"Hospitality" by Justin R. Lawfer

Justin R. Lawfer

Catherine stared into the glowing fireplace from the comfort of her cushioned chair. She was captivated by the movement of the flames as they twisted together and split apart, spreading and stretching as far as they could while gently caressing the three logs that sustained them. Over the crackling and popping of the flames Catherine heard the downpour of rain outside. Flashes of lightning illuminated her home, followed by booms of thunder that made her ears ring. Catherine shivered in spite of the warmth provided by the fire and the blanket draped around her petite, aged frame. It was nights like this that made her realize just how alone she was, living miles from town alongside a rarely-traversed road. No one was around to help if something were to happen to her.

Thoughts of protecting herself made Catherine glance up at the rifle mounted above the mantel. The weapon had been a gift from Father to John, who had taught her how to load, fire, and clean it. It was her husband's only possession that wasn't hidden away because it made her feel safe. Other items of his would only stir up memories she had spent a lifetime burying.

Catherine looked over at the empty chair to her left. She pictured John's large, muscular frame snuggled into that chair and recalled the serene expression her husband's face always bore while he watched the fire. The image made tears form in Catherine's eyes. She dabbed at them with the corner of the blanket. She returned her attention to the skirt she was sewing, but her melancholy mood prevented her from concentrating on the task. She decided a hot cup of tea would make her feel better. She placed her needle, thread, and fabric into the wooden chest of sewing supplies she kept beside her chair, then shrugged off her blanket and rose to her feet.

Suddenly, a barrage of fierce thumps came from the front door. "Help me!" a girl's voice wailed amidst an explosion of thunder.

"I'm coming!" Catherine called, hiking up her skirt and hurrying to the door. She drew back the lock-bolt and opened it.

A girl of about twelve or thirteen stumbled inside and crumpled to the floor. "Shut the door!" she screeched.

Catherine shoved the door closed. Her trembling hands slipped from the bolt a few times before she finally slid it into place. She turned to find the girl curled up and sobbing under the brown cloak she wore. She put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "What...how...are you all right?"

The girl's sobs diminished into whimpers. She peered out from under her hood, her blue eyes wide with fright. "Is it still out there?" she whispered.

"Is what still out there?"

The girl mouthed a word. Catherine's blood chilled. "I...I didn't see anything."

"Maybe I lost it," the girl said. She sat up. The hood fell back, revealing a wet mane of tangled blond hair. She shivered and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

"Let me help you out of that cloak," Catherine said. "It's completely soaked through." She removed the garment. "You should warm yourself by the fire."

The girl raised herself on quivering legs. With Catherine beside her, she walked over to the fireplace and sat in John's chair. She leaned forward to take in the heat of the flames.

Catherine spread the cloak on the floor in front of the fire. She gasped. The cloak had five straight tears in it, as if long claws had raked down it. Claws like she had seen on—

Catherine turned away, dousing the remainder of the thought in her concern for her guest. She laid her blanket across the girl's shoulders, then seated herself.

"My name is Catherine," she said.

"I know who you are," the girl said. "You're the woman who sewed a pretty dress for my mother last week."

"Oh? And who would your mother be?"

"Mrs. Hannah."

"Ah, yes. The dress for her sister's wedding. Let me see, that must mean you're...you're..." Catherine tapped her forehead as she tried to recall what Mrs. Hannah had said her daughter's name was.

"Emily," the girl said.

"Yes, Emily! Now then, Emily, what were you doing out in that storm?"

"It was sunny when I left home," Emily said defensively. Then, in a quieter tone, she said, "I was bringing you a basket of cheese and fruit. It was a thank-you gift from my mother." Emily lowered her eyes. "But I lost the basket when...it...came." She shook again. "It just...it just came out of the darkness of the trees when the rain started, and it—" She motioned to her cloak, then released another torrent of tears.

"It's all right," Catherine said. She reached over and put her hand on Emily's arm. "Don't tell me about it if it will upset you." I know it will upset me to listen, she thought.

Emily wiped her hand across her eyes. "My father didn't want me to come out here alone because he was worried I'd get lost or be attacked by animals. But I wanted to show him that I'm old enough to do things by myself." She sniffled. "I'm the only daughter in my family, so my father is always making sure I don't do things that will get me hurt, even though my brothers get to run around all over the place and make all kinds of trouble."

"My father was the same way," Catherine said. "He let my brothers Timothy and William do anything they wished, but I always had to be the careful one. It always bothered me as well." I mustn't talk about the past! her mental voice snapped. I can't deal with all that heartache again!

