LOUVE: VENGENCE INCARNATE

1 — The Story of Death

Blood runs from the bound man’s ear. Hopefully my strike did not deafen him.

“Once there was a loving family,” I recite, the ruin of my voice an ugly grating even to my own ears. He flinches. Good. “A strong husband, a beautiful wife and a loving daughter. They were happy. Then, one day a sickness took the land. It turned those it touched black with its wretched claw.” I swallow, the feeling like glass slicing the inside of my throat. “There was a man, a false shepherd who guided a sickly flock. He wanted the woman for his own.” I lick the jagged scar where my lips once were. “So, he dragged her from her home, and she watched her family burn alive.” I lean close to the bound man, though that is a generous term. He is still but a boy, his face greasy with sweat. “That loving woman died and what crawled from the wreckage was an abomination.”

Slowly, I reach for my mask made of coarse hemp and chainmail. Despite being gagged, his scream comes clearly through the cloth as he bears witness to the wreckage of my visage.

“That thing was Vengeance Incarnate.” I lean closer still. While little remains of my nose, I still inhale the acrid tang of urine pooling at his dirty, bare feet. “Tell me, where is Father Pierre?”

I pull the gag down.

“Saint-Rémy-en-Vallée,” he says without hesitation.

Simple as that. No need for a hot poker, pliers, or even a thumb screw. Only the face of a corpse.

“Thank you.”

I plunge my knife into his throat.

Leaving the decrepit barn, I survey my surroundings. The world is quiet, even more so after five loud, brutish men and one boy have been returned to the dirt.

The rest of the bodies lay prone outside of the farmhouse, mere metres away from the family they hung after they refused to pay penance to the good father. The crop this year is sparse, just like the last. Some fear it is the end of the world. One can only hope.

Somewhere in the distance I hear the call of a cow.

“I’m sorry if the screams disturbed your sleep,” I say.

I roll my shoulders, the rusty joints grinding together. Nobel knights are taught to take care of their armour. Yet I am neither noble nor a knight.

I pick up the bloody instrument of my will, propped against the side of the barn. A morning star is an unconventional weapon, though it is a fitting tool for one of His fallen. Vengeance Incarnate. With a long handle and a bulbous spiked ball at the end, she represents both the masculine and feminine. Soon, we shall have our revenge.

I stride over to my horse, chestnut, named as such by a loving young girl. I mount the nag, and with a gentle tap, we plod off towards the road.

The land is lost; she has no bounty left to give. I trudge along the dusty road, devastation as far as the eye can see. It has been a hot, gruelling summer and those still living have suffered as a result. I am unable to wipe my brow through the mask and sweat pools into my eyes, making it difficult to see.

A caravan of peasants approaches, the waggons laden with possessions and measly rations. I wait by the wayside, letting them pass. A small child tugs on his mother’s sleeve as I pass.

“The rotting revenant,” he whispers, his voice carrying easily in the stillness.

She hushes her child as they pass, her head low. I throw a glance toward the child, and he clutches his mother’s dress. There are a few men, but they avoid me like the plague they are fleeing. It is for the best. If they challenged me, they would die, and the rest would starve. There is a considerable reward on my head, yet few remain able to claim it.

As the sun rises high in the sky, I pass a group of men digging graves by the roadside. A large, bare-chested man hauls a body bound in rags into a shallow pit. I catch a glimpse of black pustules underneath his sweaty armpits. Not much longer for him I would gamble. I suppose it is a hazard of the job. When one deals with a certain type of death, they often succumb to it themselves.

Next, a group of flagellants march by in a procession, their blood creating a fine mist as they beat themselves.

“Repent before the end!” the preacher cries in a hoarse voice, strained by hours of screaming prayers.

If I could chuckle, I would. If only his God could grant the end of the world, I might forgive him for what he did to me.

The fanatical parade glares at me with bloodshot eyes as they pass. They are no threat in this heat. It is more than likely that they will drop dead from exhaustion before the day is out. Then the crows can have their feast.

