The wolves were hunting him. He could hear their howling behind him, chilling his blood, as he stumbled through snow and night, driven only by fear of their horned master. Their pale shadows, or their ghosts, were all around him, turning to look at him with their foam-flecked jaws dripping blood, before turning back to pacing him, playing with him, waiting for him to tire and fall so they could call their brothers to the feast.
The night was black about him, moonless, starless, and he knew not what faint illumination reflected whitely from the snow beneath him. Then he stumbled and fell and it was not snow beneath him but bone, a vast plain of bones cracking beneath his feet and now cutting into his hands as he knelt, his terror too great to rise anymore. Blood dripped painlessly from his lacerated hands and knees, into the gaps between the bones, and the shadows took shape and rose up in a great flock of birds, and the beating of their wings was also somehow the beating of his heart. And then the flock coalesced and became the shape of a man, a man with antlers springing bone-white and razor-sharp from his forehead. He smiled, and his teeth were the fangs of a wolf, of the pack gathered silently in the shadows at the edge of his vision. And then he gestured and the dripping blood that had dribbled away between the bones began rising like a flood, more than a man, a nation could hold, rising up through the plain of death as he dissolved again into ravens who beat their wings and heads against the kneeling man, suffocating him as the wolves closed in and the blood sea rose to his mouth and nostrils. And through the chaos a single thread of music, a voice like a knife who cut through the noise and the night and the pain. A woman's voice, and in her mind only her words, laughing; 'The third time is the charm'. And nothing.
He awoke to half-light, with his heart racing, momentarily convinced that the sweat which bathed him was blood. He waited, silently, for her to move, to speak, the words in his dream ringing in his ears so clearly he could not believe she was not there. But gradually he identified the unfamiliar shadows of this room, and the odd shadow by the door was not her coat, and neither was the darkness on the wall, cast by the junk on the wardrobe, the spread of her hair. His breathing slowed and he dared to move, to fumble by the side of his bed, searching for the bottle that was always there for emergencies such as this. But when he finally found it it was on its side, the smell in the room telling him that the last dregs he had not drunk last night had again drained into the carpet. He hauled the bottle to his mouth anyway, but when he upended it only a few drops rewarded him.
Karl cursed, and the ragged sound of his voice broke the last of the spell. Turning over he reached out and the bedside lamp flicked into life, the false brightness of its artificial light stabbing pain into Karl's eyes even as it banished the shadows he so feared. Just another dream. How had she got so far into his mind so quickly, to leave behind these nightmares as her signature? No matter how much he drank he could not banish them, and nore could he escape the grey burden of reality, of the fragility of existence. But at least it stopped him thinking for a while.
The light seemed to have been a signal, for as the adrenaline receded bodily discomfort took its place. His head throbbed as he moved, and he suddenly felt as if he was going to throw up. Swallowing, and trying to work some moisture into his dry, straw-filled mouth, Karl carefully sat up.
On the floor was his filthy dressing gown. Karl grabbed it by the neck and shrugged it on, breathing shallowly as the smell of the thing, of sweat and whisky and cheap perfume, hit his stomach like a blow. Then he walked over to the desk and scrabbled in one of the drawers, not caring what might be broken, until he found the hip flask he had hidden there. Unscrewing the cap he sat back down on the bed, dropping the cap into the middle of the blankets as he took a long swig.
As the whisky warmed him and reassured him, he faced the task he knew he had been putting off. Slowly, as if trying to fight a force he knew he could not resist, Karl turned his head towards the easel. Towards his painting of her.
The first time he had seen her was in the weeks before Beltaine, at a ritual within the Rollright stones. On the strength of a dream he had dragged his friends across the Atlantic to seek the King's sword that had once been Caliburn, and now they sought further advice from the one who had guided them. And so Karl, who had begun the search and led them to the sword, had been forced to guard while another had taken Caliburn and cast the spell.