"My father only let me leave once I promised I would be back by sunset." Emily shuddered. "But that storm made the night come sooner than it usually does." She looked back at the door. "I wonder if it's still out there." She faced Catherine with an alarmed expression. "What if it tries to get in here?"

"It won't," Catherine said with as much assurance as she could summon. "It never goes into people's homes." She hated herself for lying, but she wanted to calm Emily before the girl's trepidation spread to her and made her panicky. "It will be gone by morning. Tonight you will stay here. You can sleep in the guest bedroom."

"Thank you," Emily said, her voice full of relief. Her eyelids were beginning to sag, and she let out a long yawn.

"I was about to make some tea," Catherine said. "Would you like some?"

Emily bit her lip. "If it's all right, Ms. Catherine, I'd just like to go to bed." She yawned again. "Sleep will make the morning come sooner."

"Indeed." Catherine rose. She went to the oak cabinet on the far side of the parlor and took out two white candles and a match. She lit one candle, then headed toward the stairs at the back of the room. "Come with me, dear."

She led Emily up a flight of stairs and into a narrow hallway. On either side was a door. She went to the right one and opened it into a room that contained a bed and a small nightstand. Emily put Catherine's blanket at the foot of the bed, took off her shoes, and dove under the red-and-white quilt covering the bed.

Catherine lit the second candle and set it on the nightstand. "Is there anything else you need?" she asked.

Emily pushed a strand of damp hair from her face. "When I was little, my mother would tell me a story or sing me a song if I was afraid. Could you do that for me?"

Catherine furrowed her brow, trying to summon the bedtime stories Father had told or the lullabies Mother had sung before the Sickness stole her away. But both had happened so long ago that Catherine was at a loss.

"I...well, I'm afraid I don't know anything, really..."

Emily yawned. "That's all right." Her eyes moved along the ceiling. "Do you really live here all by yourself?"

"I do."

"Do you—" She yawned again. "—ever get lonely?"

"Sometimes," Catherine said. "But I'm not alone all the time. People like your mother visit me when they want dresses and shirts and pants made for them to wear for special occasions. Then they bring me money or food or firewood as payment."

"You're not afraid of being in the woods?" Emily asked.

"There's nothing in the woods that scares me."

"Not even—"

"Not even that," Catherine quickly answered. "It's just an animal. If you leave animals alone, they won't hurt you." Catherine couldn't believe she had the audacity to speak such a lie. But she—and the villagers, for that matter—had been left in peace for nearly three decades. That made her wonder why this attack had occurred after such a long time.

Emily's lips trembled. "It tried to hurt me. And I didn't do anything to it."

Catherine frowned. "Perhaps...perhaps the storm confused it," she said, putting as much conviction in her voice as possible. "Maybe it thought you were a deer." She had no reason to make excuses for the creature, not after all she endured, but she didn't want Emily to believe it had pursued her simply because she was a defenseless child.

Emily's hand touched Catherine's. "Please promise me that you'll keep me safe from it."

Catherine froze. She had already lied twice. How much more deceptive should she be in order to reassure the child?

"I promise," she finally whispered, feeling her stomach churn with anxiety.

Emily smiled as her hand fell away. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Catherine gazed affectionately at the girl. The rhythm of the child's shallow breathing entranced her. She was seized by the urge to stroke Emily's hair, but was worried the touch might wake her.

I wish you'd have at least left me a child, John, she thought. But she knew such a miracle would never have been possible for them.

She picked up her blanket and candle and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She returned to the parlor and went to the fireplace, all the while hearing the word Emily had mouthed upon her arrival:

"Serpinal."

Catherine scowled. Had Emily really seen the creature? How had it come close enough to slash her cloak but not kill her? Perhaps Emily had been mistaken; perhaps the fear of being caught in the storm had affected her vision, made swaying tree branches look like the arms and claws of monsters.

Catherine put her blanket in her chair and picked up the cloak. But what is the likelihood of tree branches making five perfect tears?

Catherine shoved the garment into her sewing chest. She didn't want to think about that right now. She just had to get through the night, and then everything would be back to normal in the morning. In the meantime, there was tea to make and a dress to complete.

Thack! Thack! Thack!

Catherine gasped and almost dropped the candle. Someone was knocking at her door.

"Hello?" she called out.

No one answered.

Catherine asked again and waited for a response that did not come. She wondered if she should open the door. What if it was on the other side?

Thack! Thack! Thack!

But then, what if it was someone searching for Emily?