2 — Face Of an Angel

On and on I ride, the ground uneven from years of neglect and disrepair. Finally, as evening begins to descend, I spy an unnamed inn on the roadside. It feels as if lead lines my eyelids. I could continue, but if I am to face my quarry tomorrow, I will need some rest.

There is no stableboy to take chestnut, so I tie her up and head inside. The entrance is low, and I must duck inside to enter. Aside from a few flickering candles, the tavern is dark. The only living soul is a heavy-set woman cleaning wooden mugs behind the bar. She pretends not to notice me as I slowly approach her, my heavy footfall shattering the stillness. I tower over her, silent.

“What are you having then?” she asks, with a slight tremble in her voice.

I clear my throat, the sound like someone is torturing a toad.

“I need a room,” I say, peering around. “And a meal.”

She looks up at me, her lips quivering. “We have plenty of board but few options for food. All that’s left is salted pork and turnip stew.”

My tongue roams around my mostly empty gums. “The Stew,” I reply. “The softer the better.”

Only last week, I lost one of my few remaining back teeth from a hard piece of overcooked rabbit. The rest are as brittle as dry twigs.

She nods, the folds of skin on her neck wobbling. “You can sit down, and I will bring it to you.”

She jumps as I slam my hand onto the counter.

“Bring it to my room,” I say.

She hands me a key, and I depart to my accommodation. The room is small with a basin for washing, a lumpy bed, and an alcove with a latrine bucket. It may not be much, but I cannot remember the last time I slept on a real mattress. I put Vengeance Incarnate in the corner and begin to take off my armour. The straps have made indents in my skin. It is so heavy that it feels like a mountain has been taken off my shoulders.

I stop at my rough spun shift. The bindings around my breasts are tight enough that I pass for a man, especially given my height. My husband used to jest that the only reason he married me was that I matched him in stature and strength. It was how I was able to fit into his suit of fire-scorched armour.

There is a mirror above the basin, and I consider taking off my mask. However, I have not seen my own face for so long that I fear it will have the same effect on me as it does my enemies.

I take a seat on the bed. It sags under my weight, but it is blissfully comfortable. When I was young and full of vigour, my husband and I would wrestle to see who could mount the other first. All that roughhousing ended with our daughter, Eliza. I told her that she painted her name inside my tummy while I was carrying her. Their memory used to make me so sad that I would weep and weep and weep. Now I feel nothing but a cold rage.

A knocking draws me from my contemplation. I get up and open the door. Standing before me is a small, pale girl. She is a meek-looking creature, and I would not be surprised if she has not started bleeding yet. She regards me with wide, terror-filled eyes. Though it might be a trick of the candlelight, it almost looks like there is a hint of wander in them.

“Your supper, your lordship.” She lifts a tray with a bowl of watery stew and a hunk of bread.

The corner of my mouth twitches into an approximation of a smile. “Lordship?” I ask.

She recoils slightly at the sound of my voice.

“Yes, are you not the one they have been whispering about?”

“Do I not have a more appropriate title?” I ask, my voice low.

She drops her gaze. “Can I come in?”

I stand aside, and she scurries into the room like a frightened shrew. She places the meal on the dresser table, shuffling her feet. We stand there in silence for several awkward moments.

“You may go, child,” I say, gesturing to the door.

She looks at her feet. “Can I touch your hands?” she asks in a small voice.

The request takes me aback. No one has touched me that has not sought me harm since the fire. Considering tomorrow, this may be the last time anyone will ever do so. I extend my mangled hands, covered in a landscape of long-healed wounds and calluses. The girl takes a few tentative steps toward me and reaches for them. At her touch, my first instinct is to strike her. Yet, after a moment, I relax as she explores the suffering that has been mapped to cross my palms. Her light touch caresses the gouge near my right thumb and roams the missing ring finger on my left hand.

“What happened here?” she asks.

I pull my hands away. “It matters not. Is there anything else that you want?”

She swallows, her face a mask of anticipation. “They say that you are a devil. But even Lucifer was once a beautiful angel.”

She reaches up, intending to remove my mask, and I grab her by the wrist. My grip is not tight enough to crush her delicate bones, but it is a warning. After a moment, I let go.

