The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2) Read online

  "The lad's right," Gos said, tossing the bone into the fire. He glowered at it in disgust and wiped his bloody hands on his cloak guiltily. "We're different for a reason."

  Velmit sneered, sucking the blood from his palms and sliding a careful tongue over his claws. "Where were the Guardians when the wraiths came? I deserved to become this monster. I was a bandit. But you two?" He nodded at Alfric. "Golden Boy here was on a quest to save all of Aernheim when the wraiths came. And you, Gos. Weren't you a peaceful farmer?"

  "Aye," Gos said. "Something like that." He winced, clutching his chest as he often did. He'd been terribly ill before becoming a skinwalker. For some reason, the change was capable of healing everything by morning except that. Callouses had formed where his nose should have been—a result of the decaying sickness.

  "Bradir's a good leader," Velmit continued, "don't hear me wrong, but the chosen by Eosor shit is, well, shit. Eosor doesn't care for us. Like all the Guardians, Eosor shits on the good and the bad alike." He sighed and leaned back. "All I care for now is making the best of my predicament. I'm hungry, so I eat. I'm thirsty, so I drink. Right and wrong, good and evil. Those are human things. We're not human anymore. We're something else."

  Alfric desperately wanted to hold on to his humanity. Perhaps it was just easier for him because he still looked vaguely human. Gos and Velmit, however, were monstrous.

  Their eyes had sunken into their skulls, their jaws had elongated, and dark fur shadowed their forearms, thighs, and chests. A cursory glance might lead one to label them large and hairy, but a good look made it clear they were more beasts than men. Each morning brought them further along in the transformation. Soon, they would look like they did at night when the wraiths took hold.

  Alfric supposed his transformation had been slowed because he refused to feed. Still, he had begun to change. There was an itch beneath his skin—the first sign that he would grow hair like the others.

  Alfric stood and turned his back to the others. He couldn't bear to look at them anymore. Without the rest of the pack, there was a stillness, an almost tranquil quality, to the campsite.

  "Where are the others?" he said, still staring into the forest.

  "Radbod spotted a caravan not far from here," Gos replied. "They've gone to see."

  The skinwalkers would kill the people, though unlike last night, the kills would be swift now that the wraiths weren't in control. Although the pack members weren’t wicked enough to torture their victims, they had taken their possession in stride. If they were monsters at night, then they were beasts during the day.

  Alfric, much to his shame, had never tried to stop them from killing people. Only yesterday he'd found himself unable to do much else except stare into a campfire. He'd tried to run, except after nightfall, the wraith within Alfric had followed the beacon, inevitably reuniting with the pack. Each day, they grew closer. It had started shining for the first time four nights ago. It compelled them closer with every passing night. They all had different opinions about what exactly it was. Alfric hadn't made his mind up yet, but the beacon's allure intrigued him.

  He slipped his hand into his bag and fished out a moldy bit of bread—the last of what he'd stolen yesterday. As he bit into the crust, he felt something crunch. He spat the mouthful onto the dirt. Three gleaming teeth sat among the saliva and chewed bread.

  "I was wondering when you'd get your new set." Velmit grinned, showing rows of fangs. "They ain't too bad. Gotta be careful when you chew, though. The teeth came before my mouth was big enough to fit them. Cut my lip something horrid."

  Using his tongue to feel against his gums, Alfric winced as fine points sliced into it. As if the itching fur in every crevice and my nails falling out weren't enough.

  The taste of blood stirred something in him, and he had to shake it away. He tossed the moldy bread into the fire and stood. "I'm going hunting," he said. "Keep the fire going."

  "It'll taste much better raw," Velmit called out as Alfric left.

  Alfric raised his nose to the southerly wind. There it was. The musky scent of a rabbit. Since the turning, his senses grew stronger by the day.

  The cracking of twigs a few paces away startled him. On instinct, he leaped onto his hands and feet. Something rushed through the undergrowth. In a moment, he bounded along the detritus. His vision narrowed as the steady glow of a beating heart drew him ever closer to his prey.