Thack! Thack! "Help...help me," a low male voice said.

Catherine's hair stood on end. Her mind flashed back to the time another man had asked for aid in the middle of a storm...

Don't bring that up, her inner voice warned. I can't let a poor man suffer in the rain because of what happened so long ago. Besides, it would be nice to have another adult here to keep me company for the night.

Catherine relaxed a little, pleased by that notion. She crossed the room, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door. The light from her candle shone upon the head of a hooded figure and illuminated an eye the color of the sky on a perfect spring day. Catherine's heart sped up as she excitedly thought, It's John! He's come back to me!

The figure moved closer to the light, and now she could see his smooth forehead, his slender jaw, his small, almost pointed nose. She stifled a sigh of disappointment. No, this was not John.

"Come in," she said, stepping aside so he could enter. He stopped inside the doorway. His eyes scanned the room as he took in a deep, quiet breath through his nose.

"You're completely drenched!" Catherine said. "Here, let me help you out of your coat."

He raised his arms from his side so she could remove his coat. Catherine's body tensed when she found five familiar tears in its back. Now she couldn't dismiss Emily's story. The creature was out there.

But Catherine was confused. How had the creature let two victims slip from its grasp? And if this man had been attacked, why was he not forthcoming with details? He just silently stood before her in a sopping green shirt that was far too large for him and brown pants that almost completely covered his mud-coated boots. Had the trauma of the attack left him nearly speechless?

"You must be chilled to the bone," Catherine said. "You may sit by the fire if you wish."

He shuffled toward the fireplace, paused to take in another breath, then seated himself in John's chair.

Catherine placed his coat on the floor in front of the fire. She waited for him to say something about the attack, but he remained mute.

"Would you like to change into a dry shirt?" she finally asked.

"Yes, please," he said, his voice steady and emotionless. "Unless...unless it would be too much trouble."

"It would be no trouble at all. There are plenty of them in my husband's closet."

His jaw dropped slightly. "I... I don't want to inconvenience your husband—"

"Nonsense. John won't mind. He's... He left this world many years ago, I'm afraid."

"Oh. I'm... I'm sorry."

She smiled feebly, then headed toward the stairs. "I'll be right back."

She went upstairs and held her ear by the right door, listening for the sound of stirring, sighing, whimpering. She heard nothing, and hoped Emily was still asleep. She turned and entered her bedroom through the other door. She crossed to the closet on the far wall and opened the large cedar chest that was inside of it. She carefully removed a blue shirt, holding it up as she remembered how handsome her husband had looked in it because the bright color had perfectly matched his eyes. Clenching the garment to her chest, she wondered if she could bear seeing it on someone else.

It would be rude of me not to give him a shirt after I've offered him one, she thought. Besides, it seems he's been through quite an ordeal.

She grabbed a blanket from the closet as well, then returned downstairs. "Here you are," she said, offering the shirt to her new guest.

He carefully took it from her, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were made of fine china. Catherine noticed his long, slightly curved fingernails were stained red, and her heart stopped. She maintained her composure, however, and placed the blanket in her chair. "I brought this down for you as well."

"Thank you," he mumbled.

"You're quite welcome. I'm going to heat some water for tea. I'll be back in a moment."

Catherine passed behind her guest and went directly into the kitchen. She heard his soggy shirt hit the floor as she set the candle on the kitchen table. Numerous questions shot through her mind. Were those bloodstains on his fingers? If so, where had they come from? Maybe he was a hunter who had killed and gutted an animal before coming here. But where was his catch? Had he decided not to carry it through the rain? No hunter she had ever known would abandon his trophy, even if balls of fire were falling from the sky.

Then a distressing notion emerged. What if he was a hunter who was still on the trail of his prey—and that prey was Emily? What if he was the monster from the woods?

Catherine nervously rubbed her hands across the front of her skirt as her mind whirled. Emily had not said that the creature had actually harmed her, so if he was the creature, he had acquired the blood by injuring or slaying something else. Maybe he had murdered a man for his clothes. That would explain why they didn't fit him correctly. But why had he gone to all this work to appear human?

The answer was so obvious that Catherine couldn't help but feel ashamed at her ignorance. He had adopted this guise so he could get inside the house. Well, now he was in here, so why hadn't he changed and slain her and Emily?

Catherine pushed other questions to the deepest corner of her mind. She pulled a kettle from one of her cupboards, filled it with water, and placed it on the stove. She lit the stove, then silently crept to the doorway of the kitchen and watched the man. He was huddled up inside the blanket, his attention captured by the fire as he slid his fingernails across his tongue.

