Pulse: BBW Contemporary Rock Star Romance (30 page)

“That doesn't explain the crystal, though,” she said, afraid of causing a row between her and Zamir. He had been gone so long, so much longer than either of them had anticipated. She just wanted to spend the time with home, rekindling their relationship. But at the same time, she knew the reason why most of his men were curious about Zamir's intentions. They had witnessed a supernatural event, unable to explain why they had survived and their comrades had not, why the crystal globe surrounded them just at the moment they were on the verge of burning alive. Rollus may have been a traitor, but he was not responsible for what those boys witnessed, Zamir's wife thought.

“You think there's more to the story, don't you?”

“I'll admit, I am curious, Zamir. Who saved you? And why you, when so many others died? Rollus could not have been dealing in black magic.”

“I don't know. I'm trying to figure it out still. But I am not hiding anything from you,” Zamir said.

“Of course you're not,” she said, raising up onto one of her arms, her black hair draped over her face, covering one side in shadow. Her intoxicating beauty was dark and laced with strength and determination, her green eyes betraying a fierce intelligence, the one quality Zamir had noticed about her above all else. “But, your story does strain the imagination. If whatever force that came out of that forest didn't have anything whatsoever to do with you, how come you dreamed about it the wolf before all this happened?”

“Maybe it wanted me alive for some reason. I don't know!” he said, getting angry. “First, I lose all my men. Next, some crazy witch spirit comes to save us at the last minute from the forest, and the one person I thought I could trust doesn't believe me!”

“Zamir, I told you I believe you. I just don't think this has to do with Rollus' betrayal.”

“Then what in Odin's name does it have to do with? You think I'm possessed by some evil forest demon, who will kill you in your sleep?” He got up from the mat, and looked down at her with crossed arms, getting angrier by the second. “Maybe I am. Maybe there is something inside me, itching to get out, a side you've never seen. Maybe it wasn't some force from the forest. Maybe it was me the whole time, anxious to murder my only best friend, the one person I loved almost as much as you!” Zamir was shouting at this point, and the heat of the argument brought a pain in his shoulder, from an invisible wound he never realized he had. He grabbed at the area on his shoulder, as the searing pain sent him down to the floor, writhing from it. His wife got up from the bed, in an effort to help. Several seconds later, the pain subsided, and Zamir finally caught his breath.

“I'm sorry, my beautiful husband. I trust you, let's just rest for now,” his wife said, whispering into his ear in attempt to calm him.

“I'm tired. Let's not speak of this anymore this night,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. She kissed him on the temple.

“My sweet, wonderful husband. I'm so glad you're home,” she said, smiling at him as she ran her hand over the wide canvas of his back. “Let's get some sleep.”

“Agreed,” he said, climbing back into bed, making sure to remove his clothes for what would the consolatory lovemaking session. She followed him eagerly.

CHAPTER 39

The Maglamoisan village rippled with an undercurrent of suspicion in the days after Zamir returned with a fraction of his warriors. The stories ranged on the spectrum from outright ridiculousness to being accurate enough that Zamir suspected someone was betraying his confidences and fanning the flames of gossip. Zamir, his wife, and Joslyn, the only two people he could trust, did their best to quell suspicion of Zamir's actions on the battlefield that day, but it wasn't enough, and Zamir eventually needed to hold meetings in the village square to curb any further paranoia.

“Our towns are dying!” a woman shouted up to him, her face full of despair matched only by fear of Zamir's retribution for calling him out as a bad leader. But he responded in a kind fashion.

“My dear, you are not alone. There are many people in this village who know loss and grief. Look around you at the other families, sons, wives, and daughters who have no one to chop their winter wood, no one to stoke the hearthstone, no one to repair their homes or protect their lands from vermin. This is what happens sometimes, when the gods chose our village to test. But we will prevail. Your leader will go to the ends of the earth to protect our lands. Please trust me on this,” Zamir said into the microphone.

“Tell us what you saw in the forest that night. Tell us what you did to save yourself and only a handful of our fathers!” a young teenage boy, with a rock-like brow and deeply inset eyes, said from the crowd. The kid was angry, and Zamir could not deny that.

“The rumors you have heard about some demon in the forest that came to save me, leaving all your beloved warriors to die, are untrue. There was nothing I saw in real life that would explain what happened. The rest we shall leave up to the afterlife, while we all continue rebuilding this one,” he said, turning away from the edge of the stone pedestal, not a single mark of shame or fear on his face. Despite the townspeople's concerns over Zamir's trustworthiness, his physical presence so commanded their attention and confidence that, for a single day after the speaking event, their fears were allayed. Life seemed to be relatively normal.

