Part 1

Whitley

My name is Whitley Taylor, and I just turned twelve today. My mom has been bustling about our small, two-room home since dawn. It is partially built into a steep bank and the main floor is a few feet above the dirt track that serves as a road. The house is pleasantly warm, and filled with the wondrous smells of baking bread. I was still sleeping soundly when she came up to give me a shake. She’s now below the sleeping loft, fixing me something to eat.

I stumble out of bed in my long nightdress and climb down from the loft to see my mother, spooning out a bowlful of hot cereal. I usually hate gruel, whether it's warm or not, but today Mom is adding a little honey: just a smidge to sweeten the bowl of bland, coarse oat cereal.

She returns to her baking, and leaves me to eat and to get ready for my long walk. Yes, it's Grandma Day. I get the job of going to Grandma's house this afternoon. She lives a few miles from our home near the town of Warwick. Papa says Grandma likes her reclusive lifestyle; her house is right next to the old forest. Some of the town folk even think she's a witch, all because she knows everything about the different plants and mushrooms that are found around here. Some are for eating, and others are for helping people when they’re sick or can't sleep, and that sort of thing.

Anyway, Grandmother Taylor has been harping for months about my birthday; that I need to see her on my birthing day. Something about getting a special gift on that day. On and on, every time we go to see her, it's the same old thing. Whitley...birthday...special gift!

Grandma's youngest son, Tom, ran off to London years ago, and now Dad is stuck with trying to feed us all. That leaves Mama and me to take care of her. Grandma's pretty independent, but every week, rain or shine, we take her some fresh bread, a few vegetables, and maybe some fruit when it's in season. We normally visit on Saturday morning, and come back later that day, always before dark. You don't want to be walking along the rutted road, or on the trails through the old forest, after dark: it's dangerous. It's not like something will eat you, but there's damn little light under the overhanging trees. No starlight, and very little light at all, even during a full moon.

Candles don't work well. They just don't put out enough light. And oil for a lantern is too expensive. I'm not sure why I have to go this afternoon, but Mama only smiles and says I'll be fine. This is so weird. I must be staying the night with Gran. I know Mama doesn't want me coming home in the dark. Especially after Hannah died...

My eyes tear up, and I look down at my half-eaten bowl of soggy oats. I begin to cry softly, and I turn away from Mama. I don't want her to see me crying. I miss my older sister so much! It’s been almost eight months now, since that cold, rainy night. She was working at Warwick castle, and she fell from one of the walls. They didn't find her until morning, all broken and dead…and she was only sixteen.

The Earl himself even came to see us. He paid for everything, including twenty pounds to ease our grief. They put it inside Hannah's memory box, on the mantle. It’s all still there: a lock of her dark red hair, a few hair pins, some pretty rocks, a ginormous acorn, a sprig of pine from the old tree at the castle, and the silver.

Not much left of her sixteen years. I glance over at the mantle and her box, but that's not her. I carry her around in my heart. She's always there, always alive. Her bright smile shines just for me; simple kisses on my forehead; a quick hug…it was so easy being her little sister.

I come back to myself and my gruel when I hear my mother sniffle. I haven't fooled her at all.

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Finish up now, and go get ready! I need you to go to the square before you go to Gran's. Get a small cabbage, a few carrots, and parsnips if they have any. Oh, and also an apple or two. I think the Smiths still have a few that are still okay,” she says, walking up to me.

I look up from my cooling cereal to see that her eyes are filled with tears. She reaches down and gently dries my eyes with the corner of her apron.

“It's okay. She's here today. I can feel her too! So don't be sad. She's happy and safe. The guardians of the past watch over her—the old ones who care for our world, who protect the people from the darkness. Even now, a new one comes...” her voice catches. She runs her hand down my long red hair, before turning back to her bread. The warmth of my mother's touch somehow makes everything better.

I smile after her. I often forget how much my parents miss their oldest daughter. I'm their only hope for a continued future. The older I get, the more I see and understand... I'll soon be expected to find work and help support our family. Maybe I'll find love and have a family of my own. Maybe!

I sigh heavily and glance down at the cold cereal. It's even soggier and less tasty than before, but I eat it all the same. I finish up and take my dish over to the large wooden bowl on the table, filled with other dirty dishes. Haw: I won't have to do them today! I'll be at Grandma's house.

It's January, and cold out, so I'll need my heavy outer-wear for today. Tonight the moon will be full: a “Wolf Moon.” I'm feeling my oats, literally, and, while I’m walking back into the kitchen, I let out a mock howl. As the last, high-pitched, eerie note rings off the walls, I hear my mom's piercing yell.

“Whitley! Dammit, not today, girl.” She instantly calms back down and says, “Please, not today... Just get ready, and go to the square for me.”

I howl like a wolf all the time, so I can't understand why she's so upset with me. It must be the Grandma thing, and me having to go alone. I don't know why…I go alone all the time, especially in the spring and summer, when Mom has other things to do. So it can't be that.

I walk to the wash stand in the corner and wash up, and then I get into my warm woolen dress. I even put on my thick underskirt. With my coat on, and woolen leggings, I'm ready for anything short of a blizzard.

Now that I'm ready, I skip out to find Mama waiting for me. “Sorry, Whitley. I didn't mean to scold you. That howl just bothered me today for some reason...” she says. Maybe to make amends, Mama hands me a small copper farthing to spend on something special at the square.

I wrap my arms around her waist. “Thanks, Mama, but I don't need anything special. I've got you and Papa!”

My mother is usually not very emotional, but today seems to be an exception. She grabs me back, and with an unexpected fierceness, squeezes the breath out of me. “No, it's okay. You buy a sweet, or something you want,” she explains. “I'll have everything ready when you get back.”

She kisses the top of my head, and then shoos me off to the market square, to get fresh vegetables for Grandma.

I zoom through the door in a very unladylike run. I pause at the top of the stairs long enough to get one of our wicker baskets, and then I'm running down the muddy road outside our house.

I like the feel of the cold wind slapping my face with winter's harsh reality. My red hair is blowing in the wind as I fly down the hill towards the village below. Running is so much fun: the freedom it gives, the focus of mind and body, everything working together to move me along as fast as possible. What a simple joy!

It only takes me a few minutes to run up and down the two hills that separate my home from our village just east of Warwick. I slow down just outside the square, and regain a somewhat lady-like demeanor. I smooth out my dress and walk calmly into the hustle and bustle of the square.

The inner part of the square is paved with thick limestone slabs. Our small church is located in the exact center, and on Sunday it's the clear focus of our small community. But today is Saturday, the busiest market day of the week. Everyone is buying all sorts of goods, including lots and lots of food.

Because tomorrow is the day of rest, everything has to be completed by the end of today: cooking meals, washing clothes, hunting...everything that can be considered some type of work has got to be finished.

The square is a crazed jumble of people everywhere. I see a few friends, but I can only wave to them before moving deeper into the market. I've got to get the things Mom needs, and still find something to buy for myself with my farthing.

The vegetables and other stuff are easy. It's my sweet treat that takes all of my time. I finally settle on three apple-filled tarts from the Smiths. I'm pretty good at haggling over the price of a couple of apples for Gran, but buying the tarts takes me much longer. I think Granny Smith finally gets tired and wants me gone, so she accepts my offer.

All the vegetables, the apples, and the tarts cost less than a single penny. I pocket my farthing, hoping that Mama will let me keep it for another time. I'm quite happy with my haul. I elbow my way between two nutters who are trying to take advantage of little old lady Hennessy. She's been selling potatoes and carrots for as long as I can remember. She’s hanging tough, and not giving an inch.

The two bargain hunters are the new cooks at the village’s small inn. They are probably trying to buy cheap and pocket the extra. The innkeeper gives them a set weekly amount with which to buy food, and anything left over is theirs to split.

I smile and wave at the old woman as I go by. She rolls her eyes, and then goes back to dealing with the two idiots in front of her small stall.

In a few minutes, I'm leaving the little village, and climbing the first hill on my way home. Now that I’m carrying everything, the trip takes much longer. Mama is standing out on the steps in front of our home, waiting for me to trudge my way up the last incline.

It's like old times. She would always be there, waiting for me to come home from Friar Burky’s school. She thought it important for me to learn to read, write, and do my sums. Girls don't usually get to learn that, but Mama and Grandma convinced the Friar to include me in his class. I don't know what they said or did, but I spent every day for two years learning all that stuff.

I think I'm supposed to help Grandma. She was trained by the Friars a long time ago, just as I’m doing, except she stayed with them for a long time. She learned things from some of those musty old books that she never talks about…old, scary things about the world of long ago. They’re things better left forgotten.