“What is it that you want, child?”

“I have heard what you have done to wicked men, and I think you are an angel, sent by God to enact his will. They help people in times of need.” Her eyes grow wet with tears. “Will you help me?”

I consider telling her to leave, yet those eyes awaken something in me that I long thought dead. A remnant of the mother I once was.

“Tell me what it is you require.”

She nods, her face solemn. “My ma can no longer afford to keep me. The inn is not profitable, and she has told me that I am to be sold to a whore house in Paris.”

“That is unfortunate,” I say. During these dark times, being shackled to an establishment such as that is a fate worse than death. “What would you like me to do about it?”

The girl swallows. “I wish for you to free me,” she says.

I consider her words, and before I know it, I cup the side of her head in my hand. She does not flinch but rather leans into it, nuzzling me like a newborn kitten.

“What is your name, child?”

“Chloé,” she says, sniffling.

“Very well, Chloé. I will grant your wish. I shall free you.”

3 — Bloody Ascendance

After my measly meal, I fully disrobe and unwind the bindings across my chest. I take in a deep breath before letting out a series of rattling coughs. Unlike the rest of my body, my breasts are mostly pristine. If there were a way to remove the last remnant of my former womanhood, I would. I fill the basin with cool water and use a rag to wipe away the dirt and grime from my skin. Everything must be clean. It is too dark to see myself in the mirror, so I take off my mask. I wipe the contours of what was a very beautiful face.

Yet those who now gaze upon it do so with horror.

Once I am content with the cleanliness, I kneel and unpack the items I require. Several candles burnt near to their wicks, a needle and thread, and a wooden cross with three locks of hair wound around it. I hold it to my chest before placing it on the ground.

Finally, I bring out the last necessary item — a three-pronged leather whip, studded with small blades no bigger than a fingernail. I add five more for the men whose lives I took earlier and one for the boy. I light the candles.

“I have not yet forgiven you, my Lord.” I run my hand along the lengths of coarse leather strands. “Once my task is complete, I will let you take me into your arms.”

I let the tendrils fall to the ground, and in a practised motion, I crack them across my back. I grit my remaining teeth at the sharp pain, not letting a single sound escape my mouth. I do it again and again and again and again. I am so used to pain that this is but a trifling. Tears spring to my eyes, but I dare not let them fall. I continue until the pain becomes a dull ache. Only then do I cease. I pant, the wreckage of my back burning with agony.

I pick up the cross between my shaking fingers. “The only forgiveness I need is from you,” I say, kissing the cross — the hair tickling my lips. “The woman I was is with you in heaven.” With that, I snap the cross in half and place the hair above the flame until it smoulders, and the tips of my nails begin to blacken.

Now that they are released, I take the final item out of the bag — a limp wolf mask. I stare at the snarling lupine features. During our first winter together, my husband and I were caught in a blizzard. We lost our way while gathering firewood and couldn’t get back to our cottage. A pack of wolves had found us, and much like us, were hungry and frightened. They attacked as a group, yet it was the matriarch that chose me as her mark.

Leaping onto me, she knocked me to the ground and bit into my forearm. My husband, disregarding his own safety, tackled the beast and used his skinning knife to slit her throat. After her kin fled, he took her body home and turned her into a rug. To see what she was transformed into always brought me great sorrow. Forever staring up from her place next to the fireplace with hollow eyes. He believed it was a trophy dedicated to our triumph over death. Yet I saw her as a mighty queen felled while trying to protect those she loved.

I rub the singed fur.

“Together we shall avenge them.” I pick up the needle and thread, place the wolf’s face over my own, and press the sharp tip to my cheek. “We shall become one.” I push deeper until the metal bites into my scared flesh and begin my ascendance.

4 — Chloé’s Last Wish

“Hello?” Chloé’s small voice asks from the darkness.

Her room is as silent as a graveyard, stiller than a tomb.

“Do not be afraid, child,” I reassure. “It is I.”

I see the outline of her shift in bed. “Is it time for us to leave?”

I soundlessly move closer to her. “I am here to grant your wish, to give you freedom.”