Catherine eyed John's gun, but realized the weapon would do her no good. She would not have time to load it before her guest...did what, exactly? Struck her down and tore her throat out? Catherine mentally scolded herself. Here she was plotting to kill a man seeking succor from the storm, a man she had willfully invited into her home. Then she remembered what had happened the last time, and she vowed not to let events happen that way again.

I can't assume anything at this point, Catherine thought. The only thing I can do is find out who—or what—he is, and then act accordingly. What actions she would take, exactly, she could not imagine.

She put on a smile and stepped into the parlor. The man heard her coming, and his hands disappeared under the blanket.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"You're welcome." She sat down in her chair and looked at him. Her gaze settled on his eyes, which twinkled as they reflected the light of the fire. She caught herself staring and gave her head a slight jerk. "I'm sorry, but I neglected to introduce myself earlier. My name is Catherine. What is yours?"

"George," he said.

"A pleasure to meet you, George. What brings you out here tonight?"

He was silent for almost a minute. Then he said, "I was...I'm looking for...something."

"Oh? What is that?"

He turned his head toward her. The firelight threw shadows across his face at sinister angles, giving him a dark, feral appearance. He glared at her as the corners of his mouth turned down.

"Well, I suppose I don't need to know," she said. "I was just curious, that's all. No one usually comes out this way after nightfall."

"Why is that?" he asked.

"They're afraid of the serpinal." She hoped her voice hadn't faltered when she said that word. "It's the monster that supposedly prowls the forest at night, searching for unsuspecting victims."

"Hmm," George said. He looked at the fire again. He scooted ahead a few inches, leaned close to the flames. He made as if to speak, then clamped his mouth tight.

Catherine heard a faint splish-splish-splish. She looked down at George's feet. They were twitching, sending ripples through the water puddled under his boots.

"Is everything all right?" she asked. "You seem...bothered."

He faced her again, his eyes now conveying a sense of concern. "Is there..." He furrowed his brow. "You said your husband is no longer with you, correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Is there anyone else here?"

A sharp chill swept down Catherine's spine. "No, there's no one else."

"I see." He resumed his observation of the fire. "I'm sorry if the question was rude, but I thought I heard a noise upstairs while you were in the kitchen."

Catherine feigned puzzlement. "Upstairs? Hmm." She tilted her head back, pretending to listen. "I don't hear anything but the rain. Perhaps a bird or a squirrel got inside earlier. I had the windows open this morning to let in the warm breeze. This house feels so cold sometimes."

As if in agreement, George pulled the blanket snugly around him. He looked so small and helpless sitting there, with his face and a few strands of auburn hair peeking out from his wool cocoon, that Catherine couldn't believe he was a threat. But she would not be deceived again. She would uncover the truth, for there was more than her life at stake. She doubted he would respond to any questions about himself, so she would have to lure the information from him by talking about herself. That meant she would have to delve into the forbidden region of her mind that held the past. She steeled her nerves. She had to do it, if only to keep her promise to Emily.

"I suppose it isn't all that strange that someone would be out at this hour," she said. "After all, my husband was often out late at night."

"Really?" George asked, slightly shifting his head in her direction.

Catherine nodded. "That's what led to us meeting each other. My family and I returned home one rainy evening and found him lying outside our cottage. He was colder than a block of ice and on the verge of losing consciousness. We brought him in and made him comfortable by the fire. We made sure he remained awake by conversing with him. My father and brothers eventually fell asleep, but he and I kept on talking all through the night. At first I was overcome with worry about his welfare, but as the hours passed I realized how thrilling the entire experience was to have found such a remarkably handsome and charming stranger. He kept thanking me for my help, and complimented me on my manners and my...my looks." Catherine blushed. "He called me a sun-crowned beauty at least a dozen times. Oh, it was so wonderful! Father let him stay the next day...at my request, of course. He ended up staying the next day as well, and the day after that, and soon he and I—" She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't bore you with the details of our falling in love. I've already told you we were married, so you know how it turned out between us."

"Did he ever tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"What he did. At night."

"No, he didn't. He never said a word about it, regardless of how hard I pressed him about the subject. Shortly after our wedding John said to me, ‘I want you to understand, my dear, that there will be occasions when I must tend to certain matters late at night. But I don't want you to worry. I won't be down at the pub drinking away our money or sleeping with another woman. If you can trust me in this matter, we'll live happily for the rest of our days.'"

"Did you believe him?"

