Beneath a Midnight Moon - By Amanda Ashley Page 0,72
key.
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the men, ordering two of them to remain out of sight but within calling distance.
When he was alone in the dungeon, the Interrogator pulled a stool up to the cell and sat down, his gaze fixed on Hardane. All his life, he had yearned to know the secret of shape shifting, had yearned to see it done. And now the time was at hand. Sooner or later, Hardane’s control would slip and he would assume his own shape. And he would be there to see it.
Almost against his will, the Interrogator felt his gaze drawn to the wolf’s eyes, and as he stared into the creature’s unblinking gray gaze, he was gripped by a sudden terror as a primal fear of the ancient Wolffan race rose up within him.
Old tales, heard long ago in his childhood, flooded his mind. Tales of Wolffan males devouring human young, tales of female Wolffan luring innocent men to their deaths. Tales of Wolffan men and women mating with human men and women. Those tales he knew to be true. Hardane of Argone had been conceived from such a union. It was said the blood of the Wolffan could cure warts, that they could sicken a flock of sheep with a glance, that they drank human blood, and danced in the light of the midnight moon.
With a disdainful snort, the Interrogator shook such fanciful fables from his mind. The Wolffan had the power to assume other shapes, that was all. They weren’t witches; they possessed no hurtful magic.
Feeling calmer, he sat back, his arms crossed over his chest, and waited.
Plagued by thirst and the constant throbbing pain of his wound, Hardane lay panting on the cold stone floor, the weight of the net growing heavier with each passing moment. He longed for a drink, one cool drink of water, to ease his thirst.
Closing his eyes, he whined low in his throat, feeling more miserable, more alone, than he’d ever felt in his life.
As though reading his mind, the Interrogator reached for the water jug on the floor beside him. He shook it several times, the water making a pleasant swishing against the sides of the jar, and then he took a long slow drink, letting a little of the water dribble down his chin.
A low growl of rage and frustration rumbled in Hardane’s throat as the scent of the water reached his nostrils. Curse the man!
With a sneer, the Interrogator put the jug aside and rose to his feet. Taking up a three-pronged lance, he slid it through the bars and jabbed at the wolf’s injured leg.
Hardane howled with pain as the sharp prongs pierced his already torn flesh. Rage exploded within him, and with it the primal urge to kill.
Knowing it was futile, he began to thrash about, but the movement only entangled him more deeply in the net’s web.
The Interrogator leaned forward. “Change for me, Hardane,” he urged. “You’ll have no food, no water, until you do.”
A low-pitched snarl of frustration and rage filled the cell, and then, as the Interrogator jabbed him with the lance again, a long, anguished cry echoed off the cold stone walls.
“Change, Hardane,” the Interrogator urged. “Change now, or I’ll cleave your head from your body and send that fine black pelt to Kylene.”
It was not an idle threat. One look into the Interrogator’s cold blue eyes assured him of that.
For a moment, Hardane thought of giving up, of calling the Interrogator’s bluff and putting an end to everything once and for all. But then he thought of Kylene, of the anguish his death would cause her, and he knew he could not do anything to cause her grief, not now.
He felt the transformation sweep over him, saw the Interrogator’s eyes widen in stunned disbelief as wolf became man.
It took only moments, yet the Interrogator saw it all clearly, as if time had somehow slowed its pace. He saw the wolf’s head change shape, saw the thick black fur disappear while the paws transformed into human hands and feet. And suddenly it was Hardane, clad in a pair of buff-colored breeches, trapped within the net. Blood stained his right thigh and dripped onto the stone floor. A long gash, black with dried blood, angled down his left cheek.
Teeth clenched against the pain throbbing through him, Hardane took hold of the net and threw it off. Then, summoning what little strength he still possessed, he stood up and faced his enemy.