There is a sound like rocks colliding, and before I can stop Chloé, a spark ignites a candle. Illuminated by the meagre flame, her sleepy eyes grow wide. Before she can scream, I clamp my hand over her mouth and push her onto the bed. I did not want her to see what I have become. Chloé’s nails dig into my wrists as she tries to claw my hands away, but she is far too weak. I try to be as gentle as possible so as not to bruise her perfect skin.

“Be free, my child,” I say, as her efforts grow weaker. “You shall know no more suffering.”  Her gaze does not leave mine until she finally closes her eyes and all struggles cease. I gently stroke her golden hair. “Sleep now.”

After re-fastening my armour, I leave the comfort of the inn and retrieve Chestnut. As I ride back onto the road, a baleful howl emanates from the inn. The sound of a mother discovering the body of her child is familiar. I know that sound all too well. I do not turn around; I simply continue my journey.

The day is cooler than the last, yet still the angry heat of the sun beats down upon me. A murder of crows circles above. I peer up at them, their cries A decree of what is to come. Off in the distance, I see an overgrown sign with the words Saint-Rémy-en-Vallée carved into the wood. I run a hand over Vengeance Incarnate.

“Soon,” I promise.

A wisp of smoke coils on the horizon, shortly followed by the silhouettes of a hamlet. As I get closer, it reveals itself as a pathetic thing. A ring of wooden slats that must have once served as a fortification can now barely keep out a fox. There are a few small structures dotted around, though calling them dwellings would be a stretch. What catches my attention is the only building made of stone — a looming church.

If this is where Father Pierre has ended up, then it is a far fall from grace. Yet after leagues of subordinates who raped and pillaged their way across the countryside have been returned to his supposed saviour, perhaps this is the best he can manage.

I dismount, unbridle Chestnut, remove the saddle and bag, and gracelessly throw them to the ground. I stroke her between the ears.

“Thank you for staying with me,” I say, pressing my forehead against hers.

With that, I give her a firm slap on the rear, and she begins to plod off back the way we came. I watch her as she disappears, the last remnant of my life before I became the wolf. Hopefully she finds someone who will care for her in her last years. Though I doubt it. There is little love in the hearts of men for old, worn nags.

Propping Vengeance Incarnate against a rock, I sit and watch the town as I wait for night. Finally, as the sun passes behind the distant hills, I stand and begin to trudge toward the hamlet. The moon is full and casts a pale light over the land.

As I get closer, I survey fields of spoiled crops, pastures devoid of livestock, and freshly dug graves. This town is dying, just like the rest of the world. The purpose of the gate is almost entirely moot. It hangs lopsided on rusting hinges, the wood gnarled and eaten through by the elements and worms. A man sitting on a stool leans his head against it, a spear resting limply in his hands. As I get closer, I hear low snoring. It is careless to be asleep on duty when wolves prowl.

When I was young, I would pick apples from the nearby orchards, and on the hottest days I would sleep in the shade of the trees. When my father used to catch me, he would never strike me, although his words hit me harder than any hand.

“Some will see a sleeping girl as an invitation to commit unspeakable sin.”

I tighten my grip on Vengeance Incarnate. More often than not, men choose to take that invitation.

The guard snorts and begins to stir. Before he can rouse, I clamp my mailed hand around his thin neck and violently twist. There’s a sound like snapping twigs, and his lifeless body falls to the ground. Hefting Vengeance Incarnate over my shoulder, I push the gate open.

5 — Bounty of Sin

The town is quiet, its inhabitants likely already in bed. I take several steps forward, and from one of the houses, a dog begins to bark. I look over to see a light illuminating one of the open windows. A ghostly face appears in the gloom, watching me like a spectre. I continue as more of the hamlet’s inhabitants appear in the windows.

A large unlit pyre stands in the centre of the hamlet. Piles of hay are stacked underneath equally dry wood. Even the hint of a flame would turn it into a fiery beacon. Looking closer, I catch a glimpse of steel in the light of the moon.