  The rabbit didn't stand a chance.

  Three days ago, he might have skinned the kill and cooked it before eating. Not today. The hunger was too great. He tore away at the flesh with his new teeth, impressed by how easy stripping the meat was. As much as he hated to admit it, there were benefits to the turning. Blood dribbled down his chin, and he wiped at it with his hands.

  Even after the bones were picked clean, the hunger gnawed at him. Animal blood wasn't enough. It didn't satiate him. There would come a time when he'd have to feed on something else. Then he would be no different from the half-dozen members who belonged to the pack.

  The other three had been bandits along with Velmit. Alfric had found Gos the morning after he'd turned for the first time. They'd awoken in a barn, covered in blood. Alfric had emptied his stomach onto the hay, and the sight of what spilled from his mouth had only made him heave the more. He and Gos talked a while after that. That night, more skinwalkers had joined their carnage in a local village. These, however, didn't turn human with the dawn. Only the arrival of Velmit and the others had stopped the rabids from devouring Gos and Alfric.

  From that point, Alfric and Gos had joined up with the group of men-turned-skinwalkers. The choice had been easy to make since they were all struggling through the change. In a short while, Alfric learned that these were hardened men, accustomed to robbing and taking lives. He shared nothing in common with them except for being a skinwalker.

  An unfamiliar scent tickles his nostrils. It smelled like lavender. Perfume.

  This wasn't good. If Gos and Velmit picked up the scent, they'd surely kill the woman wearing it.

  He followed the smell to a stream. At the water's edge lay a light blue dress. Feeling his face flush, Alfric realized a nude woman was here somewhere. He thought twice about scanning the stream but did so anyway. Strangely, he found no one bathing in its waters.

  The sound of twine snapping made Alfric turn. A net dropped from above, entangling him, and something ripped him from his feet.

  Growling, he twisted and turned, trying to free himself. The snare only seemed to grow tighter.

  A thin man approached, smelling like lavender and aiming a bow and arrow at Alfric. He wore ill-fitting padded armor and a short sword at his belt. The arrow wavered in his trembling grip. "You . . . You're not a skinwalker." He sighed and put the bow down. He cut the net with a dagger and then removed the noose from Alfric's ankles.

  Alfric's immediate instinct was to flee. This man was hunting skinwalkers. Staying for too long might lead him to notice that Alfric wasn't exactly human, but his presence here was intriguing.

  Alfric hunched in an attempt to look less monstrous. "Why are you catching skinwalkers? That seems like an awfully dangerous exercise, particularly alone."

  "Someone's got to do something about them." The hunter had done a fine job of catching a skinwalker with the lavender, but now he trembled as he spoke. He seemed too afraid to notice anything inhuman about Alfric's appearance. "A group of us are forming a militia, but none of them can agree on anything. An old gal who used to be a shieldsister is trying to gather us up."

  "And you figured you'd go at it alone?"

  His fear discarded, the man reared back. "Caught you, didn't I?"

  Alfric chuckled. He forced his mouth shut. Smiling would only make the man more likely to find out that his catch was something more than human. "That you did. But I'm no skinwalker."

  "No, you're not, but you're bloody hairy. And tall, too."

  "My grandfather was part giant," Alfric answered quickly. He liked this man, and it h
ad been some time since he'd had a conversation with a real human. All the others ended up dead. "And the woman?" he asked, nodding at the dress by the water.

  "That's my daughter's dress. She was . . ." His face turned dark, and his jaw tightened.

  "Skinwalkers?"

  The hunter grimaced.

  "I'm sorry for your loss." Alfric heard something crack behind him. The scent ensured it was just a rabbit, but it had broken him out of whatever this was. He was foolish to speak with this hunter. If Velmit found him, there would be trouble. "Bandits roam these woods." Alfric blurted out the first explanation that came to his mind.

  "Nothing unusual. We've always had bandits in these parts."

  "Not the kind I've seen."

  The man gave Alfric a questioning look, but he didn't say anything. He rolled up the net, fixed it to his girdle, and scaled the tree.