She laughed. "Of course not! How could I, after he had practically told me that he would be out sneaking around while I waited for him at home? No, I made sure I was awake the first night he came home late and curled up next to me in bed. I checked his scent—no alcohol, no perfume. ‘So he washed himself before he came home,' I thought. ‘His tavern friends dunked him in a river on the way home, or he bathed at his mistress's house before he left.' A week later he came home late again, and again I tried to find some foreign odor. And, again, there was nothing. ‘We'll see how long he can keep this up,' I thought to myself. But he never smelled of anything but the forest and the night, so I—"

She was cut off by a shrill whistle emanating from the kitchen. George's face stiffened in reaction to the sudden sound. Catherine thought she saw the tips of fangs emerge from beneath his upper lip a split second before he turned away from her.

"Ah, the water for the tea is ready. Excuse me."

She instantly rose and went into the kitchen. Her body went through the motions of preparing the tea while her mind remained in a dazed fog. She didn't notice how badly she was shaking until she almost dropped the cups and saucers as she lowered them from a cupboard. She set them down on a silver tray, then held her hand to her chest and took in three deep breaths. Now the panic that lurked behind the fog swept through her in full force. She knew for certain what George was now, what danger she had foolishly put herself and Emily in. But, again, she was as perplexed as she was terrified. Why was he letting her prattle on instead of ripping her into pieces? What kind of malicious creature was he, toying with her by just sitting there? But then, John had behaved the same way in order to—

The pieces clicked together in Catherine's mind. Now she understood why George was acting this way. She knew what she had to do to protect herself and Emily...and, coincidentally, him. She prayed she had the strength to continue speaking about her past, for she had to keep him listening for all their sakes.

"Here you are," she said when she returned to the parlor with the tea. She lowered the tray by George and saw that he bore no fangs. One of his hands emerged from under the blankets to deftly lift the cup from its saucer. "That will heat you up," she assured him. She noticed his fingernails were no longer stained red.

"Thank you."

She placed the tray atop her sewing chest, seated herself, and picked up her cup and saucer. She took a sip. Hot cinnamon and raspberry danced across her tongue, twirling a hint of honey between them. "It certainly warms the heart, doesn't it?"

George took a hearty gulp, then said, "It's absolutely delicious!"

She put her cup on her saucer. "John was particularly fond of tea. He loved the feel of a steaming cup in his hands. He was always cold, you see. Whenever he wrapped his arms around me after he returned at night, I felt like I was being buried in ice." Her body shivered at the memory. She held her cup against her chest. "I always kept a cup of hot tea by the bed to give myself some extra warmth before he came in."

"Why do you think he was so cold?"

"I assumed he lost his heat to the night while doing whatever it was he did. But even during the day, when we held hands on our walks, his fingers would make mine tingle and go numb. On our longer strolls, the chill would spread up my arm, through my chest, down my legs. I'd always prepare some tea when we got back so I could replenish the heat I had lost. While I did that John would start a fire in the fireplace with twice as much wood as was necessary. He claimed it was because the house was always too drafty, but I think he did it because he felt guilty for making me cold." Her eyes lowered to peer at the dark liquid in her cup. "He was just naturally cold all the time, I suppose. But I loved him enough that it never seemed to bother me." She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift back to the time she had spent with her husband, those wonderful years that had been her life before—

Catherine's eyes flew open, searching for something to slow her rapid descent into the depths of her memory. She found a diversion in the form of George's coat.

"If you like, I could mend your coat for you," she said. "I fancy myself an excellent seamstress."

"Oh, I don't want to be any more of a bother to you."

"Nonsense!" she replied. "I take great pride in my sewing abilities. That shirt you're wearing has been mended at least a dozen times, but you wouldn't know that just by looking at it. John was always tearing and staining his clothes while out on his late-night escapades, and I always fixed and washed them so he'd have something nice to wear while working at my father's butcher shop. He always wanted to look his best for the customers and, more importantly, my father."

Catherine became silent as she contemplated talking more about her father. She found she could not overcome the pain, and again sought a topic shift. Her focus returned to George's eyes.

He noticed her looking at him. "Is something the matter?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" she said, blushing again. "Please forgive me for my lack of subtlety, but I must tell you that your eyes are incredibly beautiful."

George grinned sheepishly. "You think so?"

"Yes, they are. As a matter of fact, they remind me of John's. He had the most gorgeous eyes of any man I have ever met. They were the first thing I noticed about him—so alluring, so piercing, overwhelming me with their vibrant color and energy at first, yet soothing my soul in a way that I can't describe. Every time I gazed into them I fell even more in love with my husband."