“Lengths of chain,” I mutter, rubbing the cold links between my fingers. “There is never enough innocence to burn.”

“Hello?” A man calls out.

I turn to see three black shapes materialise from the darkness, a solitary torch lighting their way. The first man’s features come into focus. He is not dressed as a typical soldier, but rather he wears a padded jerkin, a felt cap, and carries a woodcutter’s axe. He halts in his tracks when he sees me.

“Lord have mercy,” he says in a trembling voice.

“It’s the Rotting Revenant,” another one says, holding up a bill hook like a crucifix.

Without preamble, I walk toward them.

“Your grace!” the first man screams as I close the distance. “Help!”

With both hands, I swing Vengeance Incarnate straight into his unprotected head, which shatters like an overripe pumpkin. Bits of skull and brain matter spray across the other. The one with the scythe makes a clumsy swing at my head. With momentum from the first strike, I make a wide arc and hit him square in the ribs, and he goes flying.

Just behind him, the third man points something at me — it’s a crossbow. Before I can react, a bolt slams into my shoulder, and I nearly topple. Pain ignites from between the metal plates of my armour. I look down to see the shaft embedded in my shoulder. With a mighty tug, I wrench it out and cast it aside.

I look up to see the man drop his crossbow and retreat. I take one of the blades from my belt and with a practiced precision, I throw it end over end into the darkness. The man squeals, and I hear him drop to the ground. I find him face down in the mud, groaning in pain.

“Please, don’t kill me,” he manages to say. “My children will starve.”

Without replying, I raise Vengeance Incarnate above my head and bring it down onto his back. The silence of the night is broken by his dying scream and the crack of his shattered spine.

“You!” a voice shouts.

I shift my gaze to see a hulking brute with greasy, long black hair and a long scar bisecting his face, accompanied by six soldiers. Unlike the others, they are all armed to the teeth and covered in mismatched armour pillaged from a hundred battlefields. Painted across all their fronts is the red cross of Father Pierre’s flock. He collected them fresh from being bloodied by the English with the promise of a far easier foe in their own country.

 “Your reign ends here, devil!” he challenges, nocking an arrow to his longbow.

I look between the seven men, seeing their snarling mouths and hate-filled eyes. I roll my shoulders and widen my stance.

“Thank you for sending me this bounty,” I say with reverence. “Be ready to welcome them.”

6 — The Devil is a Woman

The assembled men glance at each other. No doubt they have heard many tales of the Rotting Revenant.

“Kill him!” the brute screams.

As one, they rush forward, their armour reflecting the light of the braziers.

The fastest is a bearded man clutching a long sword in both hands. I strike faster than a diving heron with a low swing, taking out both of his legs with a sickening crunch. He falls to the ground screaming. An arrow hurtles towards me and ricochets off my breastplate. The brute curses as two more men charge me, both with spears.

I nimbly dodge past the first thrust, but the other man gets me in the thigh. The thin tip bypasses my ring mail, and I grit my teeth as the pain bites into me. I slam my fist into my assailant’s jaw, feeling his teeth crack against my knuckles.

The other man takes a jab at my head, and I raise my forearm to deflect the attack. Sparks go flying as the spear tip makes contact. He wobbles off balance, and I swing Vengeance Incarnate into his shoulder. The blow is weak with only one hand, but he goes down regardless, clutching his arm. There is no time to finish him off as more men are already upon me.

I totter back on as a furnace burns where the spear penetrated my thigh. The first charges at me with a battle axe above his head and I’m forced to make a quick uppercut with Vengeance Incarnate. The blow catches him on the chin, but the effort causes me to fall to one knee. 

A blur of a sword arcs toward my head, and I reflexively bring up my forearm again. The blunted steel would have ended my story, but instead the blow nearly breaks my arm. With a low growl, I drop Vengeance Incarnate and grab the man by his jerkin. I pull myself to my feet, meet his wild eyes with my own, and headbutt him in the middle of the face.

He lets out a blood-curdling cry, staggering backwards. I take a knife from my belt, bury it to the hilt into his belly, and twist. He grabs my hand, his grip slick with his own blood. I push him back with all my remaining strength, and before he can pull the knife free, the massive brute grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him aside.