  "I'm serious," Alfric called up. "It's not safe for you here."

  Leaves fluttered down as the man shifted among the branches. When he was done, he landed beside Alfric.

  "Like I said, I can deal with bandits." The hunter rejigged the trap while Alfric watched, growing more uneasy by the minute. "Besides, a kid like you wouldn't be hanging around here if they're so bad. Best you go home. I plan on drawing a skinwalker here and catching it." His voice took on a tremor again. "If the rest of the villagers see what they look like, maybe they'll take up arms."

  Alfric could tell he wasn't going to convince the hunter. His breath caught when a strong musky odor filled his nostrils.

  It was Gos. He'd come searching.

  "You need to go," Alfric whispered to the hunter. "Now. One of the others is coming."

  "Others?" The man frowned and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not going anywhere. You're one of these bandits, aren't you?" His hand flashed down, and the short sword whistled from its scabbard. "You tell your companion there won't be no trouble unless he starts some."

  Gos might not start anything, but Velmit would, and he was bound to be close behind.

  Alfric snarled, his lips pulling back, so his newly grown fangs were exposed. He wanted the hunter to cower and flee. The man's eyes widened, but he didn't run. His grip tightened around the sword handle.

  Gos appeared between two trees. "Alfric, how long does it take you to hunt a rabbit? I was almost worried for a—" He paused, shaking his head as he looked at the hunter. "Oh no . . ."

  Alfric looked back at the man. Velmit was behind him, one clawed hand grasping his shoulder while the other gripped the hunter's head.

  "No!" Alfric yelled.

  Velmit's mouth clamped down over the hunter's exposed neck. The hunter gasped, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his body trembled from shock. Velmit cast the man's drained corpse aside and wiped dribbled blood with a forearm.

  He belched loudly. "Too slow, Alfric. You're not meant to speak with them before you feed. We've a lot to teach you."

  Alfric lunged for Velmit, but the other man stepped aside easily, his every movement quickened by the hunter's blood. That didn't stop Alfric from trying again, but this time, Gos held him back.

  "It's not worth it," Gos whispered.

  Alfric threw Gos off him.

  "Just what was he doing with all this?" Velmit picked up the net. The noose that had caught Alfric lay beside it.

  "Trying to catch some beasts," Alfric answered.

  Velmit squatted beside the woman's dress. He took it and sniffed. With a shifting look around, he let the dress back down. "Any idea where the woman went?"

  Alfric couldn't say it was a trap. Maybe if the militia did form, they might stop the skinwalkers. He wanted the thought to fill him with hope, but reality wouldn't allow it. The hunters would have to kill the pack during the day, and six skinwalkers against a dozen warriors wouldn't be a fight — it would be a slaughter.

  "She wasn't here when I came. It was only this hunter."

  Velmit shrugged. "A pity. Guess I'll have to wait until Bradir and the others get back. Good find, Golden Boy."

  Alfric snarled and walked away.

  "We need to quench our thirst somehow," Velmit called out. "Best you accept that."

  No, Alfric thought, we don't. I won't feed on people while I'm still in control.

  An itch sent Alfric scratching his arm so hard he peeled skin. Coarse hair grew beneath it. Things weren't going to get better—they would only get worse.

  He caught something floating through the air—dark smoke. Below it was a village. It was directly west of the campsite, in the skinwalkers' path. He imagined a blacksmith working at a forge, the cries of children as their mother herded them through the muddy streets, and the thunk of a woodsman's axe, chopping fuel for the fires.

  How many other folks might be in that village, unaware of what awaited them when night came? More than none was too many.

  Alfric had to do something.

  3

  Bradir

  "You smell that?" Radbod grinned. Sunlight caught the fine points of his fangs, the gums between them gleaming with fresh blood.

  Bradir had known the man for a dozen years. He'd always thought him a maniacal bastard, but after Radbod had turned, he'd become as close as it got to full-blown crazy.

  "I smell three." Radbod's nostrils opened as they drew in the scent. "They're on horseback."