A mist began to gather outside the circle defined by the stones. As the chanting continued from behind him, Karl could hear it echoed by something in the darkening mists. Occasional swirls in the fog brought to mind something he could not quite remember, but his hair stood on end as the air within the circle began to crackle with static electricity. The chanting from outside began to change, as if a mask was slipping from it, altering in pitch and texture until it became a discordinate howling from the throats of wolves. Above the howling, closer, came the whirring sound of wings, as a flock of black birds broke through the mist and were deflected by some kind of invisible barrier, circling the stone circle several times before returning to the mist. Then the howling grew distant, and the mist lightened until Karl could almost glimpse grass and sky once more.
'What are you doing here?' The unfamiliar voice came from behind him and Karl whirled as the chanting ended with a gasp. At the centre of the circle, facing the kneeling figure of Karl's companion, was a robed man, his hands hidden by his brown, coarse robe as his face was by his hood. As his friend gasped and stammered, Karl leaned nonchalantly against one of the stones - senses alert for danger behind him - and replied.
'Well, we've got the bloody sword. Now what do you want us to do with the thing?'
The robed figure, seemingly unsurprised by this response, turned to face him. 'Reinforce the barriers. Imprison her once more, lest she wreak havoc upon the world as she has done twice before. The third time is the charm, and if she escapes we are lost.'
Female laughter overlaid the last words, and Karl turned again to see the woman who stood without the circle.
She was beautiful. She stood in the place where the mists were clearest, and the light shone about her as the wind moved the fine strands of her raven-black hair, even darker than his own. Her eyes were green, like a cat's, and easily pierced the dimness as she gazed with amused disdain at the robed figure within the clearing, who appeared to be looking back at her. She seemed delicate, as if she might break, but there was a sword, almost the match to Caliburn, at her hip. Karl knew what she was, of course, but still his pulse raced. It was as if she had bypassed his mind and gone straight to his groin.
'They need me and you know it, old fool,' she said scornfully. 'Besides, it would take a miracle to stop me now. I'm so close I can feel it, and all I need is a single channel before I can free myself. And then what will you do, when you've all locked yourselves away for nothing? It will be years before you can follow me.'
Her voice grew strident as the cowled figure turned pointedly away from her. She snarled to herself, flinging her gorgeous hair back from her shoulders, before seeming to notice Karl. She smiled.
'Hi,' he said.
'Hi,' she replied. And then, with a wicked grin that was just for him, 'Maybe this won't be so tedious after all.'
'Who are you?' Karl asked lightly, drawing a little closer.
She seemed to have trouble with that question, considering for a moment, her green eyes unnervingly fixed on him. 'Morgwen,' she said at last. And then, with a tiny lift of one eyebrow, 'And you are?'
'Karl.' He had said it without thinking, and cursed himself for doing so, for giving her the most basic of holds on him. Names had power, and his heart turned to stone within him at her brief, captivating smile.
But she was beautiful, too beautiful to resist. It must have been a warm day where she was, beyond the barrier, for she began removing some of her outer layers of clothing, smiling at him with the tentative boldness of an innocent all the while.
He was also growing hot, but for a different reason. With each moment Morgwen appeared to be wearing less, and his lust for her consumed him. His body ached with the fire he was trying to contain, ached for her touch to release him. Her cool touch upon his burning skin, her cheek resting over his heart, her hair splayed across his chest. And her hands, touching him as he dared touch her, the sweet perfection of her flesh, bringing him to orgasm again and again as he plunged within her and it was her turn to cry out, back arched, neck back and he could see the bulging of the vein at her throat and
She held out one hand, beckoning. Unable to resist, Karl stepped forwards - and halted, held just within the circle by a cold hand on his wrist, whose grip he could not break. The cold broke the spell and Karl stumbled back as Morgwen snarled, cheated of her prey, and stepped back into the mists which had thickened about her. The cowled figure who had stopped him shook his head, once, slowly. Prompted by some sixth sense, and the unnatural chill of the hand that held him, Karl's gaze traveled slowly down the robed man's arm, and stopped at the gleam of silver at the end. Sudden understanding hit him, and he fainted.
