Before dawn, having slept less than he would've liked, Thomas was awakened by the plaintive sound of howling. He sat straight up in bed, unable to breathe.
He had been dreaming again. This time of half-seen beasts, shambling and swift, with menacing teeth and claws like curved and well-honed blades.
In the early morning light the fog was thinning, but visibility was still no more than about a quarter of a mile. Thomas dressed quickly and tiptoed down the stairs. The other occupants of the house still fast asleep. He wondered if Magistrate Winthrop had departed or spent the entire night in the servant girl's bed.
Something was in the woods.
Pouring himself a drink of water, Thomas paused for a moment and reflected on the bizarre dreams that had tormented him last night. The mysterious caped woman...who was she? The vision had been so vivid, unlike most dreams, the memories of which melted like ice the moment one woke up, this one was seared into his mind.
Breakfast was a frugal affair. Bread and cheese. Thomas ate modestly at the best of the times. Feasting was a sin. He had no need for a more substantial meal to set him up for a lengthy exploration of the woods. He had a sword and pistol. God would provide the strength he needed. Saddling up his horse, Thomas set off for the eastern woods that overlooked the village.
Mist had shrouded the fields with a ghostly veil. The air was still and silent, not even the chirp of a bird or the distant lowing of cattle. It was far too quiet for Thomas' liking. Once again, Tenacious got wind of something he didn't like, and halted at the treeline that marked the edge of the meadow.
"On with you, boy," Thomas said, trying to hurry him up.
The horse was extremely reluctant to enter the woods, but grudgingly obeyed his master. Passing a pair of leaning pines, Thomas was sure he was not alone. It was if some invisible force were luring him in. He saw no movement, and was unaware of any sound other than his horse's hoofbeats, breathing, and his thudding heartbeat; only instinct told him that he had company. Thomas shivered. Somehow the chilly morning air was able to penetrate the thick cloak he was wearing.
Thomas went only fifty yards, however, before he saw movement from the corner of his eye, thirty feet to his left a swift shape, cloaked by shadows and mist, darting from behind one tree to another, where it slipped out of sight again.
"Who goes there?" He yelled. He expected no reply and got none. The silence frustrated him. He rode on, but seconds later was rewarded by an eerie cry. It was shrill yet guttural - a howl.
He stopped and listened, hoping that he had misheard. The howling came again. It sounded louder this time. The howls chilled him. And yet at the same time, filled him with a strange yearning.
"The Hellhound's cry?" Thomas said out loud. For was certain the howls could not be those of a wolf. There had been no wolves in England for over a century, and he was pretty sure an ordinary dog couldn't emit such a fearsome sound...or could it?
Thomas reached for his pistol. "Witchcraft," he muttered. He could barely bring himself to utter the word.
Another howl echoed through the woods. It was a cold and lonely sound. Suddenly, Tenacious went berserk, rearing up and squealing in terror. This time, he would not be calmed.
"Whoa! Whoa there! Halt!" Thomas yelled as the horse broke into a frenzied gallop. Tenacious leapt over a fallen tree, throwing his master. A bush broke Thomas' fall, but he struck his head on a fallen tree and blacked out...
When Thomas came round, he was lying on a bed. As his blurry vision cleared, he could see that he was in a cottage of some kind. A roaring log fire crackled in the corner.
"Ah, you have awakened."
He jumped as he noticed her sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him intently. Oh God! It was her. The same woman who'd appeared in his dream last night. She was wearing the red cape.
"Who are you?" Thomas exclaimed.
"I am the last of my kind," she replied.
Thomas was extremely uncomfortable at how close she was, not to mention her brown hair, loose and flowing freely instead of being modestly constrained by a mobcap. He looked round, and wondered where his buckled hat had gone.
"How did I get here?" He sat up and straightened his white collar, clearing his throat. The woman's beauty both frightened and enthralled him. Blood-red lips, the hazel eyes. She'd walked straight out of his dream and into the waking world.
"You were thrown from your horse," the woman said. "I helped you."
"With all due respect miss, I find it improbable that you had the strength to carry me."
"I didn't carry you, Thomas. I simply guided you. You'd banged your head and were somewhat dazed."
He shuddered. "How the devil do you know my name?"
The mysterious woman removed her cape. "I asked your horse. He is a wise animal, and a loyal one. See how he waits patiently outside?"
Thomas was growing impatient. "Enough of this. I demand to know your name!"
"My name is Rowenna. My family name? Wylfen. My race is an ancient one. Long ago, when this land was wild and unchecked country, there were many more of my kind. Before we started being persecuted."
"You speak of your tribe?" Thomas asked, not understanding.
Rowenna gave a half-smile. "My parents died when I was a mere babe in arms. I was raised by my grandmother. We moved around, from village to village, always viewed with suspicion. Nobody in these God-fearing places would ever extend the hand of friendship, because my grandmother was suspected of witchcraft. Finally we moved here, living as outcasts in this cottage in the woods. Now I had come of age, I finally became aware of my heritage...and the Change that would begin, as soon as were to lie with a mortal man. My poor dear grandmother, hounded by the villagers, hanged for witchcraft. I sought revenge by using my newly awakened powers to my advantage."
Thomas fumbled in his pocket for his cross. "Witch! You speak in profane tongue! Guide us, Lord, in all the changes and varieties of the world; that we may have evenness and tranquility of spirit: that we may not murmur in adversity nor in prosperity wax proud, but in serene faith resign our souls to thy divinest will; through Jesus Christ our Lord." He held the cross in front of her, as though expecting her to sprout fangs like a vampire.
Rowenna tilted her head. "I am not a witch, Thomas. I am the last of the Wolfkin."
