Page 3 of The Curse of Indy Moore (The Cursed Duology #1)

Where Indy Meets a Wolf

The howls crescendoed, creating a cacophony of horrific harmony. Wolves never prowled the Misty Woodlands. Coyotes and foxes stealing a chicken were the worst of our troubles.

Hearing them brought on fear and confusion, as I wasn’t entirely certain I could trust what I heard after my eyes were playing tricks on me. Then, a growl emanated from the mist, and a darkened silhouette stalked closer.

Tricks or not, I wasn’t risking my life, so I ran. Westshire shouldn’t be far. The mist must have disrupted my orientation. If I could get to town, the light of civilization might be enough to frighten my assailants.

Heart hammering, I lost feeling in my fingers from the worsening chill.

The touch of snow earlier became a maelstrom of white.

The howling encroached upon me, fearfully close.

“ One shouldn’t look over their shoulder in the woods at night, or a demon will change your path,” Uncle Fern always said, but in my fear, I didn’t heed his warning.

I looked and met eyes of gold. The wolves were massive, teeth bared, but the mist obscured the pack. The evidence of their existence being the many branches snapping around me and their growls closing in.

A wolf crept close, kicking up snow. His breath warmed my back.

Swinging the one weapon I had, the lantern crashed against the wolf’s head.

With a pathetic whimper, the wolf fell to the forest floor, swatting at the flames licking its nose.

Another lingered by its side, and they disappeared into the mist, but the others pursued, close enough now to snap at my heels.

“Go away!” My shriek meant nothing, but I didn’t know what else to do. My thighs burned so painfully, they threatened to give out, and without the lantern, darkness rolled in. I should have reached Westshire by then, but there was only an endless forest, then a ledge.

I had too much momentum. Even as I came to a stop, the snow slickened the soil and I tipped over the edge.

My scream echoed through the trees, followed by the snapping of branches as my body rolled down a hillside.

My head smashed against the soil below. Pain surged through my skull.

Ahead of me, Dolly laid in the snow. My pale fingers caught her by the waist, and I wobbled onto my feet.

Something wet fell down my cheek. I touched my forehead. My fingertips were red. Blood.

A low growl sounded to my left. I stumbled away, catching myself on a tree trunk.

A pair of hungry eyes watched through the mist. The wolves surrounded me.

I didn’t want to die there, alone, like Mom had.

My eyes fell on a stick as long and thick as my arm.

It wouldn’t do much against claws and fangs, but a weapon was better than none.

“Come at me, then,” I screamed, hoping to intimidate them, or for someone from the village to hear. I swung toward the animal. “Come on!”

A twig snapped to my left. I swung. There was nothing, save a dim light in the woods. The village? If I was close, I could make it, so I ran .

I hardly saw through the onslaught of snow, a blizzard nearing an utter whiteout.

My cloak caught on the underbrush, ripping from the force of my wild yanks.

The wolves traveled behind me, howling as if to say I shouldn’t fight being their next meal.

The light brightened, turning out to be candles on a windowsill of a cottage, the roof coated in moss and the porch slanted.

“Help!” I stumbled up the stairs to throw open the door. Behind me, the porch creaked. A wolf was there, crouched. I narrowly slammed the door on its frothing mouth.

“Hello? Someone!” I locked the door and threw my full weight against it, hoping that would be enough to keep the beasts at bay.

“Who goes there?” came a brash voice. A woman emerged in a long black dress tethered around the waist with a silver chain. She carried a butcher knife between gnarled fingers. “What brought a stranger into my home?”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” I said.

My head throbbed from the earlier fall, and my legs didn’t appreciate the abrupt running for my life. I hadn’t felt this frightened since I found Mom cold in bed.

“No, I imagine you didn’t.” The woman wandered to the window, where she slapped the side of the knife against the wood. “Scat! Begone with you!”

I might have laughed if I caught my breath yet. To see a woman, hunched over with tightly coiled black hair streaked in gray, tell a pack of giant wolves to scat was an unexpected sight. Yet the wolves left, their howls waning. Indy would not become a part of their diet that night.

As relieved as I was, that shouldn’t have happened.

None of it—at the fort, Westshire disappeared.

I swore I ran in the right direction. In my terror, I may have taken a wrong turn, but the weather never should have turned like that.

