CHAPTER 4

Two weeks ago… “Don’t come back until this woman, Lola Tarnvol, is dead.” Russel sat across from his father in his favorite sitting room. Taxidermied animal heads of deer, bison, bear, and even a few humans, adorned the walls. A fire had been lit in the large fireplace next to them. Russel was taken in by the almost hypnotic dance of their flames. He swirled the glass in his hand, brought it to his lips, and then took a sip of the amber-colored whiskey his father favored. He hated the stuff. “Why…,” Russel started to ask but his father interrupted him with a harsh, vicious command. “Do not ask questions,” he snarled. “Just do as I command. You are a fifth-born. It is not your place to question me.” Russel glanced back at the fireplace, at the flames that ensnared his attention, and then took in a long, soothing breath. He looked back at the man so many in their kingdom feared. The King of the Oclan werewolves, Carter Polver, one of the wealthiest and most powerful werewolves in all the lands. Russel despised him. Despised his sharp, beak-like nose. His small, black eyes seemed capable of emoting only one thing, anger. Despite showing nothing but strength and power with his broad frame, powerful arms and legs, and hands that could wring moisture out of a stone, Russel always found him to be small. Small-minded, especially. All he ever cared about was retaining his seat of power, no matter who he hurt or who got in his way. “Yes, Lord Father,” he finally said, not bothering to hide the hatred in his voice. There was no point. Russel feared him, he wasn’t a moron, but he had learned a long time ago that Carter’s moods were as swift to change as a gust of wind. Trying to please him was essentially a losing battle, a battle he’d long since given up fighting. “Go then,” Carter told him, waving his hand dismissively. Russel stood up and prepared to leave. Before he could go, his father stopped him again. “Tell anyone else of this mission, especially the Elders, and I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth. Understood, boy?” Carter said, his voice eerily still. Matter-of-fact. Russel made an exaggerated point to bow in as mocking a fashion as possible. “As you command, Lord Father,” he said, letting his voice fill and then drip icy sarcasm. Carter didn’t respond. He tipped back the rest of his whiskey, got up, and left the room. He didn’t spare a single glance toward his son. That was fine with Russel. The less he had to interact with his father, the better in his opinion. He looked at the wall of animal heads, particularly the human ones, an unpleasant feeling of dread filling him. The thought of hunting down some random girl and killing her held little appeal for him. “Ah, Your Royal Highness, I do apologize for the intrusion,” a voice said from behind him. Russel didn’t even flinch at the sudden noise. He’d both heard and smelled the man well before he’d gotten close. He turned to look at the small, slightly hunched-over man. He was old, his hair just wisps of white fluff, and wrinkles seamed almost every inch of his face and neck. His hands looked almost skeletal with long, bony fingers. Despite looking somewhat frightful, like an untethered shade haunting the palace, the man was actually quite nice. “Sorry, Bartholomew,” Russel said. “What is it?” “Your brothers returned from their hunt earlier than anticipated. They caught and killed an impressive bison that was used for this evening’s dinner. It is ready in the dining hall,” Bartholomew explained, bowing. “Thank you, Bartholomew, but tell the rest of the family I will not be joining them this evening. I have been tasked with an urgent mission by my father. Send my regards, if you would please,” Russel told him. “Aye, Your Highness,” he said. Then he bowed again and left. Russel watched the small man go, wondering, and not for the first time, how the human had come to work in the palace. There were very few in their kingdom so it was rare to see one in general. What exactly was the old man’s story? He’d been working for his family since Russel was a baby and even as far back as he could remember, Bartholomew had always been old. He couldn’t even picture him young. He pushed aside the intrusive thoughts of Bartholomew as a young man, and walked away from the sitting room, heading toward the East Wing where his suite was located. According to his father, the human village he was supposed to go to would be a two-week trek on horse. He was to go there, find the girl named Lola Tarnvol, kill her, and then leave just as quickly. That was the extent of the orders. If he got himself captured, he would only say that he acted under his own free will, not under any sort of crown authority. He would also be branded a traitor and publicly sentenced to death if it came down to it. Under no circumstance was he to mention his father or any involvement from him. Pretty straightforward, Russel thought to himself. Get in. Kill a girl. Get out. What could go wrong? As it turned out, a lot. A lot could go wrong. He finally got to his room and threw a few things into his traveler’s pack. Some clothes, carefully packed. A few blankets to sleep on. A compass his mother had given him when he was three and a current map. It showed the three kingdoms, the Oclan Werewolves, the Harvenk Werewolves, and the human kingdom of Alscroft. The village he wanted, a tiny one not even represented on the map, was called Gloucester. It was, according to his father, on the foothills of the Edcaeran Mountain Range. It would be a long, grueling journey but looking on the brighter side of things, he would be out from under his father’s direct control for almost a month. He needed a vacation away from that man. Before he left the palace, he stopped by the kitchen and stocked up on bread, cheese, dried meat, water, and some mead for good measure. After he was done, he left. He didn’t say anything to his brothers, yet another stipulation from his father, but that was fine with him. They didn’t get along most of the time anyway. Once outside, he threw on a heavy cloak with the hood pulled low over his face to hide his features. He stuck to back alleys and dark roads, making sure not to draw attention to himself. It took much longer to get out of the city than it normally would have if he had used a more direct route but at the end of the day, the extra care and time he took paid off. Going the normal way would put him at risk of running into someone he knew. They would have questions and he really didn’t want to answer those questions. A little less than an hour later, he was through the city’s gate and on his way. There was a stable just outside the gate where he bought a horse with a white and brown spotted coat he promptly named Serk. The horse didn’t like him at first but after he fed him a few apples, he became more amenable. The rest of the journey was mostly uneventful. There were a few highwaymen, thieves, and others who came to the incorrect conclusion that he was an easy mark. They soon found out how wrong they were when Russel left them bloody, broken, and in some cases, in pieces. He didn’t kill if he didn’t have to, but in his mind thieves and murderers only out for themselves got what they deserved. They were scum and didn’t deserve to take up his kingdom’s resources. Disposing of them would only help his people, he reasoned. And so he continued on his trek. Word of a lone werewolf, a dangerous one at that, spread through the surrounding towns and villages. Suddenly, the roads became almost completely devoid of all criminals, as if by some magical spell. He spent the rest of the time alone, save for Serk who he occasionally talked to as if the horse could talk back. He quietly contemplated things as he traveled. Things like what was he even doing out this far anyway? What purpose did this mission actually serve? And the most important question. Who the hell was Lola Tarnvol?