I’m home now, and I smile up at Mama. She smiles at me and says, “Hurry now. It's almost time for you to leave. Grandma will be waiting, and you know how she hates to wait.”

I vault up the stairs, two at a time. I put my baskets down and rushed into her arms. Her hugs are always perfect. I can smell the fresh bread on her…the flour, the yeast, and all the things that remind me of home. My home!

Mama hugs me back, her strong arms wrapped protectively about me. Our hug lasted much longer than usual, each of us wanting a few extra moments, and each of us remembering the days not too long ago, when I was younger and my sister was still alive...

But today is today, and I have to go to Grandma's house. So with great reluctance, we let each other go. Mom turns quickly and rushes back into the house. I pick up the baskets and follow her inside.

She is standing by the table, wrapping the warm, fresh bread in a light cheesecloth. There’s some for the market this afternoon, and two loaves for me to take to Grandma.

We spend the next few minutes getting the vegetables cleaned and packing everything into the two baskets I have to carry. The five mile trip will seem a bit longer today, because of the two baskets.

But, as Gran says, “It's only a good stretch of the legs!”

When we’re finished packing, I put on my heavy, full-length woolen coat, and walk up to the table. Mom is gazing out the window towards the north and Grandma's house. She's crying softly, her eyes filled with tears. But why? I'm only going to be gone for the night.

I give her a hopeful smile. “It's okay, Mom. I'll be back tomorrow morning. I'm just going to Grandma's house. We go there all the time. I know the way by heart.” I pause to watch her dry her eyes. “Really, Momma, I'll be fine!”

Mama steps in close and wraps her arms around me again. “I'm sorry, Whitley. I should have told you before now. But you'll be staying with Grandma for a while. It's time to start your training. You're twelve years old today, and soon a woman,” she says, speaking slowly. “Your grandmother will help you with the changes, and she’ll teach you the ways of the forest. This has been part of our family for generations, and now It falls to you, since I produced no male heir and your sister is gone from us.” As she finishes, the tears start to run down her cheeks again.

“I don't understand, Mama. I don't want to live with Grandma. Shit! She’s, like, weird sometimes. Please don't make me go! Please!” I plead, suddenly frightened.

Mama pushes herself away from me. “I know. But after tonight, you'll understand. We'll see each other often. You can come home for visits, and we can come to see you, too! I promise...” She smiles brightly and hands me one of the baskets. “It's time to go, child,” she concludes, picking up the other basket.

A few moments later, we are on the front steps saying our good-byes. I turn to look out at the gentle rolling hills of my home. Why does this feel like the last time? No more friends, no more Mama and Papa…just my weird-ass grandmother.

I start down the stairs, but I pause to look back at Mama. She smiles bravely and waves goodbye. Okay, it’s five miles of hill and dale to grandma's house. Well shit…I might as well get on with it.

I square my shoulders and jump down the steps. At the end of our lane, I turn left onto the main road. Once I get past our village, I get off the road and start using the smaller trails. The trails are easier to walk on, and save lots of time. The stone walls along the way all have wooden stiles over them, so there's no need to crawl over the rough rock and get all scuffed up.

Soon I’m worrying less about going to Grandma's, and, instead, enjoying the coolness of the day. Notice that the animals and birds are all going to their trees or burrows. A storm must be coming. It’s probably a snow storm, so I'm glad I'll be inside tonight, even if it's with Gran.

I continue northward until I finally climb out of the valley and start walking along the ridges of the old forest. It's always darker under the ancient trees, but it's the deepening quiet that makes this place spooky. The animals and birds are still all around me, but the sound doesn't carry. Even my steps are muffled as I walk along. And then there’s the odd feeling of being watched; nothing is ever there, but there’s that damn feeling.

I can't believe it: I'm trying to scare myself! There's nothing out there but a few small wild animals. No lions, or tigers, or bears; not even a real wolf. I'm still feeling my oats, so I let loose a not-so-fierce howl. Mama's not around to stop me, so I do it again. This time it's louder, and it seems to echo from tree to tree. I laughed to myself, “Boy, that was a good one.” It even made me think that it was real.

I'm still happy with my realistic howl, as I work my way up and over the final ridgeline. I pause in an open spot to look out at grandma's valley home. I still have a mile or so to go, but most of it is downhill. The trail doesn't flatten out until it reaches the little glen where her—no, our—home is located beneath the trees. “Our home”: damn, that sounds so strange.

Grandma's nearest neighbor is probably a mile away. There's a small farm at the other end of the valley, near the road. No friends for Whitley; just Grandma. I wonder if I did something bad, and God is punishing me. Naw, it’s just some damn family thing. Maybe Mama will come and see us pretty soon.

A few minutes later I see that the trail is opening up into the valley proper. Once I’m out of the trees, the trail to Gran's leads away to the left. The grass is taller here, since there’s not as many sheep to buzz it off. Most people like to be around the villages or the roads. This little valley is also just remote enough to be ignored by the Lord of the Manor. He has much more productive lands, than this little slip of rural nothingness.

I round the last tree line and see my new home. It has a rock-wall base with wide, rough-hewn oak beams for walls, and a sharply pitched roof covered in slate, not thatching. All in all, it’s a pretty solid house. Gran has her gardens, big and small, all over the place. Each of them is filled with its specific plants. Some like the light, and some don't and are growing in the shade. All this I'll have to learn. Damn, that means people will think I'm a witch too.

Grandma is sitting on the porch, and she waves to me. I give her a quick wave back, through the handle of the basket. She gets up, and starts down the path to greet me with a big smile. Grandma takes one of the baskets, and then gives me a one-arm bear hug around my waist.

Grandma no longer towers over me. In fact, I may be taller than she is. How the hell did that happen without me noticing? Well, no matter; I'm here to stay.

“Damn, child, have you grown five inches since you left home this afternoon?” she teases.

“I don't think I grew that much, but I wasn't watching, either,” I pipe up pleasantly.

Grandma laughs. “No, I suppose you weren't!” she says. She points towards the house, and says, “Let's get everything inside, and I'll fix us something to eat, before you have to go home,” she says nonchalantly.

I nearly fall over. “Go home? Tonight? It'll be dark in a little over and hour, plus there's a storm coming. A snow storm, Grandma,” I inform her incredulously.

“Yes, child, but you need to go home tonight. There will be plenty of moonlight to see by. There’s a lovely full moon for the next three days. You know, don't you? It's a “Wolf Moon” as well as a “Blood Moon.” It’s rare; very rare indeed. You'll be fine, wearing the brand new red cloak I bought for you. It's wool on the inside, covered with bright red satin, and everything edged in silver fox,” she boasts happily.

“A cloak? You got me a cloak? What the hell is satin, anyway? I don't want to go home tonight. The trails and pathways will be totally dark, even under a full moon. I won't go, Grandma. It’s totally stupid to go out on a night like this!” I explain heatedly.

“You'll go, and you will use the road, and not the trails,” she says, chuckling morosely. “The moonlight along the road will be bright enough to see by.”

Our heated exchange is finished, we carry the baskets inside, and Grandma smiles happily as she adds the vegetables to a pot of simmering rabbit stew. A little while later, we settle in to a supper of sliced bread with fresh butter, a large mug of hot tea, and the yummy rabbit stew.

I really enjoy the meal, but I can't convince Grandmother that I should stay the night. Finally, as darkness closes in, she goes and gets my new red cloak. I've never seen anything quite like it. The word “beautiful” seems inadequate to describe this regal garment, and it's mine. All mine. Hell, maybe going home in the dark will be worth it.

It's fully dark outside when the first painful cramp slams into my lower abdomen. Bending over at the waist helps a little, but the pain is slow to fade.

Grandma watches from across the table, and says, “Yes! This is perfect. You're already feeling the new phase. The first calling is always the hardest. Tonight you'll start your new life, a new destiny, a new beginning.” She stops and looks deeply into my eyes. “Hummph…the goddess is hiding you from me!” Her voice suddenly catches. “No, no, sweet mother not like that, not tonight!” and her voice fades to silence.

She turns away from me, and sniffles. “Okay, little one, let's get you ready for the road home. It's a long walk, and you need to get started,” she tells me, as she walks over to the chair on which lays my folded cloak of blood red.

Gran smiles weakly as she holds the magnificent cloak open for me. I stand and walk up to her, and, turning, I let her drape the heavy garment over my shoulders. It feels amazing to be wrapped in the luxury of this special birthday gift. I feel like someone important or powerful; maybe even a real princess.