  "There's two." Bradir had the better sense of smell because he was the furthest along in the change. Thick orange hair smothered his upper body. Where no hair existed—which wasn't in many places—his skin had paled to an albino white. What would the end of the change be? Would he still possess his mind? He didn't know, so he was using his time best he could—killing and plundering.

  He'd always been a large man, but now he was incapable of wearing regular clothing. A cloak drifted down his back, ending at his knees. Pants that would have been loose on even the largest man hugged his thighs like tights. He'd found both items inside the cart, and Radbod had donned similar attire.

  Although Bradir felt more comfortable running around naked, he hadn't quite become accustomed to the wind tickling his balls, nor the chill of an icy draft between his ass cheeks. If the change continued, making him more and more the beast, he would have to accept those things. Until then, the stolen garments of their kills would suffice.

  The carcasses of two women and a man lay strewn across the road. Probably a family trying to find a way out of Aernheim. They'd sought to flee the wraiths and instead found skinwalkers. Their blood had been delicious.

  On a whim, Bradir squatted over the upturned cart and rummaged through its contents for the second time. He found a book and flicked it open. At least half its pages were empty. Still, it might be useful. One member of the pack needed some coaxing to join them truly, and a book like this for the well-educated Golden Boy might just do it. He filled his nostrils with its strange smell—a sweet perfume. That, too, might serve a purpose.

  The steady clop of horse hooves grew louder. Bradir slipped the book into his shoulder pack and turned to the corpses. He had no time to hide the bodies from the riders. A pity. Bradir preferred silent kills to open fighting. A knife in the back was more desirable to a duel of swords. However, he'd long learned that not everything went one's way, and adversity made a man grow stronger. Or, he thought with a smile, in my case, a skinwalker. Besides, I no longer need knives to spill a man's blood, adversity is a thing of the past.

  Bradir signaled to Velmit, and they both crouched behind the cart.

  Two men, wearing leather armor and riding horses, approached the cart. Their green cloaks billowed in the wind, bearing the insignia of Aernheim's Army. Age spots shared a place on their faces with old battle scars. Their fingers, bulbous with arthritic joins, grabbed their sword hilts, though they didn't yet free their swords.

  The one in front nodded at the cart to the man behind him. "What do you think happened here?" Seeming only now to notice the corpses beside the cart, he drew his sword.

  Bradir stepped out o
nto the road so they could see him. With open arms and a broad smile that flashed his fangs, he said, "Good day, gentlemen."

  Radbod came alongside Bradir. "You asked what happened to them," he said, picking his teeth with a talon. "We were hungry." He squared his chest and roared. The horses reared back, their nostrils flaring.

  "Monsters!" the warrior at the back cried, drawing his sword. "Slay them!"

  Bradir sighed and glared at the other skinwalker. "You're no good at being subtle, you know that?"

  Radbod shrugged as both riders spurred their horses and charged.

  The first rider came for Bradir, his sword slashing downward. Bradir tilted aside, watching the blade swing past as if time had slowed to a crawl. He extended his claws and carved five deep lines into the horse's underbelly. The horse screamed and threw its rider from his saddle.

  Bradir leaped atop the warrior. Though aged, the man was sinuous with muscle. Bradir, however, was more than seven feet tall and wide as an ox. He poised his claws and drew back his arms, ready to drive them into the warrior's ribs.

  Instead, the warrior grabbed the bladed end of his sword with one hand, the hilt with the other, and held it across his body. Bradir's claws clanged against the sword, unable to reach their destination.

  A knee crushed Bradir's testicles. Despite the change, he still had regular man bits, along with their tendency to disable when struck. The man brought his sword down, but a quick backhand sent him crashing into the cart in a cloud of splinters.

  Spots sparked in Bradir's eyes as he struggled to breathe. Agonizing seconds passed until the scent of oiled metal cleared his mind. The soldier's sword sliced through the air. In a flash of instinct, Bradir parried the blow, the sword cutting into the flesh between his fingers. With a howl, he surged toward the soldier. Claws met sword in a flurry of bone and steel until they started to chip and splinter.