Later, Zamir took a walk through a dirt pathway on the outskirts of his town, watching the sunset, letting the quietness of the forest calm his mind, as he ruminated on how to deal with the fear and paranoia percolating throughout his village. He inhaled the piercing winter air through his nose, sending a clean swipe through his senses. The dominant feature of his demeanor was far and away control, while the least prevalent feature was fear. Zamir feared next to nothing, and yet in the past few nights, his dreams planted deep within his psyche a seed for fear, which was growing over every passing moment. In his dream, Rollus returned from the grave, the stab wound Zamir inflicted on his throat still fresh and visible. Rollus spoke to him, warning something was about to take away his wife and son and that there was little he could do to stop it. In the dream, Zamir pleaded with Rollus to spare his family for whatever fate he had in store for him. But Rollus told him the force that would destroy his family would not come from him, but from within Zamir himself. And so Zamir's greatest quality, the ability to keep cool under pressure, to maintain control, became his greatest weakness, feeding a fear for his family that he could not quell. In the past few days, given that his dream before the ambush of the Obotrites predicted something would happen, Zamir seriously considered the fact that his dreams might not just be dreams, but omens for his future. And understanding that made him even more afraid. The winter would last for another two full months, and his town couldn't afford another blow, whatever it was, should it wait for them on the horizon. He thought about the possibility of seeking aid from nearby tribes, forming a temporary alliance, just to get them through the winter. He stopped his walk, looking out from under the dead winter trees, at the moon, staring down at him. His stomach churned at the image for some inexplicable reason, and he bowed over, gagging on his own revulsion. There was something within him indeed, something aching to get out. Zamir could no longer ignore it, and he realized that perhaps his nightly walks had to do with more than mere thinking about the problems of his day. There was another reason--he was drawn to the night, to the moon, to the forest, in a way an animal reacts to the smell of food. There was nothing conscious about his coming to the forest over the past several nights, as his body was beginning to take over his mind, and little by little, he was losing control. He looked up to the moon, the soft blue light bathing his skin in an ashy, cadaver-like color. His senses became heightened, he could smell traces of all the people who had been in the area, he could see farther into the darkness of the woods than ever before, and he could feel an urge to find something hidden within the woods, as if a rope were wrapped around his chest, pulling him to a certain spot deep within the heart of the forest. He began to run, as that familiar pain in his shoulder grew stronger. His worst nightmare--literally, the worst dream he'd ever had--was coming to life, as his pace picked up faster and faster, the trees whipping past his cheeks and broad shoulders. He could feel a force within his bones coming to life, shredding his innards, organs, and tissue. The pain was unbearable, and he cried out into the night, where no one could hear him except the forest. He looked down at his fingers, which shrunk as his palm enlarged and grew coarse, black fur all over. He could feel his legs crack from the inside, bend backwards, as his feet grew larger and longer. His toenail hardened into thick yellow material, and his nose swelled forward. The sensations were immense and unbearable. They grew to the point of explosion, and with a sudden tug, his body put him on all fours. He began racing through the forest, searching for something specific and vital. He could not find it, even though the force inside him pushed him deeper into the woods, over frosted mounds of dirt, languid streams as they trickled drops of mountain spring water, under rotten logs. He used the entire mass of his new body to bust through a dying tree trunk, the bark exploding outward from his physical form. He breathed deeply, an electric energy pulsing through his veins, vitalizing him. The experience somewhat resembled a dream, as he raced through the forest, and in his field of vision, came upon a strange town, with a stone pulpit the town's leader used to calm any fears that his villagers were threatened from some evil outside, in the wild and uncontrolled nature of the forest. He stopped for moment, noting the familiar huts and houses and streets, before sniffing through a single building. The heat from warm bodies emanated from within the hut, and he put his snout under the door to get a better whiff. Voices chatted back and forth from behind the door, and Zamir's thirst grew strong. The door suddenly opened, and a man with a red bandana stood over him, his battle ax at the ready. Zamir gave one brief pause for jumping to his throat, amid the screams of his wife and children.

CHAPTER 40

The morning light spilled in from the window of his hut, and his head hurt from the night before. He opened his eyes only after hearing the muffled screams from further in the town. The light sliced through his retinas all the way to the back of his brain. He needed rest, as his body was immensely sore. Lifting up his head, he thought to himself how odd it was that he couldn't recall the night before. Just then, a woman's hand touched his tender shoulder, making him jump.

“Zamir. You have to see this,” his wife said. He forced himself awake and jumped out of bed, rushing out into the daylight, his wife following him after.

“What time of the day is it?” he asked.

“Time of day? You've been sleeping all afternoon. It's near dusk,” she said, grabbing hold of his hand, in the way she only did when something terrible had happened. “Zamir, look to the center square,” she said, pointing to the bloody figure of Joslyn, hung by his arms, across the town. “The men have found a piece of cloth on Joslyn's ax, when he tried to fight the wolf off.”

Zamir grabbed his skull to contain the brain-busting confusion swirling around in his head. Two entirely separate worlds had just collided, as if the gods had been replaced with mere men, and vice versa. A rift opened in the cosmos, and Zamir couldn't distinguish between the dream world from which he thought he'd come and real life. He rushed barefoot over to the town square, picking up Joslyn from the wooden ties on his hands. “My good friend. What have I done?” he asked himself under his breath, just as his wife caught up with him, racing on foot to catch up. Zamir looked around for the cloth, and for the first time in his life, knowing he had killed Joslyn last night, told his wife a lie.

“Who did this?” he asked her. She pulled out a piece of cloth from her pocket, a shred of Zamir's pants which were now missing from his thigh area. He placed his hand directly over his thigh, as he took the cloth from his wife. A crowd of people stood around him, though he didn't look at them directly. Eyes pierced into his soul, examining the growing cancer that started with his first false statement to his people. Their powerful gaze weighed on his back like a ton of iron ore.

“It's him,” a voice said from behind, as Zamir wheeled around to face the same angry male teen who'd reproached him the day before. Zamir's voice grew deep and low.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Zamir said. “Keep quiet if you value your life.” Zamir could tell by the boy's reaction that he was transforming into a werewolf again, this time in broad daylight. He looked back at his wife, as she stood in horror, watching the man she loved transform into a violent, evil, and chaotic beast. His gaze lowered as he fell down onto all four and reared around to the crowd, his eyes glowing green, ready to fight anyone who approached him. Several men emerged from what was now a large crowd and attempted to swipe at him with their swords. Zamir lunged at the sword, grabbing it with his mouth, and tossed it away. Then he crawled slowly toward the man, growling the whole time, as the man stepped back one step at a time, until he was cornered. Several children, now orphans from the Battle against the Obotrites ran up closer to Zamir, watching him come close to eating the man he had cornered. They began crying, and Zamir turned to face them, distracted. The men in the crowd, fearful though they are, could see the impending disaster and approached Zamir, in attempt to scare him off.