Then the oddest thing happens: I can feel the warmth of my Grandmother's love for me, the scent of salt in her tears, the sound of our beating hearts, one slow and steady, and the other rapid with excitement.

Boom! A searing pain rends my abdomen. It’s lower this time. Now there’s no warmth, no salty scent, no beating of hearts; just intense, crippling pain.

My eyes are tightly closed. I fall to my knees. I slump forward, somehow catching myself with my hands. On all fours, I can feel the pain lessening by the second. Now it’s only a dull ache. I look about, and see my grandmother on all fours beside me.

She's watching me intently. “Yes. Very good! They'll get stronger and more focused as the night goes on,” she says. “Now, off with you before the snow starts. Remember to stay on the road. I'll take you down to where it starts.” She smiles as she stands up.

I follow her, rising like a blood covered ghost. I'm hidden in the deep blood red of the cloak. Warm…suddenly, I’m warm. I look at my grandmother.

“Yes, it looks good on you, Whitley. Now all you need is something to ride in, you and your red riding cloak! The hood is also quite comfy...” She chuckles softly, finds her own cloak, and leads me toward the door.

The steps leading down into the darkness beyond the door are very hard to see. When I get a little further away from Grandma's house, I can see her ahead of me, scurrying along the grass-covered trail. The moonlight is just bright enough to see by, but when I look around, I don't see the moon.

“Grandma! Is the moon behind the trees?” I ask.

Grandma chuckles quietly. “No, child, the moon won't rise for another hour or so. Your eyes are the first to change. Your sense of smell and hearing will be next.” She pauses. “How are you feeling, my dear?” she asks.

She speaks with almost clairvoyant accuracy. Another wave of nausea and painful cramping slams into my lower abdomen. I gag noisily, and almost lose that wonderful rabbit stew. But somehow I managed to keep it down. I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. Then the painful cramping slowly eases enough for me to move again.

My crazy grandmother is watching from a few feet away. “You're doing fine, Whitley. Let's keep moving. You have a long way to go before you can rest, my dear!”

I can finally move again: the pain is almost gone. Damn, it's not going to be a pleasant trip home. I'll have to go the long way on the road, in the dark, in pain, and during a snowstorm. Wow, what else could go wrong with today? And it started out so pleasantly with the smell of fresh bread baking. I take a deep sniff of cold night air. It's different tonight! I can smell the whole of the world around me…all of it: pine, grass, the moss growing in the stream, raccoon piss... How the hell can I smell raccoon piss? But it's there, off to my right, maybe twenty yards away, just on the other side of the small trickle of water flowing through the glen.

Then I realize that the raccoon is there as well, cowering in fear at our presence. He’s a pretty big boar, but he’s sitting frozen in a puddle of his own smelly urine. Why is he so terrified of us? We couldn't possibly hurt him. An old lady and a twelve-year-old girl don't seem that threatening to me.

I'd rather smell the bread back home. Gran, smiling again, heads down the trail, and I do my best to stumble after her. In a few moments I'm moving better, and I soon catch up to her. For an old woman, my grandmother is surprisingly spry. Her pace quickens now, and she moves along the trail in front of me in a gangling trot.

We soon come out of the taller grass, and climb over a low rock wall. We're already on the farmland near the road. The pasture is lush with grass, but the sheep that graze it aren’t here. I can hear them, away at the far end of the grassy area, in a wooden paddock. Their nervous baas are directed our way. But where are the dogs? Every shepherd has one or two dogs. I can smell them, but their odor is older, from earlier in the day or maybe the previous evening.

I turn to see Grandma smiling at me. She's looking at the sheep also. But her smile has a feral, almost hungry, look to it.

She seems to know my unasked question. “They take the dogs inside at night. This far out, there's just too much to bark at.” She pauses, sniffing the air again. “They've been here a few years now. The woman is expecting their first child. She's having a rough pregnancy. The little girl growing inside her might not make it. I need to come down and help...” her voice trails off.

“Come child!” she says. “This is something for another day, not for tonight!” She turns back to the trail.

We walk across the pasture, and then we have to climb over another rock wall. On the other side, the trail ends. To our right, the lane leads up to the little farm house. A short way straight ahead of us is the road. I look upward just as the first fluffy snowflakes begin to fall from the sky. There's no wind to speak of, at least not yet, but our normal snow storms from the north usually start out quietly, and then they liven up some.

Grandmother and I stop by the edge of the road. She looks to the right, at the road home. “I'm sorry this has to happen tonight. Your awakening should not be like this, but Rhiannon has her ways. I can not see beyond tonight, but it’s as if all of our futures flow through you.” She looks away from me, towards the horizon and the faint glow of the moon rising behind the clouds.

She looks at me again, tears flowing from her weathered old eyes. “You must be brave, child. And remember: Do not rend. You will want to rend, but don't! Much depends on how you kill...”

She stands on her toes to kiss my cheek, and, turning swiftly, walks back up the lane away from me. I look towards the south and the long road home. Grandma's right: I can see well enough to walk the rutted road safely. We've had a few dry days, so there's not much mud, and most of that is in the small, green, scum-covered puddles that always hold onto the rain water.

I start out at a rapid walk, but soon I feel like running. My legs just eat up the old road. I've already left Grandma's secluded valley, and I'm now moving along the twisted road that winds its way through the old forest. The snow is really falling now, and has already covered the ground in a thick blanket of white.

I've been this way a couple of times, but not very often. I'm nearing the junction with the old Roman road. The ancient Fosse Way will take me to the outskirts of Warwick, where I can find the side road that’ll get me home. Home! There's no place like home!

But how did I come this far so quickly? The old road just seemed to fly by. I'm not even tired from running all that way. I slow down and look around me. The old Roman road stretches away to the left and right.

I’ve just walked out onto the road when it hits me: mind crushing pain! I fall to my knees and slump forward into the cold snow. I barely get my head turned, before the darkness claims me.

Part 2

Lord Albert of Warwick

What a worthless fucking night! I just spent almost £1 on a room, all that food, ale, wine, and flesh. And for what? Did I get my nuts off? Fucking no, I didn't! Not even close...

It all started to go horribly wrong when that skinny little bitch started screaming bloody murder. All I did was shove my cock up her ass. It's just getting more and more difficult to find a good anal whore. Then that damn innkeeper comes upstairs and pounds on the door, telling me to keep it down.

The bitch kept screaming at the top of her lungs, and didn't quit until I pulled out. The innkeeper then informs me to take my perverted business elsewhere. What a load of shit. I’d already paid him for the whores, but now he wants me gone. This is definitely my father's doing. He's been all over my ass ever since that last girl died at the castle. He promised that my next transgression would result in the loss of my balls—along with my inheritance.

And now I'm sitting in this damn coach, bouncing along with my tail hanging between my legs. Back to that damn castle and the watchful eyes of my Father. Fuck, even the damn chambermaids have stopped running like scared little rabbits. They know I can't touch them any more. The whole house staff is the same way: No one gives a shit about what I say anymore.

But one day… One day, I, Lord Albert, son of the Earl of Warwick, will be in charge. Then we'll see how they all jump when I say boo... I'll go to London town and buy all the little girls I want. There are plenty of orphanages and workhouses. I'll line the lot up, and choose which ones I want. Shit, I might even have to pay £2 per head to keep the Matrons quiet! Ha—they'll be underfed, skinny, and covered in dirt. But if I look long enough, and closely enough, there will be a few worth my time. And it's not as if there aren't more from which to pick.

What did that old fart Dickens have to say on this? Oh yeah, “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses? I help to support the establishments I have mentioned. They cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.” I pause dramatically before continuing my thoughts. “Many can't go there; and many would rather die.”

And, of course, I finish with, “If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” Yes, he had the right of it. Only I will take them and enjoy them first, as I do my part to decrease the surplus population.

Ah, what fun that will be! All that young flesh to take over and over again. And who will be there to care if they perish? I will be an Earl and a member of the House of Lords. Unassailable. Just think of it: I'll have to go to London as part of my duties to the crown. At night, when I'm not engaged in my civic duties, I'll have all the time in the world to select suitable stock. I can even do it under the guise of charity, or maybe even a Crown-sponsored project to improve working conditions. Yes! I can call it “Save The Little Children”…to save them for me!

Once I buy them, they're disposable property. I can ship them north, and consume them at my leisure when I return home. Finally I’m feeling somewhat satisfied with the evening, so I settle back to wile away the lonely miles before I get home.