Catherine laughed at the smirk on George's face. "You probably think this is all romantic drivel. Well, my husband's eyes did more than snare my heart; they also gave him incredible vision. He would go hunting with my brothers, and they swore he could spot and shoot a hare sitting in its burrow two hundred feet away."

"Really?" George asked.

"I'm not exaggerating! If my brothers were still around, they would confirm it. They would also tell you that John's hearing and sense of smell were astoundingly acute as well. He could track and kill a mouse in the middle of the forest in the dead of night if he wanted. Mind you, he would never do something like that for sport. My brothers hunted because it was an enjoyable way to pass the time, but my husband only hunted to put food on our table. Every day he brought back squirrels and marmots and deer—always more food than we could consume in a week. I don't think he could help it—he just wanted to make sure we didn't lack anything and that I was happy. He was truly remarkable."

"How long were the two of you married?"

"Six years." Catherine wondered why he would be interested in that kind of information.

"Six years!" George repeated, then in a whisper added, "That's...that's marvelous that he...I mean, that the two of you were married that long."

"Six years isn't long at all," Catherine said. "But those were the happiest years of my life. My world fell apart after John's...passing." She found herself on the verge of tears.

"Are you all right?" George asked.

"Yes... Yes, I'm all right," Catherine said, her voice catching in her throat. "To be honest, I've never really talked to anyone about that part of my life before."

"Why is that?" he asked in a gentle voice. His eyes had grown softer around the edges, and some color now filled his cheeks.

"I don't know. I guess I never could bring myself to fully...but surely you don't want to hear me go on about that." She sipped the remainder of her tea.

"You should talk about it, if it would make you feel better." He leaned toward her. The blanket fell away from his head and shoulders as he moved, giving him the appearance of a snake shedding its skin. His thick hair, now completely dry, sprang up around his face. "I will listen."

She knew he would. He had to, because of what he was. And she had longed to tell her story to someone who would understand, who wouldn't criticize her or her husband for what had happened. She couldn't keep it all inside of her anymore, couldn't let it continue to tear her up.

"My husband..." she began, before anguish clogged her throat. She struggled to say something, anything that would stop the pain. Finally she blurted, "He wasn't a man."

George's face bore an expression of utter shock. She waited for him to ask for an explanation. Instead, his mouth quivered as he said, "I... I thought so." He sounded ashamed, as if he had uncovered a secret that was not his to know.

"So you figured it out," she said, her voice filled with annoyance and ire. "How did you deduce that from my one night of rambling when it took me six years to find out the truth?"

George leaned back. "W-well, you said he had a cold touch, and fantastic senses, and stained clothes..." He clenched the shirt and lifted it to his nose. He inhaled deeply. "I can smell the blood, both animal and human." George looked at her, a terrible sadness in his eyes. Catherine pictured those eyes in her husband's rugged face, set above his thick nose and his hard lips that she had kissed countless times, lips that had drawn the heat from her body, lips that had whispered I love you to her on that final night—

Catherine burst into tears. "I didn't want to do this," she whimpered. "I didn't want to go through all this again..."

She hardened her resolve, preparing herself to reveal what she knew about George, ready to curse him and his kind to the foulest depths of oblivion, ready to lash out at him with her puny fists until he had no choice but to kill her and prove that he was nothing more than an animal. Then she looked into his eyes—his soft, comforting, human eyes—and her fury was stayed. She felt safe and calm, just like she had whenever she had looked into John's eyes.

"But I had to," she said. "I had to do all this...for both of us."

Now George's eyes showed confusion and wariness. "What do you mean?"

"I will tell you the rest of my story. Then you will understand." She took in a deep breath. "For years I avoided making the connection between my husband's nightly activities and the stories I heard in town about a horrendous beast called the serpinal that slaughtered livestock and...and people." She sniffled. "But on that night, when he came home crying and convulsing in pain, I couldn't ignore it any longer." She summoned the rest of her mental strength for what she had to say next. "That night he didn't have time to change back before he returned to me."

George gasped. "I'm... I'm sorry."

Catherine wondered what he was sorry about. That a creature wearing her husband's shredded clothing had stood before her leaking blood that wasn't red, but black with swirls of blue in it—blood that evaporated the instant it hit the floor? That the skin around the beast's wounds hadn't been skin, but bristly scales? That when he had unhinged his slender jaws to release a moan of agony, he had revealed rows of twisted fangs encircling a forked tongue?

