4. The Wolf

Awake, the man cried out.

Sylvia watched from the books, petrified, her face going cold. Her relief turned to something stranger — pity. A second ago, he had been waving his sword, invincible; now he was dying on the floor.

Her boot crunched against something rough and old like tree bark.

A large red volume. The ledger. Those two had taken the wrong book.

She moved her foot, picked the ledger up and wiped the dirt off. Looking down, she also saw Azra's dagger. She picked that up. Then she continued towards the study doors, jumping over the rebel's arm.

The Scot moaned again, louder than ever.

She paused.

The man was darkening.

His head pulled back and smashed hard against the floor with such force she swore his skull had cracked. The Scot's eyes became yellow orbs. He shrieked as his jaw lowered and stretched into a snout. His head was bloating, morphing into something large, fierce, beastlike.

He gave one final scream, his voice wild, distorted. Grey hairs rushed across his whitened face, palms and knuckles. Out his fingers came claws. His boots crumpled, shrivelling up, bursting, and deformed, hair-covered feet came out. His brown coat tore apart, his chainmail scissoring open —

The man shed his clothes into scraps on the floor, rose on hind legs and howled at the moon.

A monster, large as a gargoyle, with heavy drooling jaws.

Those jaws opened to reveal rows of teeth.

The wolf made a deep, raw-bellied growl, his pitch-black nostrils snapping up and puffing smoke.

Sylvia took the ledger in one hand, with Azra's dagger in the other.

She sprinted down the hallway then around the corner. From the study came nothing. Silence. She kept on running. Her mouth closed, holding her breath, aware how loud she was.

She reached the stairway. Spinning, she hurled down. Was she losing her mind? Sylvia made lots of noise now, banging down the steps, and behind her, way behind, in the study, the wolf howled so loud the glass window rattled.

Upstairs he was tearing through the hallways, cutting through the castle corridors. He tore down the stairs at full-speed, sending a gust of hot air into Sylvia's terrified face. She launched faster down the staircase, frenzied, her elbows hitting the walls. No matter how fast she ran, the wolf's cry blared out.

She sprinted into the foyer, and was halfway over the floor when, slowly, the castle doors creaked open.

A redheaded rebel burst through. He waved a knife.

Sylvia made sideways for the dining hall.

The rebel spun round the carpet, going after. Then came a blast of wind. Out of the corner of her eye Sylvia saw him thrown into the wall, carried off his feet by a great grey animal. She ran into the hall corridor and from behind, she heard the man clattering down the floor. The wolf made a low growl. Sylvia heard a clicking she would later roll around her memory infinite times as the sound of a man's neck breaking.

She sprang into the dining hall where banners hung, illuminated by the glowering furnace at the end. A cracked-up dining table stretched the room.

In the hall behind, noises became quieter.

Through the corridor was a passage to the kitchen

Shifting a little, Sylvia thwacked her knee against the table-end. The ledger fluttered underneath the table. She put her hands out to catch herself. Then she listened.

The wolf fumed down the hall, his breath, rough, reeking of grease. His feet whipped across the floor and arrived so fast, she felt a breeze fall across the back of her neck.

She crashed onto the table. She scraped inwards, inching herself from the edge where the wolf lay snarling.

The table shook, lifting up and then creaking down like a storm-tussled boat. Sliding, she fell close to the family banners, right in front of the furnace. When the momentum stopped, she pounced for the banners. Then Slam. One more shake. The heavy wolf writhed up onto the surface.

She caught the family banners in between her fingers. Success; who would've thought? Swinging, she tugged herself back from the flames then climbed up the hanging flag, using the dagger as a pivot. Goddard's family standard was emblazoned over the banner: a murder of crows flying over a full moon, how appropriate.

The wolf sped up. His tail whistled around then cracked against the table. His mouth salivated, a sad growl drawling out.

Her arm dangled, the fingers twitching.

Then the wolf's head flew out. His teeth entered her arm.

Sylvia was yanked down.

She froze then felt limp, gathering a toughness in her throat. By surprise, the wolf's bite was delicate, even nervous: coming through her coat and shirt, but barely piercing skin. His teeth itched. She felt a little tickled.

The wolf's grip released.

And then she didn't feel so tough. She was immersed by pain, her arm turning black. Her other hand grasped onto the family standard, tugging it down, but she became weaker and weaker. Sylvia felt hollow, with blood streaming down her gashed sleeve. She angled herself, looking back at the grey wolf, his paws stretching out across the table. His eyes sparkled like melting wax. He circled her feet then stretched out, content to wait, pouring his long silvery body along the table, his arms and legs tucked under his chest. He had a smile; the cool patience in his eyes said he had waited before, and longer.

Her hand eased on the standard and then, just a little, her legs slid.

And down she went, one inch closer.

The wolf sat up.

He jumped up, alert. His jaws rushed against her low-hanging legs, where saliva trickled onto her boots. No, bad wolf. She kicked him in the neck. He rolled over. Dead? Please. Alas, the wolf sprang back up on hind legs, snarling. He strutted out, more towering: a demon, The Devil.

Sylvia slipped, again. She fell fast, her legs numb, useless, but a hand struck out and caught onto the banner.

She hung facing the wolf.

Slowly, his mouth pulled open revealing those dripping sharp fangs. His teeth brushed against Sylvia's chin. His breath smelt, oddly, of raw eggs. Sickly-sweet egg yolks. Sylvia wanted to cry out until her voice fell to shreds. She grabbed the standard, closing her palm tight around the fabric, crushing it. The wolf's face lowered and reared close again, vivid: bright eyes, jaws, fur; it was all a heavy blur.

She hit out with the dagger, right in the centre of that blur.

A howl cut through the hall.

He leapt past the swinging standard, over the table's end and into the giant furnace where flames flew over his fur and swallowed him whole. The wolf became a shadow rolling around the fire.

Sylvia dangled onto Goddard's banners, listening to the creature scream. She scrunched her face into the velvet. Her fingers stiffened.

Inside the fireplace were cooking noises. A human voice erupted out just once, and then came the heavy fumes.

Careful as possible, she slid down the family banner and back onto the table, collapsing down, a ball of sweat rolling down her face. She took a hard second to digest everything, but it was too-large, too-impossible, too-exhausting…

A bitter smell lingered in the fireplace.

On the floor, Goddard's ledger was lying wide open.