won’t fix. The cuts are skin-deep.”


    Anya picked up his wrist. His pulse was steady, but he didn’t respond at all.


    “Benny! It’s me, you’re safe, those horrible wolves are gone, so please just answer me.”


    Manon began to sob, clutching desperately at her brother’s fur. Yvon stepped away, evidently unsure of what to do.


    “I have encountered those of like condition,” Hugh spoke up. “Peasant refugees of the first War of Gaulish Expansion, whose villages had been ravaged by foraging armies. in the first Gaulish-Iberian wars. Some could not speak a single word, and others could only mumble the barest of phrases. We suspected mental contamination from draugr, but our magi found them clean.”


    Anya looked over to Benoit again. He felt more a void than a person, a boar-shaped hole in space.


    “Then you know how to make him better, right?” Manon asked.


    “From what little I gleaned, there was nothing to be done. If they recovered, it was a matter of time alone.”


    Manon took Hugh’s meaning.


    “Then…he might…”


    Renee returned - when had she left? - with a plundered cloth, and handed it to Manon. Together, they wrapped it around Benoit.


    “Well, better to be mute than dead,” Yvon interjected.


    Manon turned to him, and for a moment her face was overtaken by cold fury. She exhaled, and it melted away in an instant, replaced by cautious demureness.


    “Of course, Lord Clary. Though you are a wolf, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, for you are a saint of benevolence and virtue.”


    She curtseyed, and led Benoit from the room.


    “Vonnie, why on St. Tristan’s horn did you-” Alain began.


    “Alain, go with the sow. Ensure she makes it home safely.”


    “At once.”


    Anya looked between the room’s remaining occupants. Even Hugh regarded Yvon with a degree of shock.


    “Anya, would you be so kind as to revert my form? I can hardly be seen by the coachman in my present state.”


    Anya drew the knife, and tried to focus her mind. But she could think only of Benoit’s blank stare, of Manon’s creeping horror as he failed to react to her touch.


    “Um, of course.”


    It would be a long night yet.