It's hard to sleep in the coach as it bounces along, but somehow, I manage. I'm dreaming of my glorious future. I have at least twenty-five grubby little girls all lined up in front of me. I've just found a delicious little blonde-haired morsel. I lift her head to look at her dirty, soot covered face. She works in the furnace room, removing the ash from beneath the great kilns. Her eyes are the deepest blue I've ever seen. She smiles shyly, and tries to avoid my eyes, but she is mine, and…

My heavenly dream is shattered by a wave of intense pain. I've been thrown completely across the cabin, inside my coach. One moment I'm dreaming of a little blonde-haired beauty, and the next I’m laying in a crumpled heap against the front wall. Thank goodness it’s padded, or I would probably have broken something. I’m groaning in pain, and I'm about to loose my wrath on my stupid coachman.

James quickly opens the privacy port and calls down, “Sorry M'Lord! There's something, or someone, lying in the road. I barely had time to stop. I didn't want to run over him…or her.”

My evening is already in the shitter. “I don't give a fuck who is in the road. Next time, just keep going.”

The coachman continues to plead his case. “But, M'Lord... It's someone of note. I think it's a woman, or a girl, dressed in a bright red cloak. I thought it wise to stop and render assistance.”

All I care to hear from the imbecile driving the coach is “a woman, or a girl.” What a wonderful windfall…to find some helpless female on my way home. Maybe she's alive…but even if she’s dead, she could still be useful.

James gets down off the coachman's seat and trudges through the deepening snow to check on the person in the middle of the road.

I've opened the front coach window. The wind is whistling all about us, blowing the falling snow in every direction.

I hear James call out, “Oh, thank God! She's alive, M'Lord. A young woman.”

I quickly answered him, “Well, hurry, man, and fetch her here. We must look after this poor young lady. How badly is she hurt?”

James flips her over, and cradles her in his arms. He gives her a hasty once-over, and answers, “I can't tell, M'Lord. There's nothing apparent. No blood, or visible injuries. But she's wrapped in her heavy, hooded cloak, so it's impossible to tell.”

I grew eager to see this gift of a snow angel. God, I just hope she’s not a fat cow, or butt ugly. I could use some additional entertainment after tonight's failure at the inn. At least I won't have to pay for this one. She’s free for the taking, or, in this case, rescuing. I laugh sarcastically as I watch James lift the girl into his arms. She can't be that large. He’s carrying her along quite easily.

As he gets closer to the coach, I open the door for him. He places her on the floor head first, and scoots her inside. He's grinning from ear to ear.

“She's quite the little beauty, M'Lord. Should I drive along slowly?” he snickers softly, before continuing, “I'll turn up the heaters to take the chill off the cabin. It may take a little time for her to revive enough to be of use to you.”

I smile back at James, and drag the unconscious girl further inside the coach. “Yes, James, slowly, and with the heaters at maximum, please. I'll need to take my time with her, and make sure she’s…well cared for.” I look from James down to the young lady wrapped in her blood-red riding cloak, and I wonder who she might be.

“Also, James, I think we'll need to stop at that secluded pull-through we found a few years back. You remember: the one back in the trees where no one will see us.”

“Yes, M'Lord. I remember that exact spot.” He laughs and shuts the door.

I feel the coach rock as he climbs back up onto his seat. He takes a few moments to adjust the lantern heaters, and then we move off down the rutted road…not as fast as before, but not slowly either.

The interior of the coach will heat up nicely as I examine my late-night gift. I reach out with the tip of my boot, and push aside the hood covering the girl’s face. Oh, my! James was right: she's lovely. Her bright red hair is not the same as the little beauty in my dream, but still she’s quite acceptable. This girl is also quite a bit older. She’s somewhere around 12 or 13 years old. But what type of body does she have?

She's on her side, and I need her on her back. A quick shove with my boot, and she flops into the position I want. Damn, I'm going to have to kneel down and unfasten that damn red cloak. It's a very expensive garment. The edges are lined with silver fox. She's probably not a royal, but perhaps part of the gentry. She must have been dumped on the road by thieves, after they’d robbed her.

The outside of her cloak is covered in mud and road muck. She doesn't have any shoes on, and her woolen leggings are worn through at the feet. She's been walking along the snow-covered road in her bare feet! It's weird that her feet are pink and healthy looking, with no frostbite or even cuts.

She ran into some pretty stupid robbers, if they left her in that red cloak. No matter. She's mine now, and who would look for a missing little rich girl in my coach?

I get down on my knees and start to unfasten the toggles down the front of her cloak. I get them loose in no time, and throw it back off of her shoulders. To my great surprise, this wondrous young creature is dressed in simple peasants’ garb: a woolen half jacket, a linen blouse, and a long, heavy, woolen skirt. Why the hell would a simple peasant girl be wearing this expensive red cloak? I work the jacket open, and roll her onto her side. I locate the laces holding her skirt up, and untie them. A few minutes later I have her jacket off, and the long woolen skirt as well. The blouse is next. Once it's off, she lays there on the floor of the coach in her linen underwear, and a very muddy pair of useless woolen leggings.

As she starts to stir, I scoop her up and lay her on the front seat. The cabin is warming nicely. I reach over to my valise, and reach inside for my flask of Glen Avon whiskey. A few sips of that, and she'll be ready for just about anything...except, maybe, a late evening romp with me.

I sit back and watch her with interest. She is absolutely perfect. I like 'em young, and this one is all that and more. She’s long of limb, with shiny, mid-back-length, red hair with very little curl. Her upper torso is thin, with hardly any tits, and she’s narrow of hip. She's a very delectable package. It's going to be a great evening after all. I can take my time with this one. No one will know or miss her. I've made mistakes in the past, for instance getting impatient and taking girls who would be missed, or ones I couldn't dispose of properly.

Whoever she is, it matters nothing to me. It's nearly time to have some fun. I watch as she blinks her eyes, and reaches up to feel for her clothes.

Part 3

Whitley

I awaken slowly. It's warm and bright, but I still feel like shit. What's happened to me? My cloak, and most of my clothes, are gone. I can sense movement beneath me… I'm riding in a coach! The inside is all black: shiny black paint, and heavy black leather seats. There's only one coach like this, and it belongs to the Earl of Warwick. I sit up and look across at the man sitting there.

Lord Albert of Warwick, the son of the Earl, is there glaring at me. His eyes are dark, almost hidden beneath his heavy-hair-covered brow. He looks angry. No, hungry, as if he hasn't eaten for days. He's dressed in a loose white linen shirt that's open at the neck, black trousers, and black, mid-calf leather boots. He's not a handsome man in fact he is quite ugly. He looks much older than his twenty-eight years. I've heard the people in town talking about him: He does not act like a royal; he likes to hang out in the local pubs, drinking, and chasing young women. No one seems to like him much.

He gives me a twisted smile and hands me a silver flask. “Here. Take a drink of this. It will help warm you up.”

Lord Albert leans over to hand me the flask as I sit up. I take it and give it a quick sniff. Alcohol! Yuck! The smell is strong—probably whiskey or something like that. I've only had a taste of Grandma's elderberry wine, and I didn't like it. Gran just laughed at me, and said I would acquire the taste later in life. But now is not that time.

I frown and give him back the flask. “No thank you, M'Lord.”

He holds up his hand and says, “Please, I know it smells bad to some, but it will make you feel better. I promise.”

Lord Albert seems pleasant enough, so I bring the flask up to my lips and take a quick sip. It burns all the way down my throat. Gasping for breath, I hold the flask out again. But as my eyes clear, I feel a gentle warmth start to chip away at the icy feeling in my arms and legs. I bring the flask back up to my lips and take a much larger swig of the amber colored liquor.

The burning in my throat isn't as bad this time, and that wonderful warm feeling spreads through me like a tidal wave of tingly delight. No wonder adults like this shit. But I think I've had enough. I hand the flask back to him, and he brings it up to his lips for a quick sip for himself. He closes the cap, screws it down tight, and tosses it to the side. It comes to rest on the black leather bench seat.

I look from him to my discarded clothes on the floor of the coach. I frown…I’m not sure what to do next. My beautiful red riding cloak is soaking wet, as are my outer garments as well. My boots are gone, and my muddy feet are sticking out below my tattered leggings. I can barely remember how I got here—I was running along the road, but then I collapsed from the pain in my lower abdomen. I've flowered, and don't have anything to stanch the flow. If I have more cramping, I'll make a mess of Lord Albert's coach.

I'm afraid to spread my legs and have a look. I don't know how bad the stain is, but I can smell it. There’s a heavy, musky scent of old blood, like when an animal has been led to slaughter.

Lord Albert is watching with obvious interest, and finally he speaks up. “I'm sorry, miss. I took them off when we found you in the road. You were very wet and cold. I thought it best to get you into the warmth of the cabin immediately.”

