Edgerton drew out a spyglass and used it to search the island’s shore.
“See anything, sir?” one of the oarsmen asked. The men at the oars were servants, lower wolves who bowed and scraped and thus got their meat thrown to them. They wouldn’t save her.
“Not a thing. They’re hiding from us. Biding their time.”
“Maybe they’re all dead,” said the other. “Maybe they all killed each other.”
“Perhaps they did. You’ll have the island to yourself,” Edgerton said to the woman and grinned. The bottom of the skiff hit sand. “That’s enough, no need to go all the way up.”
“Sir?”
“Let her walk the rest of the way.” He would never say it, but he was afraid.
Her hands jerked; the silver chain seared her neck. Her bonds were suddenly loose, but in the next moment she was rolled over the side of the boat and into the freezing North Atlantic water, wool skirt instantly sodden and pulling her down. She flailed, reached out. Put her feet down on the sand, stood. Was only knee deep in the churning surf, watching the skiff row away, the men laughing. Edgerton held up the silver chain in a gloved hand. It was worth more than she ever was.
“Damn you all! Damn you all for cowards and bastards! You could have just killed me, but you’re cowards, aren’t you just!” She screamed after them, and their laughter carried to her in reply. They, all of them who condemned her to this exile, need never think of her again.
She stood with the waves pushing back and forth around her legs, shoving ’round her skirt, freezing water pulling at her. The sand reached from the lapping surf to a stretch of sea grass and crumbling gray rock. The sky was gray, the water was gray, dark slate, pushing up the thick stretch of pale sand. Beyond, the land was green and spare, grass kept short by wind and whatever gnawed at it. Sheep had been here days ago, and oddly the scent of their droppings gave her hope. There was food here, if she could get it.
Past the beach, up a slope, was a craggy outcrop, stones tumbled down from some exposed hillside. Wasn’t as good as a fort or a tower, but maybe she could defend the spot. She needed a place. She needed weapons. She needed time. Soaking wet, she wanted a fire. A fury had built up in her heart to the breaking point. She would snap and strip and the wolf would burst through her skin and run wild, and if that happened she was done for, she’d have nothing.
No matter. It was finished. She was here, and she knew that she was not alone on this island.
She got to work.
By the time the cold rain started, she had something resembling shelter. She’d piled driftwood and rushes over a cleft in the jagged rocks and made a little cave for herself. With the rain, well, she had fresh water. Though she was hungry, food could wait until tomorrow. The gray sky was turning dark, the sun setting, the slate ocean turning black, and the rush and crash of the waves went on and on. Survive the night, that was all she had to do. Then the next night, and the next.
God damn them who put her here, but she would live. If for no other reason than to spite them.
Wasn’t time for the full moon—breaking clouds revealed a threequarters waxing moon. Wolves howled anyway. Five, six of them, calling out with high, sharp territory songs. We know you are here, we sense you, we smell you, we are coming for you. Curled up in her cave, huddled in her skirts, hugging her knees, she listened to them.
Weapons. She would need to find weapons tomorrow. Build a palisade around her cave and hold them off as long as she could. There would be no silver on the island she could use to kill them. Or herself.
They would be wild. They had been exiled to the island because they could not control themselves, because they were dangerous. Likely, they spent more time in their wolf shapes than as men. Why would they need to walk upright, why would they need hands and voices and manners here? And they would all be men. Wolf women were rare, and she was the only one to ever be exiled to the Island of Beasts. The men, the wolves already here—they would tear her apart.
She would not let them.
Morning, she tried to keep sleeping, curled up tight and shivering. If she slept, this might be a dream, she might wake up in her attic servant’s room. She imagined a bushy tail pulled up against her face like a blanket to keep her warm. A whole coat of thick fur, sharp claws and fierce teeth to catch rats and vermin to eat. She was already wild, they said. Was why they exiled her here. She could be wild. And lose her clothing, her shelter, her wits, her dignity. The ability to stand with her chin up. As a wolf, she could murder them all.
Come full moon she wouldn’t have a choice.
No, she would have a plan by then. She would make a plan, she would survive as 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, the ground she slept on, her clothes, bodice, and petticoats. Her tangled hair she shook
out and pinned back up. Brushed out her skirt, stamped feeling back into her booted feet, and went out into the bleak morning.
Along the shore she found a couple of crabs, dug for clams and ate them raw, gnawed on seaweed. She collected more driftwood and thought about how to sharpen pieces without so much as a penknife. Found a stand of heather on the far side of the hill and hauled an armload of it to her little hovel to dry.
Piling up wood and brush, she built what she could of a wall to protect the sheltered room. Dragged some stones up to anchor it, grateful for her wolf’s strength. It wouldn’t hold against attack, but she had high ground here. She would see whatever approached. She chose a couple of good sturdy lengths of driftwood she could use as clubs, and commenced to shaving another down into a rough spear. Even through the heart, a wooden spear wouldn’t kill the wolves. But she could give them pause.
Some distance out from her fort, she squatted and pissed in an attempt to mark some territory. She smelled other piss marks, at least two different wolf men farther out on the field. She didn’t piss on them directly—it would be taken as a challenge, and they would come for her even sooner, to meet the challenge. This way she only meant to carve out a little space for herself, to send a message: leave me alone, I am no threat.
Still, it didn’t take long for the residents of the Island of Beasts to find her.
She smelled him well in advance of his arrival, had time to climb up one of the craggy rocks to use as a vantage, carrying one of her makeshift, inadequate spears. He was a rangy thing, black fur and golden eyes. He trotted around the hill, down the slope toward the beach and then back again, head low and scenting, tail out like a rudder. Tightened his circle on each lap, coming closer. He was big, more than two hundred pounds. As a man, he would be a solid brute.
“Get away, you! Go on!” she hollered, as if he were just a dog and she were just a woman, a housekeeper protecting a flock of chickens. She threw a stone at him, missed.
He danced away but instantly spun back, mouth open and tongue lolling. Laughing at her. She screamed a howl of warning, not that it would do any good. If he charged, she was done for. If he had friends, she was done for. But she would deliver as much damage as she could before then. The wolf circled again, giving her a good look-over, then turned to the field beyond her hill and ran, loping off without a care. She slumped against the rock, leaning on her spear. She had survived her first encounter with one of the exiled wolf men of the Island.