Or was he sorry that one of his brethren had been forced to end his deception?

Catherine fought against the lump in her throat so she could speak. "I didn't believe he was my husband," she said, "until I peered under his wide, hairless brow and stared into his eyes. That was how I knew it was him."

George bit his lip. "I'm... I'm surprised you didn't run from him." He glanced at the ruined coat. "Everyone always runs."

Catherine's hands curled into fists. "How could I do such a thing? Whatever shape he wore, he was still the man I loved! No, I embraced my husband. He laid his face on my shoulder and sobbed ruby-colored tears. He whispered to me that his kind had cautioned him about crossing over, warned him he would never be free because the night would always hold him in its thrall, always force him to transform and satisfy his hunger. But on the evening we first met, when I shielded him from the cold, he had been drawn to me by a force of attraction he didn't completely understand, and that's why he had never returned to his realm."

"So even though he knew the risks, he still stayed with you?"

"Yes. But the longer he remained human, developing his emotions, feeling the loving touch of a woman, the more savage he was as his other self. He relied too much on his instincts and didn't realize that the destruction he caused had been observed by the townspeople."

George gripped the arm of the chair, his eyes huge. "What happened that night?"

"They had set a trap for him, attacked him with axes and knives and guns. He had survived their initial ambush, but he knew they were close behind. And even if he escaped from them, he knew he would fall victim to his wounds. He had planned on running as far away from here as possible so his hunters wouldn't suspect me of being involved with him and murder me as well. But he had to see me one last time." She realized she was crying again. "He apologized again and again for what he had done. I told him I forgave him, begged him to take me with him, no matter where he went! But he silenced my pleas with a shake of his head. He told me I still had a long life to live, that I had great amounts of warmth and kindness to share with the world. I pulled him close to me and kissed him, trying to give him as much of my heat as I could. He said good-bye, then raced out the door and disappeared into the woods."

Catherine wiped some of the tears away. "Shortly thereafter the hunters came to the house, their torches lit, their weapons ready, their hounds straining on their leashes. My brothers were leading them. They didn't stay long, for the mastiffs soon broke loose and dashed into the darkness of the trees, hot on John's trail. I waited a few moments, then also entered the forest to search for my husband. But I found no trace of him."

She gazed at the fire. "Since then I have lived here all alone. Oh, I go into town now and then for food and sewing materials. The people used to stop and stare, whisper to each other as I walked by. They were quick to realize that the attacks stopped at the same time my husband vanished. My father and brothers never accused me of anything. They just closed down the shop and moved away. The only contact I've had with them is a letter my brothers sent me five years ago telling me that Father had passed away in his sleep. They wrote nothing about the time and place of his burial." She shook her head. "As the years went by some of the townspeople changed their perspective of me. They thought I had been a victim instead of an accomplice, that my husband had used some sort of supernatural power to twist my will to serve him. I never affirmed nor denied their suspicions, because they couldn't understand."

Her eyes moved from the fire to the face of her listener—the face that had been so stoical and colorless when he first entered, but was now vibrant, rosy-cheeked.

"But you understand all too well," she said. She motioned to his teacup. "Would you like some more tea? I've noticed that your cup has gone cold."

George's eyes lost a bit of sparkle.

"I know it went cold the instant you drank from it." She slowly took the cup from his hand. "I must compliment you for being such a kind and patient listener. Each second of sitting here has been an eternity of agony for you since you can smell and hear who is upstairs."

Frustrated, George rubbed his forehead with hands that now sported scaly fingertips.

"Perhaps you should tell me your story now," Catherine said. "I want to know why there are ones like you and my husband. Why do you do this to us?"

George sighed. "I... I wish I knew that myself. I had heard stories about those who had been compelled to enter your realm and live among you, but I never imagined I would be one of those to cross. Then yesterday morning, I saw the girl picking flowers in a meadow that lies in the Borderland, not far from her village. She was laughing and singing to herself as she danced through the grass, her hair flowing like liquid sunbeams."

The last word sent a spark through Catherine's mind.