I give him a weak smile. “Thank you M'Lord. I appreciate you stopping to help me on such a wretched night.”

He returns my smile. “So, child, what's your name and where do you live?” he stops for a few seconds, and looks out the window. The heavy wet snowflakes are falling from the sky, and the weather is getting worse. “I can't very well let you walk home in this weather.”

He's right. It’s not a good night out for man nor beast. I can only accept his patronage, and let him take me home.

“Thank you, M'Lord. My name is Whitley Taylor. I live with my mother and father just east of Warwick, very near the old road,” I tell him.

He stares off into space as he thinks of something. “By chance, did you know Hannah Taylor?” he asks.

“Yes, M'Lord. She was my sister. She died at the castle some months back,” I say sadly, hanging my head at the painful memory.

When I look up at Lord Albert, he’s sitting there, unmoving. His face is twisted into an evil smirk. “I'm sorry to hear that, Whitley. She was a good worker, and well liked by the entire staff. Her accidental death was a blow to us all.” He breathes deeply and looks out the side window.

“I was away from the castle when she fell,” he continues. “I didn't learn of her death until I returned, a few days later. Hannah was such a sweet girl. I know we all miss her bright smile, and kind words,” he finishes, looking over at me.

I look away from his piercing gaze, and look out the window myself. The storm is worsening. I wonder how long it will take us to get me home. God…I hope we won't have to pull over for the night.

A moment later, the coachman, James, opens the privacy port and calls down to us. “Almost there, M'Lord. You should go ahead and get ready.” He smiles down at us with an evil gleam in his eye.

I turn back to Lord Albert, but all I see is a blur of movement. His balled-up fist catches me on the side of the head. I slump backwards, and the darkness claims me.

Part 4

Lord Albert of Warwick

What a stupid little bitch! She's almost as gullible as her dead sister. Hannah almost got away. Even after I opened her up, she led James and me on a merry chase along the ramparts of the castle. Damn, she was one fine piece of ass! She was slightly older than I like, but she made up for it in fight. At the end, when we cornered her on top of the wall, she chose to die rather than spend more time with James and me.

But Whitley won't get a chance to run. This is a great place. It’s secluded, and a good place to dump her body. Two of my earlier trophies are laying at the bottom of a pond, near-by. James has been with me from the start. He's my helping hand, and all he asks is to watch. I pay him well, and treat him to an occasional rape-fest with some young lady.

The coach is now stopped, and I need to get started on Whitley. First, I need to remove the rest of her clothes, only this time I'll rip them off. I reach into my bag and get out my dagger. It's very sharp, and it cuts through cloth almost as easily as flesh. But there will be no cutting of Whitley…I want her to be awake and unharmed when I take her.

I slip the tip of my dagger through the seam at the top of her blouse. I make another small cut in the waistband of her linen, mid-thigh-length undergarment. I lay the knife well out of reach, and, grabbing her blouse with both hands, I ripped it off her body. Her small, immature tits pop into view. A young girl’s developing tits should be declared a wonder of nature. Their soft, immature perfection is unmarred by aging, or having grown so large that they're a fleshy distraction. I really like small tits.

I throw her blouse to the side and reach out to caress one small tit. The soft mount of developing flesh is crowned by a smooth, puffy nipple. I run my hand over the sensitive flesh of her nipple, and it responds by hardening. It won't be pleasurable to abuse her tits now. I need her awake, so she can scream from the pain. I must be patient, and wait for her to regain consciousness. Aaah, what fun we'll have...

Her undergarment soon follows her blouse: One savage rip, and the shredded linen cloth comes flying off. Her body lays, sprawled haphazardly, on the edge of the leather seat, nearly falling to the floor.

The prominence of her pubic mound is sparsely covered with a sprinkling of soft, reddish-colored peach fuzz. But the real issue is trickling from between her legs: Menses blood, and lots of it. Shit, she must have flowered recently, and is now just beginning her first cycle. Fuck, I hate screwing a bitch, no matter the age, when she's bleeding. But this is my one and only chance at this red-haired beauty. She'll be dead after tonight, and resting peacefully at the bottom of the near-by pond.

Damn, that blood is really pooling between her legs. I need to get her tied up and ready for our sexual adventure. I don't want her waking up before I get her securely tied, hand and foot. Fuck! Why did she have to start her bleed tonight? I like to pause after I've opened them up, to watch the first thin trickle of life's blood flow from their tiny openings. Aaah…but she has more than one hole. This will still work. It will just take a little more preparation. But we have time...more than enough time.

I reach into the bag for my black rope. I took it from my own bed canopy. It reminds me of the privileges of wealth. Each of the four pieces of black rope has a large tassel at one end. It works perfectly, to bind my little ladies. The large tassel helps the knots around the ankles and wrists to dig into the skin, and not loosen. It allows the girls to struggle all they want. And tonight, Whitley will join the others. She can scream as much and as loudly as she likes, but no one will hear her cry for help. No one!

The hands are first: I use the tassel end, and a binding knot, to secure each wrist. The heavy oak frame of the coach makes for a perfect attachment point. I prefer the girls to be suspended just above the seat. I tie Whitley so she's facing up, her arms pulled outward and upward to the rear corner posts of the coach’s frame.

Since I have plenty of time, I need to douche her out for some anal probing. I hate having to clean myself up afterwards, so I carry a flexible wine skin with a long brass snout on the top. It works perfectly for the preparation.

Her ankles are next: I use the same type of binding knot just above the ankle, and I hoist her legs nearly straight upwards. I pull her up until her head is slightly below the level of her ass. This is only temporary, so I use a quick-release knot to secure her ankles.

The wine skin is already filled with water and a little salt. Once she's cleaned out, her butt will make its own lubricant…I don't really care, but I like to enjoy each girl first, before I really hurt her. The crying, the screams, the pleas for mercy, the wails of agony, and then the deafening silence as they slip beyond the veil...all of it is music to my ears. And I want to listen to Whitley's sweet music for as long as possible.

I pull the wooden stopper out of the brass tube, and then I give Whitley's ass a resounding smack. She moans ever so slightly, but doesn't wake up. Great. I push the tube’s tapered end into her tiny anal pucker, and squeeze the liquid contents into ass. I listen as the water gurgles its way deep into her gut.

I let her hang there for a couple of minutes. I reach under the bench and open one of the cabinets. I pull out a large chamber pot, and place it under her bottom. I loosen first one leg and then the other so her limp body droops across the seat. Her long, coltish legs are spread lewdly above the porcelain pot. I pull up on both ropes, and scoot the pot under her ass with my boot. I make sure that her cute little ass is right above it, and then I lower her down again.

Yes, perfect! Now all I need is to get her to void her bowels into the pot. Whitley is still out cold, but I've done this before. I put my boot against the belly bump in her lower abdomen. I push down hard, and hear her grunting protest. I also hear her filling the pot with all that crap inside her. I push down again. I do this a couple of times more, until I don't hear anything dropping into the chamber pot.

I give the ropes a quick tug, lifting her butt off of the pot. I secure the ropes, and then I put the lid securely on the pot and place it back under the seat. I’m almost done. I work the ropes to get her legs in the right position. She's now suspended above the seat, her crotch hanging over the edge. Whitley is oh, so inviting, even with the trickle of blood flowing from her tightly closed slit.

I give her a little shove, and she swings backwards in a shallow arc. Perfect. A little more clean-up, and all I have to do is wait for her to wake up. I use the tatters of her undergarment to wipe off her ass and the trickle of menstrual blood.

Whitley groans softly, and starts to struggle against her bonds. She must have felt me wiping off her genitals. Her struggles continue, intensifying, until she suddenly stops, and her eyes fly open. I see her eyes blinking rapidly as she realizes what's happened to her. Then, as I chuckle quietly, her head flies up, and those beautiful, dark blue eyes find me sitting across from her.

Part 5

Whitley

I slowly climb out of a deep well of darkness. I feel like I'm floating in the air. My arms and legs are sticking out to the side, as if I'm falling or something. Ouch—damn, the side of my head hurts like hell. Hey, wait a minute: I can't move my arms and legs very much. They're tied and stretched out at a weird angle. Shit, I'm bound. My naked body is hanging in the air, spreadeagled like a piece of meat.

I force my eyes open and look up at the black ropes holding me in the air. I realize that I'm still in the black coach. Then I hear his quiet chuckle. I raise my head, and find the Earl's son sitting across from me. Lord Albert's leering smile is anything but friendly. I'm his captive now! But for what? I look at him more carefully and see that he's naked from the waist down, except for his boots.

