Wild Magic by Cat Weatherill Page B

Beast was winning.
    Finn’s body was pummeled and punched, stretched and snapped. Every muscle, every fiber, every bone of his body was realigned. Fats and fluids were squeezed from old spaces and oozed into new ones. Finn could see nothing but red mist; hear nothing but white noise. He was lost, trapped in a whirlwind of transformation. And the strangest thought flashed through his brain: Don’t attack me now. I cannot protect myself. In a few minutes, he would be the most powerful creature in the land. But until then, he was no safer than a mouse.
    And just when Finn thought things couldn’t get any worse—they did. The mist before his eyes started to clear, his long limbs settled, he regained his balance—but he felt his consciousness slipping away. The Beast was taking control. Finn felt like he was scrabbling up an oily slope, toes and fingers clawing, desperately trying to hold on . . . but all the while he was sliding backward, down, down, down into a black pit of nothing.
    No! he cried. No! But it was only in his head. Nothing came from his throat but a fiendish growl.
    Wild with panic, he looked around, his golden eyes showing him the forest as he had never seen it before: bright, sharp, exposed. And then his great muzzle lifted itself toward the moon, his throat opened and he howled: a bone-chilling, spine-numbing bestial moan of a howl. His wet black nose drew in a huge lungful of air and filtered it for the scent it was seeking. Blood. Finn gave a final silent sob, let go, and slid down into the darkness.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN
    Cold. Wet. Bright.
    Finn didn’t dare open his eyes. Where was he? What was he?
    He summoned his other senses. He was lying on grass: he could feel it prickling his naked body. The wetness was dew. The brightness was sunshine. A blackbird was singing. Morning had come. It was over.
    He opened his eyes and saw the wagon.
    â€œNo,” he said, in confusion. “I wasn’t dreaming. It did happen.” He tried to sit up, but his body ached so much, he couldn’t manage it. Finally, he rolled over onto his belly and pushed himself up. He looked around. There were animal tracks beside him. There was blood too, though it wasn’t his own. The wound had healed. Nothing remained except the silver scar. So where had the blood come from?
    He pulled himself to his feet, using the wagon as support. Oh! It was no dream. His legs had surely been running all night.
    He scanned the glade, noted a cloud of flies, and stumbled toward it. There he found what he was looking for. A dead deer, half eaten, lay in the long grass beneath the trees. Finn could taste blood on his breath: a stale, rusty tang. He ran his tongue around his teeth. Something was caught there. He pulled it out. Deer fur.
    Finn sighed and rubbed his face with tired hands. Water . That’s what he needed. He needed to be clean. Needed to wash away the stink and the shame.
    There was a stream beyond the trees. Finn scrubbed his skin and washed his hair. Cleaned the dirt and blood from under his fingernails. Picked every shred of meat from his teeth and chewed wild peppermint to sweeten his breath. Then he returned to the wagon, dressed himself in fresh clothes, pulled out his cooking pot, and set about making a civilized breakfast.
    â€œSo,” he said to himself, “that’s how it’s going to be. Well, at least I had fair warning. And I had the sense to return here. That’s good.”
    He picked up his torn clothes and threw them on the fire, making a mental note to strip next time, as soon as the change began. Then he remembered the horses.
    â€œAspen!” he called. “Gray!”
    There was no reply. Finn started to panic. What if he had attacked more than the deer last night?
    â€œASPEN! ”
    An answering whinny came from between the trees. Finn felt a wave of relief wash over him and, when the horses reappeared, he actually had tears in his eyes. He was so pleased to