Weapons.She would need to find weapons tomorrow. Build a palisadearound her cave and hold them off as long as she could. There would beno silver on the island she could use to kill them. Orherself.
Theywould be wild. They had been exiled to the island because they couldnot control themselves, because they were dangerous. Likely, they spentmore time in their wolf shapes than as men. Why would they need to walkupright, why would they need hands and voices and manners here? Andthey would all be men. Wolf women were rare, and she was the only oneto ever be exiled to the Island of Beasts. The men, the wolves alreadyhere—they would tear her apart.
Shewould not let them.
Morning,she tried to keep sleeping, curled up tight and shivering. If sheslept, this might be a dream, she might wake up in her attic servant’sroom. She imagined a bushy tail pulled up against her face likea blanket to keep her warm. A whole coat of thick fur, sharp claws andfierce teeth to catch rats and vermin to eat. She was already wild,they said. Was why they exiled her here. She could bewild. And lose her clothing, her shelter, her wits, her dignity.The ability to stand with her chin up. As a wolf, she could murder themall.
Comefull moon she wouldn’t have a choice.
No,she would have a plan by then. She would make a plan, she would surviveas her own self and not the beast inside her. She would keep herself,and what was left of her soul. Everything was damp: the rock, theground she slept on, her clothes, bodice, and petticoats. Her tangledhair she shook out and pinned back up. Brushed out her skirt,stamped feeling back into her booted feet, and went out into the bleakmorning.
Alongthe shore she found a couple of crabs, dug for clams and ate them raw,gnawed on seaweed. She collected more driftwood and thought about howto sharpen pieces without so much as a penknife. Found a stand ofheather on the far side of the hill and hauled an armload of it to herlittle hovel to dry.
Pilingup wood and brush, she built what she could of a wall to protect thesheltered room. Dragged some stones up to anchor it, grateful for herwolf’s strength. It wouldn’t hold against attack, but she had highground here. She would see whatever approached. She chose a couple ofgood sturdy lengths of driftwood she could use as clubs, and commencedto shaving another down into a rough spear. Even through the heart, awooden spear wouldn’t kill the wolves. But she could give them pause.
Somedistance out from her fort, she squatted and pissed in an attempt tomark some territory. She smelled other piss marks, at least twodifferent wolf men farther out on the field. She didn’t piss on themdirectly—it would be taken as a challenge, and they would come for hereven sooner, to meet the challenge. This way she only meant to carveout a little space for herself, to send a message: leave me alone, I amno threat.
Still,it didn’t take long for the residents of the Island of Beasts to findher.
Shesmelled him well in advance of his arrival, had time to climb up one ofthe craggy rocks to use as a vantage, carrying one of her makeshift,inadequate spears. He was a rangy thing, black fur and golden eyes. Hetrotted around the hill, down the slope toward the beach and then backagain, head low and scenting, tail out like a rudder. Tightened hiscircle on each lap, coming closer. He was big, more than two hundredpounds. As a man, he would be a solid brute.
“Getaway, you! Go on!” she hollered, as if he were just a dog and she werejust a woman, a housekeeper protecting a flock of chickens. She threw astone at him, missed.
Hedanced away but instantly spun back, mouth open and tongue lolling.Laughing at her. She screamed a howl of warning, not that it would doany good. If he charged, she was done for. If he had friends, she wasdone for. But she would deliver as much damage as she could beforethen. The wolf circled again, giving her a good look-over, then turnedto the field beyond her hill and ran, loping off without a care. Sheslumped against the rock, leaning on her spear. She had survived herfirst encounter with one of the exiled wolf men of the Island.
Morewolves came, but these walked on two legs. She awoke next morning withtheir scent on the air from upwind, like they wanted to be sure shesmelled them. Heart racing, she left her little fort to see how theywould attack and how she might hold them off.
Butit wasn’t like that at all. Two of them waited halfway up the hill. Onewas muscular, bearded, a hard-looking man with a glare like stone. Hewore boots, breeches, linen shirt, and the red coat of a soldier, allthe worse for wear, but he stood straight, a thumb hitched into hiswaistband. The other was tall, lean, and clean-shaven. Imagine,keeping a smooth face here in this place. His shirt was well tailored,and he wore a waistcoat that must have been silk, the way itshone and fit so smooth. His breeches and boots were also fine, and hehad a smirk of confidence. A bit of lordly swagger. He must have been agentleman, once upon a time.
Theywere wolves. Not just wolves—they had a power to them, a certainbearing. The assumption that they would be listened to and obeyed. Theyled packs. She had been told that the island was chaos. That there wereno packs, that the law of beasts ruled, which meant there was no law,only violence and blood, and she would be at their mercy. She had notthought to expect . . . this.
Thegentleman held up a stick with what looked like a worn-out cravat tiedto it. Though