“I’ve been waiting for you, devil,” he says, his voice gravelly.

His bow is already drawn and ready. At this range, he will no doubt hit his mark. I need to close the distance quickly.

On shaking legs, I take a step forward, my foot snags on something, and I topple. I look down to see the man that I put down earlier, grabbing my ankle. I kick him hard in the face, and he lets go. Before I can right myself, hands are upon me, holding me down.

“No!” I cry, trying in vain to struggle free. “Get off of me!”

One of the men strikes the side of my head with a loose piece of cobblestone, and my vision goes white at the edges.

“He sounds like he swallowed a frog,” the other man says.

He sounds distant, like someone has stuffed cotton in my ears.

The blurry outline of the brute slings his bow over his shoulder, and with a twinkle of greedy hunger reflected in the firelight, picks up Vengeance Incarnate.

“What a weapon.” He whistles appreciatively. “I have not seen anything like it before.”

“Take your filthy hands off her,” I snarl.

“Her?” The brute runs his hand over Vengeance Incarnate’s shaft and fondles her spiked tips. “Ah yes, mademoiselle, I can see it.” He stands over me and raises my instrument of judgment above his head. “I will take good care of her.”

“Wait!” shouts a shrill voice. The brute lowers Vengeance Incarnate. He turns to reveal a silhouette standing at the church entrance, their appearance cloaked in shadow. “Bring the devil inside.”

The brute nods, and I’m roughly dragged towards the church. I am aware that I need to fight back. Throw my weight, dig my feet into the ground, anything. But a fog has settled over my mind. Perhaps that strike to the head has made me a cripple. My greaves scrape against the cobbled stone of the church floor. I have not been in one for so long now. I’m turned and forced onto a chair.

“Bind him,” the brute orders.

Coarse rope is threaded around my wrists and ankles, the knots tight but clumsy.

“What have we here?” asks a soft, familiar voice.

I shake my head, and my vision slowly returns. I look up to see a rotund man with plump, clean-shaven cheeks. He is dressed in heavy grey robes

“Pierre.” The name is a curse upon my tongue.

“Do we know each other, demon?” he asks, cocking his head. He leans closer, his breath smelling of Rosemary. “Let’s have that off.”

“No!” I cry.

Fingers dig into my scalp. “It’s sewn onto his face,” the man at my side says.”

Pierre wrinkles his nose. “Then cut it off.”

A sharp blade is pressed against the base of my jaw.

“No!”

I thrash against my bindings, and the sharp blade cuts deep into my skin.

“Hold him still,” the brute instructs.

Rough fingers keep me in place as one by one, the threads binding me to the wolf are cut. Finally, the last stitch is cut, and my mask comes off. The men let out a collective gasp as it is removed.

Why have you forsaken me, Lord?

“The devil is a woman?” one man asks.

“That is no woman,” another comments. “That is a monster.”

7 — Redemption

I grit my remaining teeth so hard that they threatened to break. I cannot shed a tear in front of these men. A soft hand grips my chin and gently tilts my head upwards until I am looking at the man who ruined my life.

“Camélia?” His voice is shaking. “My God, what has become of you, child?”

I narrow my eyes. “You did this to me,” I say in as steady a tone as I can manage. He winces at the sound of my voice. “I have annihilated leagues of your fanatics for this moment. To finally look you in the eye before I end your life.”

“You have the blood of so much innocence on your hands, Camélia. Those men were peacekeepers. They were the only thing between the plague and the world falling into ruin.”

I snarl, and he takes a step backwards. “They were wicked marauding, murderous rapists. Under your orders they killed my family, and they all needed to be stopped.”

Pierre’s brow furrows. “But my child, you were the one who set the fire.”

My mouth goes dry. “You are lying,” I say.

“Your husband and daughter had the Great Pestilence. They were dying.”

The red haze of festering rage thins just enough for a memory of heat and smoke to penetrate.

“That is untrue,” I reply.

“I came to give them their last rites, and by the time we arrived, the house was ablaze.”