His hard and erect, but malformed cock lays, lewdly twitching, across his upper thigh. I've seen my father's hard cock in the morning, fresh from sleep and before he's relieved himself. His shaft is long and hard, and covered in a sheath of smooth, unmarred skin, with large blue veins, bulging outward, running along the sides. But Lord Albert's cock is covered in shallow scars; some look very fresh, while others are older. His shaft is strangely bent to the side, and its circumcised, reddish-colored head has been mutilated. The ridge running around its glans has been cut all the way around its circumference, and a large brass ring pierces its tip.

He chuckles again, as he appreciates the intensity of my fear. Lord Albert wraps his hand around the gnarly girth of his cock, and he lifts it for my further inspection. Then he begins to stroke its thick shaft. I know what's coming. He means to take my virginity, and probably my life! I've unknowingly given myself into the hands of a monster! The horror of my fate slowly chills my soul. My thoughts are not for myself, but for my parents losing another child. Their last child...

I watch in silent horror as he stands up, his hand still stroking the steely length of his manhood.

“You like it, don't you, bitch! I'm going to fuck you with it until you scream for mercy, and then I'm going to fuck you some more,” he tells me.

He bends over his bag and pulls out a thick wooden case, like a large jewelry box. It’s made of dark mahogany, and elaborately carved. Lord Albert opens the box just as my world goes suddenly dark again.

This cramp is not as intense as the one that left me floundering in the road, and when it recedes, the smell of death coming from the open case hits me. The odors are like the scars on his cock: some are old and others are not. There, among the bloody remnant of ten other girls, is one I easily remember: Hannah.

I'm suddenly sick to my stomach. Throwing my head to the side, I puke all over Lord Albert's pretty, black-leather bench seat. My stomach was nearly empty, so the mess isn't too bad.

Albert looks my way and gags, nearly throwing up himself. “What the fuck?” he grumbles, and he throws my skirt over the mess on the seat.

The smell of my puke does nothing to hide the scents of eleven dead girls. Lord Albert sees me looking at the wooden case. “Oh, sorry. You want to see my trophies. No problem, Whitley. I've even saved one for you, sweet thing,” he sneers, holding up the case so I can see its contents.

The case is lined in red velvet. There are twelve short, brass, sharply-pointed tips inside the case. Each is a different shape and length. Several are formed in the shape of broad, flat arrowheads, and others are shaped like long-pointed, armor-piercing arrowheads. All but one is covered with dried blood. They must be part of a weapon of some sort.

Laying in a shallow tray in the other half of the box is some sort of leather contrivance. There are flat brass rods along the top and bottom, with concentric rings of black leather attached to the rods. At the end of the assemblage, attached to both rods, is a small brass helmet shape, with a small rectangular hole in its end.

Lord Albert lays the box on the seat beside me, and picks up the leather contrivance, or harness, or whatever it is. He works the harness over the hardened flesh of his twisted, malformed cock. Slowly but surely, he wedges himself into it, and, once he’s inside, he runs a long leather strap behind his pair of oversize balls and fastens it to the harness. Now straightened, his cock is massive! It’s eight or nine inches of thick, rock-hard flesh, surrounded by leather and brass.

He smiles most evilly and reaches into his bag one more time. He pulls out a thick glass rod. It's blunted on one end, with a large glass ball on the other. He stands between my legs, laughs sarcastically, and slaps my bottom. When I don't cry out, he smacks me again. Still no cry leaves my lips.

He smiles at me. “You know, it doesn't matter to me whether you scream or not, right now. At some point you will,” he tells me. He pulls down on the ropes, and my butt shoots into the air.

Then I feel a sharp pain, as he starts to work one of his chubby fingers into my anus. I let out a muffled huff, because he’s savagely shoving his finger up inside me.

I hear him sigh deeply. “Ah, yes. Nice and tight! What a boon it was, finding you laying in the road. I'm going to enjoy you Whitley. I hope you enjoy our time together.” He laughs fiendishly, and shoves another finger up my anus.

So begins the pain. Lord Albert, laughing and giggling like a deranged school girl, starts to finger fuck my tight, tiny anus. I’m just beginning to get used to the pain, when he pulls his fingers out.

I see him reach for the glass rod, and he sticks the smaller end into his mouth. He runs the long thick shaft deeply into his mouth until he gags. He shows me the spit covered glass rod, and he smiles.

A moment later, I feel the blunted end nuzzle itself against the moist pucker of my anus. Then, the savagery of his thrust causes me to cry out. The glass shaft is now seven or eight inches up inside me. The pain is mind-numbing. He holds the glass ball and starts to rapidly piston the glass rod in and out of me. Each and every stroke is quickly followed by yet another evil chuckle.

Even though all the pain and humiliation, I begin to enjoy his brutality. My quiet moans of pain turn to little grunts of pleasure.

“Yes, Whitley. That's a good girl. Sex is meant to be enjoyable,” he rants. “Most of the whores I get have long forgotten the simple pleasures of sex.”

He starts to shove harder. Slowly the glass rod forces my anus to open even wider. I feel more agony, more intense pain. He doesn’t stop until the glass ball itself slips inside me. As the gigantic invader slips deeply into my butt, the intense pain is replaced by a heavy fullness. My distended hole closes down behind the ball, leaving only numbness on the outside.

“Good girl, Whitley. Just look at that belly bump. I can see the ball and the shaft outlined perfectly,” he shouts with glee.

He runs his rough, bear-like paw along the smooth skin of my tummy. I look down to see a long, roundish bulge extending upward to my belly button. The massive lump just above my crotch is the glass ball. Lord Albert is rubbing his hand over the glass intruder, buried deep within my insides, with a jubilant intensity.

“Now push it out!” he commands firmly, his hand pressing down on the large lump caused by the glass ball.

When I don't comply, he slaps me across my face. My startled cry of pain is quickly followed by my immediate obedience. I start pushing the glass ball back out again, grunting and groaning. I feel every little bit of the smooth glass ball, as it leaves my anus.

“That's much better, little girl. I'll take over now and enjoy myself. The snow is deepening, and I’ll need to head for home soon.” He laughs again, as he retrieves the thick glass rod.

The pain is momentarily gone. I can feel my anus slowly closing. Now I see him standing between my widely spread legs lifting his manhood upward. The leather harness holds his stiff flesh perfectly straight. I now understand the sharpened points and arrowheads: The weapon is his leather-bound cock. Lord Albert lays his cock on my lower abdomen, his eyes gleaming darkly with the evil hidden within his lost soul. He's given himself to the evil, and any shred of his humanity is long gone. It's been taken over by his need to destroy the innocent victims who fall prey to his depravity.

Lord Albert's laughter is that of the monster within. He kneels between my legs, and lets his cock slide up and down the bloody virginity of my slit. Another massive cramp slams into me, and my womb contracts painfully, pushing out more of my first flowering. Blood, dark and smelly, seeps from my slit.

The monster, lost to the moment, ignores the foul, smelly blood that leaks across my anus. He wants only my pain and his release. The brass helmet-shape atop his cock finds the serrated opening into my bowels. With a happy grunt, Lord Albert, son of the Earl of Warwick, grabs my legs and pulls me onto his pole of flesh, brass, and leather.

The cold brass helmet plows through my opening with a practiced precision. Lord Albert was right: I could remain silent only so long, and the pain from this forced penetration is unbelievably intense. I start screaming the instant that the first leather ring rips its way through the tender flesh of my anus. Then, one after another, four more leather rings pass through my tiniest, tightest opening.

I'm nearly hoarse by the time I feel his heavy balls gently touch the smooth white skin covering my buttocks. The beast pauses, balls-deep in my butt. He’s drooling in his excitement, almost like a mad dog, and he stares at the tears streaming down my face.

He licks his lips, and leans down to tear at my left nipple. More pain, more agony! He bites and rends, mauling the tender, developing flesh. My screams could wake the dead, but the monster cares nothing for me. He laughs again hysterically, and moves on to the next juicy morsel on my chest. My right nipple soon follows the left, ripped from my body. They lay on the seat beside me, spit from his mouth, discarded without another thought. I can't even scream anymore, because the pain is beginning to addle my senses.

My vision is blurred, but I see him grinning with anticipation. His mutilation of my chest is but the first of his special treats for me. He's feeding off my pain: each new torment, each new depravity, all part of a planned and practiced process to enhance his perverse pleasure. My mind and body are being systematically destroyed by this monster.

