Stealing one final glance toward the only place she knew as home, Daciana suppressed her emotions. If her mother or father saw her weeping, they would think it utter nonsense. She did not understand her father’s temperament toward the situation. How could he be so cruel? How could he put his family through this? He should have thought of these questions before he gambled their lives away.
Settled into their seats, the Lowell family glanced past the curtains in their carriage as the coachman whipped the horses to a start. By Daciana’s best estimate, they would arrive in Colchester sometime tomorrow afternoon. This would give her plenty of time to gather what few belongings she could carry and run like the wind. Her parents would be none the wiser of her departure until ’twas too late. Inwardly, she smiled.
“I sent correspondence to an inn last week. We shall stay there tonight,” said Daciana’s father. His gruff voice irritated Daciana. Even his bulging waistline was disgusting. She could not tolerate a glance his way. “Of course, ’tis hours away, and we have a long road ahead of us.”
Angelica patted her husband’s arm. “We will not be fully rested for another week, I suppose. Traveling never was my forte.”
“Never was mine, either,” he said. Daciana could feel his eyes upon her. “And thee, daughter? Dost thou travel well?”
Daciana did not return an answer; she did not think her father deserved air from her lungs. He did not deserve any good of this world. So she remained silent as the carriage bounced and creaked with every new pothole they came across.
As promised, hours later, they stopped for the night at an inn. The tavern below was loud and alarming. Men upturned tankards of ale like water, and Daciana could hardly contain wrinkling her nose at the overbearing, sweaty odor. She and Angelica waited as Theodore spoke with the innkeeper, and a couple of their trunks were moved to the upper floor by the coachman and footman.
“This is thy room,” said Theodore, as they topped the stairs.
Daciana snatched the key from his hand and entered her room without a goodnight hug or kiss to either of her parents. She assessed the lowly area: one wooden bed pressed against the far wall, the mattress probably filled with fleece; a lone window, which only offered a view of the small village and the forest surrounding it; and a wooden chest of drawers. All the wood was light in color, carved from cheap, common oak trees. There was a single candle holder sitting atop the chest of drawers, but Daciana had no use for it, not with the bright moonlight streaming in through her window, creating an unearthly aura of radiance.
She knew she would not sleep well tonight. Her muscles were sore from the bumpy ride, and she had too many pressing thoughts. Frida’s words were still fresh, like a cut which had not healed. Though her wound was not physically harming, Daciana could not help but wonder if ’twas meant to be mentally damaging. Frida planted the seeds which sprouted into too many unanswered questions and not nearly enough answers.
Daciana sighed as she treaded to the window. Leaning against the open frame, she allowed the cold night air to swathe her senses, to wake her from this never-ending nightmare which was now her life. What would be different a month from now? What about a year from now? Would she survive on her own, on the hoodlum-riddled streets of England? She was trained in the fine art of being a lady, not how to pickpocket or scrounge for food in days-old trash. And she would never be used to the stench.
Movement against the tree line caught her eye, pulling Daciana out of her profound thoughts. ’Twas late, and men would not be hunting at this hour. She guessed drunken fools staggered about the forests at night, but that seemed unlikely. The person stepped to the edge of the wood, not clearly enough for Daciana to see a face, but enough that she could see an outline. Only, ’twas not a person; ’twas a creature of Hell itself. Daciana covered her mouth, swallowing a scream. The creature had not noticed her watchful eye, but it seemed to be searching for something, or someone. Its black snout lifted toward the moon, as if to catch a particular scent on the icy breeze. Breath puffed out of its nostrils in short, white billows.
Normally, wolves remained deep in the wooded areas, not in plain sight, not near so many people. The creature must be rabid, though ’twas not snarling as Daciana had imagined. This wolf looked . . . different. Daciana could not rationalize why the fierce monster would be so close to humankind, but she feared for peoples’ safety.
Just then, a couple of men strolled out of the rear of a shop, lighting cigars and sipping spirits. The creature’s jowls rose as it honed in on the two unsuspecting men. They had no inkling they were about to be eaten alive.
I have to do something, thought Daciana. I have to stop it!
But she did not know how. And with a creature so large, her tiny frame would do naught to prevent an attack from happening.
Stepping into the moonlight, the wolf’s fangs glinted in the pale glow. Its eyes radiated a burnt gold, which reminded Daciana of wheat fields in summertime, or brilliant wildflowers swaying in the pastures. She could almost feel its strength and power.
The wolf lunged toward the men, and Daciana cried out, “No! Stop!”
Both the creature and the men glanced all around them for the source of her voice, but the men were too inebriated to notice from whence it came. The creature, however, knew immediately; its golden eyes locked with Daciana’s, and, even from a distance, she could tell this creature was not of her world.
Ever so slowly, it backed into the forest, blending in where moonlight could not penetrate. The trees encased the demon with their scrawny limbs, like loving arms surrounding a newborn. Yet, somehow, someway, those golden eyes watched her long after the creature’s body had disappeared.
Chapter Four