Legacy

Chapter 1




Forest of Dean, England

November 1467



Wolfe was on the hunt, sniffing for blood. He could smell prey in the distance, through the trees. The dirt was fresh after a light rain, and he loped along on all fours, following his nose. The chill of early fall was upon him, the low-lying gullies covered in a light mist. The smell of humans was all the same to him, all stink and filth, but under it was the blood. Glorious blood, delicious meat, he thought. Serving one purpose and one alone—to feed me. The pressure on the pads of his feet and hands was subtle as he went springing along, the way he was meant to. His clothes flapped in the breeze, making him long to tear them off. Tear off all this civilization, the stink of the city, leave it all behind. This is how it was meant to be—in the woods, in the wilds, running them down one by one. Though slaughtering a whole houseful at once has its advantages ...

There was only ambient sound around him, the noise of the forest. He heard a faint whistling ahead of him, some farmer’s tune. Yes, tell the Wolfe where you are. He slowed, felt his muscles slacken as he started to creep. He listened, straining his ears to hear. There. Prey. Food. Taste. He ran his tongue over his jagged teeth, letting the points poke at him, savoring the sharp sensation on the sensitive skin of his tongue. Soon we’ll tear the flesh from bones, soon we’ll rip the screams from a mouth. He could smell only one, a man, or possibly a boy. Either would be sweet, but young, soft, supple skin is better than old and rangy, worn down from life. If there were an entourage, then I might have a lordling. They’re always so plump and delicious and scream in all the right ways, releasing the Wolfe’s tension before they die. He felt the throbbing, lower, the excitement of a short hunt about to reach its conclusion and of the relief that would bring. The tension will subside with the thrills of the flesh. And it’s been a long day since the last one ...

He slowed further, now choosing his footing carefully as he made his way through the brush. His clothing no longer whipped in the breeze; his motions were controlled. The surprise was part of the thrill, starting things off right with a good scream. Then more screams, fueled by the anticipation, really—the fear, an opening tease of what would be coming. By the time he was finished, his clothes would be dripping red unless he removed them first. He took his shirt off carefully, listening over the rustle of the cloth to make certain that his prey didn’t escape. The whistling continued, now only a hundred feet away through the brush, unceasing.

Wolfe undressed completely, leaving the clothes he’d taken from a shopkeeper’s window in a small pile on a knotty tree stump. He felt the air coarse over his naked flesh and thrilled to it, felt the smile split his face. Sometimes, in these moments before the torment, he became so excited he could hardly control himself when it began. This time would be different, though. The forest was so large yet so sparsely inhabited everything had to be savored because he didn’t know when he’d meet his next prey. He started forward again, listening to the whistling.

He padded over rough ground, closing the distance. There was a path ahead, and the whistling seemed to be come from it. He came over a short rise covered with new growth, saplings and heavy brush, and caught a glimpse through the branches. There was a man, indeed, hair long and around his shoulders. He wasn’t plump but neither was he rangy, Wolfe could see from the back. A cloak protected him from the chill and the low, mournful tune which he whistled was almost like a dirge; it made Wolfe’s smile dim. It was always sweeter when they were happy before the surprise came. It tasted better, somehow.

Wolfe crept over the rise, careful not to disturb the branches as he passed. He was whisper quiet, not a sound made as he slipped down the slope. His toes landed on the muddy path and he felt the sensation of it oozing around his feet. It made him think of blood, of how he sometimes tracked it after a kill. It heightened his anticipation, made him throb again.

He was only ten feet away, one good leap, when the man in the cloak turned, head cocked curiously. Wolfe froze, and the smile he’d felt building seeped away. There was no surprise on the fellow’s face, but he smiled in greeting until he took in Wolfe’s nakedness.

“Hello, there,” the man said. “You’re a bit underdressed.” Wolfe looked down at his nakedness, his excitement plainly beginning to dissolve. “I say, walking naked in the woods in this weather would seem a bit of an odd choice.”

Wolfe looked up, felt what had been his smile only a moment before turn into a sneer, a snarl. He looked at the man—medium height, brownish hair navy cloak that covered his clothing. He was tanned and had plainly spent his fair share of time out of doors. Not a tender lordling, that much was certain. The disappointment was palpable. Wolfe let out a little hiss.