The pain so far has been nothing, compared to what I feel when he starts to fuck my anus. He's left his cock buried deep inside, and my intestines have molded themselves around the brutal leather construction that surrounds his malformed member.

He pulls out of my butt in one quick, jerking, shredding motion. His cock emerges wetly, covered in my blood and tiny bits of my intestinal lining. He pauses for a moment to enjoy the sickening sight, and then he plunges back into me. I scream over and over, pleading for him to stop. Instead, over and over again, he batters my insides with flesh, brass, and leather. In and out, he fucks me, each savage thrust balls-deep.

I’m growing weaker. I hear him grunting and groaning with every heated penetration. I'm bleeding really badly when the first spurt of his evil seed erupts from the end of his cock. Five, six, maybe seven times, he pumps the thick white ropes of his cum deep inside me.

He spears my anus one final time, and then pulls out of me in one final ripping motion. He stands behind me, looking with satisfaction at the trickle of bright red blood flowing from my tattered little hole. He wraps his hand around his thickness, and wipes the blood and goo off of his cock. Flailing his hand, he throws my blood around the interior of the coach. He laughs as he leaves several bloody hand-prints on the walls.

I watch weakly as he goes over to the wooden case to select the last of the points. He holds up his cock, and fits the long, armor-piercing point into the brass, helmet-shaped end cover. He gives it a quick twist, and the point clicks into place.

The next menstrual cramp comes on slowly, but it’s powerfully deep. I feel the wave of normal pain as a warm comfort. It's just a normal part of being a woman, a painful reminder that we carry the new life to be created inside us. Each month there’s a renewal of that potential: Will this be the month in which a loving man will share his seed with us? Is this the month we carry a new life forward? Our hopes and dreams are part of us.

But my dreams lay shattered before me. My body is torn and bloodied, and still I lay helpless before my tormentor. Armed, he approaches me again.

Somehow, I'm still conscious when she whispers my name: “Whitley! Sister! Do you hear me, little one?”

I answer, even though I can't see her. “Yes. Are you an angel, come to take me to heaven?”

She laughs a bitter, cold laugh. “No, sister. I've come to ask you to serve my cause, to join me in a great purpose.” She's quiet for a few seconds. “The others have forgotten their purpose. They focus on politics and power. They are greedy like the rest of humanity. I need an ally to fight the evil in the world—the evil that even now approaches to take your life. What say you?” Her voice fades into the growing darkness.

He's there between my legs. His bloody cock rests once again against my lower abdomen. I can feel the heat of his hate, his need to kill and rend. He's watching me, curious about why I've stopped screaming, and why I'm not begging him for my life.

In his impatience, he gives the weapon attached to his cock a shake. The point attached to the brass helmet will cleave me from groin to rib.

“Whitley, you have been such a joy,” he tells me. “I’m sorry that our time has come to an end, but I have things to do before I return to the castle, and to my bed.”

Ignoring him, I call out to her, “Lady! Where are you? Have you left me here to die?”

I feel him moving between my legs. I feel his fingers prying the lips of my slit apart, and the sharp metal tip slipping into me. The cold metal tip pushes into the tiny opening in my hymen…and it stops there.

My body is shaking. The power of this menstrual cramp bathes the last of my soul in blood. The pain of my lost future is more than I can take. I will laugh in the face of death. I look down at the beast between my legs. He's confused, even scared of what he sees: I'm not groveling, or pleading for mercy. I'm defiant, filled with a hate for the malignancy that’s about to take my life.

Then I feel her. She’s all about me. She wraps me in the silver light of her spirit. “I am here, child. I have not left you. But he must take you. Your house will be born in blood...your blood. That blood will be bequeathed to sisters...one a queen, the other a princess royal. They will unite the houses, and lead the world into a time of peace.”

Pain, searing pain. His final act of violence and savagery is when he impales me on the metal point. He pushes into me, tearing, rending, violating, slashing, cutting, destroying. I feel my life's blood gushing from my wounds. He pulls out, re-positions himself slightly, and slams into me again. But the damage is already done.

He pulls out and sits back on the bench to watch me die. He's done this ten times before. Only my sister Hannah escaped his clutches long enough to deny him this final, sick pleasure. I know that I’m dying, my life's blood flowing from my tiny slit.

My heart beats rapidly, desperate to pump blood to a body beyond repair. I’m losing the battle, my light starting to sink into the darkness. But I reach out to her.

“Lady,” I plead, “I don't want to die. How may I serve you. I will join you in your quest. Please help me...”

“I have heard you. Who...am...I? What's...my…name? You know me. Reach out for my power and call my name!” she instructs, hopefully.

I gather the last dregs of my strength and call out to her, “Rhiannon... Your name is Rhiannon! Goddess of the moon! I call upon the silver light, the power of good in the night, to fight the evil growing in this world.”

I look up and see her light filling the coach. It's been there the whole time, just hidden from me. I reach out, and it flows into me, filling me with her silvery light. The pain of death is gone, replaced by life and a terrible purpose. I lift my head and look across at the Earl's son. He's unmoving, frozen in the terror of what he's seeing.

Vengeance is mine… But my grandmother's words suddenly echo in my ears: “You will want to rend, but don't. Much will depend on how you kill…”

I hang there as he watches the change come over me. My body heals itself: flesh bonding with flesh, nerves with nerves, and blood vessels coming together. Blood, life giving blood, is filling my arteries and veins. My heart and lungs are working together to provide life to my abused body. All of it will be wondrously fixed and made whole.

I'm a mess. Blood and gore cover much of my groin and lower abdomen. But as I hang suspended above the seat, in this coach of horrors, I know that I need to finish the change that started with the first painful cramp at Grandma's table. I know who I am and what I'll become. I can see it all now. It passed my mother and my sister, because neither had the ability to adapt. But I do. Grandma knew it long ago, when she persuaded Mother to arrange my schooling. I needed to learn about the world and how things worked, and all the things I'll need to survive.

A child of the moon, a lycanthrope, a werewolf, a shape-sifter...all of them describe the change I’m experiencing. I reach out to the moon. The silver light, filtering in through the window, comes to me. The final cramp comes, and it’s a welcome friend... It’s a promise of a future about to come.

My arms and legs grow longer, my feet become more paw-like. My legs change to resemble those of a wolf or dog, and my hands and fingers lengthen. The claws at the end of my fingers look lethal. I can feel my nose and mouth change as well, lengthening and filling with razor-sharp teeth. And last comes a coat of short, snow-white fur.

My laugh comes out more like an amused growl. All and all, I'm quite pleased with my wolfish appearance. The Earl's son, Lord Albert, has gone ghost white. I move slightly, and the black ropes snap, along with several of the oak joists of the coach’s frame. I growl softly, and take the black rope off of my wrist and ankles. I sniff the air, but all I can smell is the leftover blood from my rape, and the smell of fresh piss coming from the Earl's son.

I try to stand, but I'm much taller now, so I have to stoop. I walk closer to Lord Albert and change my face back to a more human appearance.

I lean down and whisper with deep irony into his ear, “Albert, it's been fun, but I've got lots to do before I return to Grandmother's house, and to my bed.”

He tries to scream, but he can’t. I reach out and grab the top of his head. A quick twist, and Lord Albert, the Earl of Warwick's eldest son, dies.

I open the door and smell the fresh sweet scent of the new-fallen snow. The forest around us is asleep. Nothing is moving, nothing at all. The animals are laying low, trying to keep warm on this snowy night. I look up at the moon, covered by thick clouds, and thank the Goddess for my salvation.

I take another sniff, and find James cuddled up in the covered boot of the coach. He's got a bottle of expensive whiskey, and he’s drunk as a skunk. I jump up on the driver’s seat and peel back the boot cover. He looks up at me in mild, drunken interest, and dies a few seconds later.

I jump back down and look through the door into the coach. I won't be able to clean all of this, but at least I can remove my clothing. I take out my bloodstained red cloak and think of the crazy ride that I've been on since I left Grandma's house. I gather up the rest of my discarded, ripped and soiled clothing, and wrap it all up in the cloak. I find a rain slicker up in the boot, and wrap that around the cloak and my clothes. A piece of Lord Albert’s black rope helps me construct a very manageable, over-the-shoulder, weather-proof pack.

The horses are well rested, but very skittish. They keep glancing back at me, not quite sure what I've become. I end up tying James upright to the hold-all rail on top of the coach. I use the reins, instead of a piece of the black rope. It’ll be more realistic, when they finally find the coach. The snow is deep, and the horses will be flying down the road in a few moments. I fully expect the coach will end up in a ditch, or against a tree, between here and Warwick castle. Either way, I'll be long gone.