“Bite your tongue, or I shall cut it out.”

My threat cannot force down the memories that I kept locked away from resurfacing. Kissing my husband’s sweat-soaked brow and tucking Eliza into bed — so weak she couldn’t even utter a word.

“We were able to drag you from the inferno, but it was too late for the others. We treated you as best we could, but your wounds were too severe, and we thought—”

“Enough!” I scream, lapsing into a fit of coughs.

I hang my head, unable to look at him. Without the rage, there is only pain and the truth of what I did. Why did God choose to punish them and leave me to watch them suffer?

 “I was supposed to die with them, and you took that from me.”

Father Pierre lets out a long sigh. “I am sorry for what has happened to you. But you have too much sin in your heart to be saved.” I hear his footsteps as he shuffles away. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

I lift my head to see the brute holding Vengeance Incarnate, admiring her with lustful eyes. “You may look like a melting candle, but I wonder if your womanly bits still work.”

“Maybe we should find out before we put this feral dog down,” a man to my right says.

I glance up at him. He is older than the rest, with a shaved head and grey stubble. Likely, he has not felt the touch of a willing woman in an age.

“Come closer,” I whisper to him. “I have a secret for you.”

With a foolish grin, he leans close enough for me to feel his rancid breath against my cheek.

“I am no dog.”

“Wait,” the brute says, but his warning is too late.

“I am a wolf!”

Before he can react, I whip my head around and sink my teeth into the man’s neck, and he screams. The bitter taste of blood and sweat fills my mouth.

From the corner of my eye, I see the brute swing Vengeance Incarnate. I let go of the man and, with all my strength, I throw myself backwards. The chair shatters against the stone floor, and the brute’s blow catches the man with the mangled throat. He curses under his breath, reading himself for another attack. But he is not used to fighting with such a magnificent weapon and struggles to regain his balance. Throwing off the tatters of rope, I reel my leg back and deliver a kick that can shatter bone into his groin. He lets out a woof of air and drops Vengeance Incarnate.

I lunge, driving my good shoulder into his middle, and he goes down hard onto the ground. He wheezes like a fish out of water, and I straddle him. I take my whip from my belt, wrap the lashes around his neck, and pull for all I’m worth. Blood runs down his neck as the metal tears into his skin. The brute grabs at the lashes as his face turns an angry purple. The blades knotted into the leather bite deeper until a gush of blood spills from the tatted meat of his neck. He goes limp, and I stand. 

The man glances between me and the brute before turning and bolting out of the church.

Retrieving Vengeance Incarnate, I march toward Father Pierre. He too attempts to escape but, in his haste, trips and falls flat onto his front. He tries to crawl away, but I grab him by his robes and flip him over.

“We were just trying to help you,” he stammers. “Please have mercy, Camélia.”

I lean close to him. “That woman died. All that is left is the wolf, and the wolf does not have mercy to spare.”

I grab him by his leg and pull him, kicking and screaming, from the confines of the church. My body aches, but righteous vengeance gives me strength, and I drag him into the courtyard toward the pyre. I haul him in front of the pile of wood and raise Vengeance Incarnate.

“No, please!” Father Pierre begs.

I bring her down onto his legs, the bones shattering with a sickening crunch. The sound of his screams drowns out the ones from the day of the fire. I set Vengeance Incarnate down and lift him off his feet and onto the pile of wood. He continues to scream as I shackle him with the lengths of chains. When he is secure, I go over to a nearby brasier and grab the whole metal bowl. The heat burns my hand, but I care not. I throw the coals onto the fire, and the dry hay underneath ignites instantly. Father Pierre thrashes, though it’s no use. The pyre goes up in flames, and after what seems like no time at all, the screaming stops. I watch Father Pierre’s body smoulder until the sun begins to rise in the distance.

“Now be with your God,” I say, crossing myself.

I look down at the wolf mask. I should throw it into the fire and let her die. Farmhands begin to shuffle out of their hovels, clutching tools.

No. I pull the mask over my head and pull the string tight. I lift Vengeance Incarnate. There is still so much wickedness to deal with.