It was hardly the fall season, let alone time for snow. How did this happen? Why?

“Come here, dear, away from the door. Sit by the fire, and tend to your wounds,” said the woman.

She moved like one who knew of little rest. “I couldn’t sleep and was warming up my dinner.

Stay; have a bite. This is a peculiar night.

It is far too dangerous for you to go out there, even without those wolves. ”

Outside the window, the snow accumulated, painting the world white. Frost built along the edge of the glass, scarcely beaten back by the candles upon the windowsill and the fire roaring in the hearth. The cottage smelled of home, like morning dew, burning wood, and a strong chicken broth.

“Thank you.” I shuffled to the couch. The fire soothed the aching of my limbs and returned the feeling to my fingers.

“Here, for your head.” She tossed a wet cloth from the kitchen that I used to wipe the blood from my temple. I prodded at the wound, relieved that it was hardly a scratch, simply a poorly placed one.

Holding the cold rag against my head, I asked, “Do you live here alone?”

“I do,” the woman answered from the kitchen.

“I didn’t know anyone lived in these woods.” Especially one with such eccentric taste.

The hearth rose crooked against the wooden facade.

Gowns, thin and puffy, long and short, hung from hooks in the walls.

Jars decorated the mantlepiece, each full of various jewels that couldn’t possibly be real, unless she trusted strangers so much as to leave them alone around such valuable items. Above, a handcrafted chandelier constructed from bleached wood lit the interior with its dozen bulbs that didn’t quite fit with the aesthetic, but I wasn’t one to judge.

Charlotte always said I had as much taste as a goldfish, though I wasn’t sure how she would know what kind of taste goldfish had.

Crowded in the room was a couch and a worn oval-shaped rug.

The end stand leaned slightly to the left, where a single lantern sat precariously on the corner beside a book that, by the title, might have been a horror or a mystery.

In the far corner of the room stood a bookshelf full of more, and beside that was the doorway leading into the kitchen.

From where I sat, I saw the women placing a tray on a small island.

Behind her, herbs hung from racks in front of the window with plum-colored drapes.

A stairwell led to a second floor, darkened by shadows, and on the opposite side of that was a dining room.

From my vantage point, I made out a cabinet full of different glassware that had enough dust on them to tell how little they were used.

She had a lot of space for one person. A touch of envy pricked my chest, wondering why a lone woman had that space while my family had so little.

“I am a new inhabitant. My name is Carline.” Carline stood in the kitchen's doorway, her face illuminated by the fire. The light reflected against her dark brown eyes. “And you are?”

“Indy,” I replied, settling the rag aside to rub my hands together before breathing against them.

“Indy.” Carline smiled, her lips full and pressed. “Let us eat in the dining room.”

I had no appetite, but I would not be rude to the host that spared me from being something else’s dinner.

I followed Carline into the rather outdated kitchen.

She had neither a stove nor a fridge, settling to cook with a pot over a second fireplace.

We cooked the same, seeing as the money we could spare was spent on a fridge.

Aunt Agnes always spoke animatedly about getting a stove one day, perhaps after the girls got older and could get jobs of their own.

Carline’s withered fingers grasped a tray containing two bowls, a block of cheese, and two fresh rolls.

“Let me.” I set aside the rag to retrieve the tray in her stead.

She angled her shoulder against my chest. “Nonsense, dearie. You are the guest.”

“An unexpected one.”

“But appreciated.” Carline sat the tray on a table in the dining room.

Dresses adorned the walls there, too, their skirts bedazzled by gems and pearls.

They were pretty. They were ridiculous. Nonsensical outfits meant to be worn once, then discarded.

Attire I could never afford, beauty that had me thinking of my stained dress and how proud I had been.

Compared to these, the dress was nothing to be impressed by, thus I was further reminded of my foolishness.

Rotating my right wrist, I sat at the table and settled Dolly beside my plate.

The plush cushion under my rump eased the discomfort of my aching limbs.

Though we brought our dinner to the table, Carline also used the space as a workshop.

A basket full of thread teetered on the windowsill next to a pair of scissors, and a string of pearls laid forgotten on the floor in the corner.

She had a cupboard, one door slightly ajar to reveal rolls of cloth within.

Their colors were eye-catching, calling for one to adore and desire them.