I finish cleaning up, and open the door to bid the Earl's son, Lord Albert, a fond adieu. One monster down, lots to go...

I close the door and, taking a deep breath, I let out an ear piercing wolf howl. It even prickles the hair on the back of my own neck. The horses give a mighty snort, and are off in a cloud of snow and a thundering of hooves.

I shoulder my improvised backpack, and start for Grandma's house. My longer legs and improved senses allow me to run across hill and dale without a sound. Only a few scared animals hear my swift passage.

Some time later I stand on top of the hill looking down at Grandma's. I give her a brief howl of welcome, and trot down the hillside to my new home. She’s waiting on her porch, Her hands wringing the dirty apron around her waist.

I skid to a stop in the snow, very much in my wolfish form. She looks down at me, tears running down her cheeks.

She holds up her right hand for me to see. There, clearly visible on her palm, is a black circle inside a pentagram. The circle is a solid midnight black. I look down at mine, but it’s not the same. I hold up my hand to her, and hear her fearful gasp.

“What has happened to you, child?” She points at the black pentagram on my hand, and the blood red circle in its center.

I smile a simple, wolfish smile, and say, “I am the first of my house, born in blood…my blood. I am House Crimson!” I pause and look up at the moon. “Will you join me, Grandmother? Or must I run alone?”

She returns my wolfish smile, and changes to join me for a late-night run.

Epilogue 1

The High Sheriff of Warwick

The Earl of Warwick, just back from London, is awakened early, Sunday morning, by his personal valet who announces that the High Sheriff of Warwick is waiting for him in the sitting room.

The Earl joins the Sheriff in about twenty minutes. As the Earl approaches, the Sheriff stands, steps away from his chair, and walks to meet his old friend.

The men shake hands, and the Earl looks to his friend for an explanation of this early morning visit.

The Sheriff shakes his head sadly. “I'm sorry, M'Lord, for this early morning intrusion. But it's your son. His coach was discovered in a snow-covered ditch this morning. Both your son, Lord Albert, and his coachman, James, were found dead, M'Lord. I'm sorry to bring you such bad news, but I think you need to see this for yourself. I have cordoned off the area, awaiting your attention. I wouldn't ask unless I were absolutely sure that you would want to see this.”

The Earl of Warwick, staggering slightly, finds a chair and sits down. He hangs his head in silent grief for the boy that never grew into a man. His shame in having failed the boy will stay with him for the rest of his life. He thinks, “Maybe if I had been around more, he would have turned out better.”

He looks up at his friend. “Thank you John. I appreciate both your personal attention and your discretion in this matter. Give me a minute to get my coat and hat, and then I will join you outside.”

The Sheriff bows low, turns, and walks through the great hall and out the front entrance. He waits outside in his personal coach. The Earl, his good friend of many years, is only now beginning to suffer the loss of his son. It will get worse as the day progresses.

The Earl goes to the head of his household staff, and conveys the news. Two funerals will need to be arranged: for his son, and for the coachman, James.

He leaves his stunned butler, and joins his friend the Sheriff for the trip to the accident site. It's about a mile from town, in one of the sharply curved parts of the road. The snow is nearly a foot deep in spots. Even in broad daylight, the road is none too accommodating, this early in the morning.

It takes about thirty minutes to get to the accident site. Several of the Sheriff's men are blocking the road. A few farm carts and one coach have all pulled to the side of the road to wait-out the delay.

The Sheriff and the Earl are immediately allowed through. John and the Earl walk over to the accident site. The coach slid off the road and rolled onto its side. The Sheriff’s men have provided a small ladder, for anyone wanting to go into the overturned coach. The coachman has been thrown off of his seat, and is lying in a crumpled heap about 10 feet from the coach. Nothing unusual there. The man was thrown to his death when the coach slid off the road.

The Earl finds the Sheriff waiting for him near the bottom of the ladder. Laying on the side of the coach is a beautifully carved wooden box.

“I'm so sorry that you have to see this, M'Lord, but something bad has happened here. It’s not just the accident, but rather something that happened before the coach ended up in the ditch,” he explains.

John points up the ladder, and to the inside of the coach. From the top of the ladder, the smell of death and violence are clearly present. The first thing the Earl sees from the top of the ladder is the blood. It's splattered everywhere, even on the walls. There are also two bloody hand-prints decorating the far wall of the coach.

But the condition of his son causes him to cry out in parental anguish. Albert lays sprawled against the far side of the coach. He's quite dead, his eyes open and glazed over. His face is a mask of pure terror, his mouth open as if to scream.

Then the true horror of what he’s seeing starts to settle upon the Earl. Albert is naked except for a bloodied white shirt and his mid-calf black boots. But it's his groin that tells a tale of rape and debauchery. His bloody manhood is encased in a leather harness with a brass cap, crowned by a long, armor-piercing metal tip. Everything is coated in a layer of dried blood.

The Earl’s failure as a father now obviously includes the rape and murder of innocent young women. He knew that the boy was deranged, but this is beyond his wildest imagination. His own son was a monster! His shame complete, the Earl of Warwick descends the ladder. Staggering, he leans up against his friend.

John supports his friend the Earl. “I'm so sorry, M'Lord. I wish this hadn't been necessary. How do you wish me to proceed?”

The Earl regains a measure of control, and points at the decorated wooden box. “What's inside it, John?” he asks, greatly fearing the answer.

The Sheriff shakes his head. “It's filled with trophies—more blood-covered points like the one he's wearing, M'Lord,” he answers hoarsely.

“How many, John?” The Earl sighs before continuing. “How many has he taken before tonight?”

The Sheriff answers with great sadness. “Eleven before tonight, M’lord, but we haven't located the twelfth just yet! We may never find her, now that they're both dead.”

The Earl thinks for a few moments, then stands and straightens himself. “Thank you, John. Please find someone you trust to do exactly what I want. Wrap him as for a simple peasant’s burial. No markings, no nothing. And place that infernal box on his chest, with him holding it. I want him to burn in the 7th level of hell, knowing that he took twelve innocent lives.” He stops to regain some control. “Take him to St. Ann's. Have him buried in an unmarked grave in the Paupers Field. No last rights, no funeral ceremony. Just dump that piece of trash in a hole, and cover it up.”

John is shocked by what he has just heard. He steps back from his grieving friend, and can only say, “Yes, M'Lord!”

With that, the fourth Earl of Warwick turns, and, without looking back, walks slowly to the Sheriff's coach.

The Sheriff needs a few minutes to relay the Earl’s instructions to his men, and then he joins the Earl in the coach for the quiet ride back to the castle.

The Earl gets out of the coach and looks around at his castle. This venerable old fortress home has been in his family for centuries, but this is the first time that he can hardly bring himself to look upon it. He looks back through the door of the coach at the High Sheriff of Warwick, his friend.

Epilogue 2

The Fourth Earl of Warwick

“Thank you, John, for everything,” I tell the High Sheriff. “The honor of my house is in your hands. Please locate the families my son has wronged so grievously, and I will do as right by them as I can. Also, any additional costs can be brought to my butler for recompense. I will leave word with my staff to give you any help you need. I'll be leaving for London within the hour.”

I bow slightly, turn, and walk briskly into the dismal interior of my once proud home. Inside the entrance I stop to talk briefly with my entire staff. To a man, they all express their sorrow for my loss. If they only knew...

I finally finish, and I walk into my private office. With me are my butler, senior clark, solicitor, and a scribe. I sit down across from these grim-faced men, and I tell them what I need done.

“I have just come from an accident in which my son and his coachman, James, were killed in a coaching mishap. I have given the High Sheriff instructions for the burial of my son's body. Please make arrangements with his coachman’s family, for them to bury their loved-one. Provide any financial assistance that they might need.” I pause.

“As for my son, I want all written documentation of his existence removed from all records, public and private. I want his original birth records retrieved from the church, along with all records of his education, and any other writing which references him. Everything that even hints at his existence, I want destroyed...not held or saved in any fashion. I want him expunged from my family. I have no son. Indeed, I've had no son…not now, nor in the past. Everything in his room is to be taken out into the center yard and burned. Anything and everything he owned is to be burned completely.” I stop and make eye contact with everyone. “Is this clear? Furthermore, I never want to hear his name uttered again by anyone.” I finish, and then I dismiss them.

I get up a few minutes later, and make my way to my private chambers to pack for London. On my way, I find one of my grooms, and send him off to get my coach ready.

Almost to the hour, I ride away from my ancestral home, never to return. Metaphorically, my tail is hanging between my legs, and I start the long trip to London where I will lick my wounds and forget...

The End