"Watching her stirred something deep inside of me," George went on. "I wanted above all else to be with her. I almost stole her away then, but I decided it would be best if I appeared as someone of your kind so I wouldn't scare her. All night I pondered how I was going to dress up like one of you. Fortunately, a hunter chased a deer into our forest this morning. We have rules about not harming humans because we don't want them coming after us with their weapons, but I felt that meeting the girl was worth breaking them. I caught the hunter and...borrowed his clothes, then waited outside the town. I knew if I saw the girl again, we were meant to be together. Sure enough, she came into the forest by herself. I was ready to approach her, but I lost my confidence and couldn't maintain my disguise. I still tried to catch her, but I realized I couldn't touch her without harming her, so I stopped and waited until I could change and see her properly. I followed her scent here. I was going to say I was from town and had come to find her. If you interfered, I was going to..." He breathed out sharply through his nose, producing a shrill hiss. "You know."

"So why didn't you just kill me when you came in and take her away?"

"Because I—" His face twitched. "You wouldn't understand. You don't know how we are."

"I do now. You're like my husband. In your present form you are respectful and courteous, as demonstrated by the fact that you have politely listened to an old woman jabber on all night while the girl you desire sleeps upstairs. That means your true self—your purely savage self—has no compassion or mercy, except for those who have been kind to you in either form. You shouldn't have pursued her in that form. You absolutely terrified her."

George hung his head. "I'm sorry."

Catherine maintained her stern gaze. "She made me promise to protect her from you. I will fulfill that vow, and I trust you will do your part to help me."

The fangs reappeared in George's mouth, now their full finger-length size. His lips disappeared under a rim of tiny scales. He jerked violently in the chair, as if he wanted to spring up, to seize her, to slay her. But he remained seated, struggling against the invisible bonds of his conscience as his eyes filled with yearning. "I don't want to!" he wailed. "She is so beautiful...the most beautiful creature I have ever seen!"

"She is beautiful, yes, but also very young, much younger than I was when I met John. She has so much life ahead of her. Even if you did secure her love, one day you will have to leave her for the same reason John left me. And she'll be left with a void of emptiness and sorrow that will never go away."

George went limp. He slouched in the seat, wheezing heavily. "Why do we do this?" he whispered to himself.

For the first time that evening Catherine looked at her guest and felt pity. She wondered if she should share with him what she now knew. As far as she was concerned, she had no reason to end his suffering.

But by coming here tonight and listening, he had helped her come to terms with her own.

She reached over and put her hand atop of his. Her skin tingled immediately. "For a long time I've wondered what kept John in our world. At first I thought it was love—tender, precious love, the kind that binds a man and a woman together until the end of their days. But after watching you and conversing with you this evening, I know the true reason."

George eyed her questionably.

"You are creatures that dwell in the coldness of the dark. Your kind is drawn to heat and everything associated with it, like fire, and hot tea, and the sun. That's why you and my husband were smitten by—"

"—hair the color of sunbeams," George finished, his eyes wide with understanding.

She nodded. "Perhaps that is why John was outside my family's cottage that night. Perhaps he had seen me somewhere and followed me home." She sighed. "Sadly, our kinds can never be together. We also desire heat—the heat of someone lying next to us, the heat of their arms around us, the heat of their breath. And we want that heat to last forever. Your kind can't give us that." She removed her hand. "But you will be warm for this evening. You may stay here and sleep by the fire. I have more blankets if you need them."

George's eyes quivered with uncertainty. "I... I can really stay here?"

"Yes. But you must be gone before she wakes. And you must promise to never pursue her again."

Crimson pools collected in the corners of George's eyes. "But...but I need h—"

"I know it is difficult to hear," Catherine continued, "but I speak the truth when I say she deserves someone who can share his warmth with her."

Her gaze shifted from his pained eyes to the fire, where the flames had nestled inside the last log and were busy converting it into ash. She listened to the rain that still tumbled down outside. "Someone who can keep her from the cold forever."

Justin R. Lawfer is a graduate of Edgewood College in the city of Madison, WI, where he currently resides. His fantasy stories, which include "Legacies," "Issues of Discussion," "Jacob and the Sorceress's Daughter," and "The Cat and the Monster," have appeared on www.alienskinmag.com, www.palaceofreason.com, and www.planetmag.com, and in the print magazine The Unknown Writer, respectively. He also wrote "For Appearances' Sake," which was published in Issue 15 of Hadrosaur Tales. His previous contribution to The Sword Review was the story "Payment in Full". He is a lover of fantasy tales and giant monster movies.

Cover: "SwordMaster"

This was created for use as cover art, with The Sword Review in mind. E.J. tried to get the feel of an elder swordsman, someone with some time under his belt. He is scarred and battle-hardened, but by no means any less dangerous. Something has brought him to the ready, but what?

Illustration: " The Visitor"

"The Visitor" was created in PhotoShop Elements 2.

Hospitality

www.theswordreview.com