The painting had changed again, as he had known it would. This time, though, was the worst. On Morgwen's shapely shouler, half-hidden by her hair, perched a huge black bird. Its red eye glared out at him, seeming to follow his movements. Its beak, light against the darkness of her hair, curved cruelly into a razor-sharp point. Teeth lined the edges of the beak, teeth such as no bird ever had, like a cat's, small and exquisitely sharp. The raven's talons dug into Morgwen's shoulder, piercing the cloth and drawing blood which ran in rivulets down her front. But she was smiling, welcoming the pain, welcoming the smell of the blood and the battlefield behind her.
There could no longer be any doubt of who she was. Karl dropped his flask and the whisky soaked into the blankets as he stumbled for the door. Slamming it behind him he leaned against the wood, sobbing with a desperate fear and hopelessness. He only hoped there would be time for him to get good and paralytic before she came for him.
He had painted the picture when he got back to Oxford, his only model his lust-blurred memory. It had been good, even then - the beautiful woman beckoning against a background of mist wraiths. He had worked at it hard in the week before Beltaine, drawing his lust and trying to exorcise it. But when Beltaine came, and the tides of the earth began to rise in his own flesh, he knew he had failed.
And so he had left his house and ended up at the Horse and Jockey, armed only with the vague hope that he might get drunk enough not to remember her or want her. But he had been lucky that night - luckier than he had expected, actually. And late that night he had left the pub with a black-haired beauty babbling at his side, whose only similarity to Morgwen was in the colour of her hair. They had celebrated Beltaine together in the old way, with the heat of body on body, a casual lust which did not even know her name.
But he had awoken alone in the cold light of dawn, with nothing to indicate that there had been anyone there that night but himself. And it had not been until much later that day that he had noticed the change in his painting of Morgwen, that instead of merely looking like her the woman in the painting had become Morgwen to the life, save that she did not move. And it was not until then that he had found the note, pinned to his easel. "One all, Karl, but remember - the third time is the charm." And it was not until then that he had started drinking.
His life after that had become a nightmare. Each night he would collapse into his bed, dead drunk with whisky he knew could not keep the dreams away, and each morning he would awake bleary-eyed and sick to find another addition to his painting. Sometimes the paint was still wet. At first it had been the mist background, slowly giving way to a battlefield so realistic the room stank of death. Then other touches had been added - the blood red sky, one by one the wolf pack, hunting across the sky with the horned one before them. Morgwen's spear.
In terror, Karl had turned to those few spells he knew, and in desperation he had attempted propitiation. His long-time friends had left him, claiming he was insane. Maybe he was. But he had reason for it. He remembered stalking the streets after dark until he had found his quarry, a black cat. He remembered how small she had been, the way she had screamed as he had slit her open, chanting as the blood ran across his hands and into the bowl. The little red collar he had burned, weeping as he did so for thought of the family who had lost their pet.
It had made no difference. With each addition the painting had felt more and more complete, and with the raven it was finished.
'Time to go home now.' A huge hand shook Karl's shoulder, forcing him into wakefulness, his head spinning so much he hardly dared move. But he was being forced to his feet despite his thick-tongued protests. He tried to focus his rebellious eyes upon his molester but found it impossible, and his limbs would not obey him when he tried to break free. His legs could not seem to support him properly as he was dragged to the door and put outside, and he collapsed onto the stone paving with his head resting against a bench.
He so wanted to go back to sleep, but it was cold out here. The cold reached fingers of ice into his bones and shook him awake every time his eyes closed, clearing a little of the fuzz from his drink-sodden brain. He couldn't stay here. There was nowhere to hide, no way to fight, and in this state he could not even run from her.
Karl pulled himself to his feet, swaying there for a brief moment before collapsing into a sitting position on the bench beside him, leaning against the table. Going home seemed such a worthless effort. Why make it hard for her? There was little enough she could do to him worse than she had already done, and his body ached for her, ached for her touch that gave him something that all the whores in the city could not. It was an addiction, and it would kill him.
But some instinct urged him on again, kindled within him a stubbornness, a will not to give up. Karl struggled to his feet again and stumbled out of the yard, clutching at benches and lampposts to aid his balance as he turned towards home, towards the safety that he yet thought he might find there.
The night was dark, clouds hiding both moon and stars, making it difficult for Karl's drink-blurred eyes to guide him. A discarded Coke can clattered into the shadows at the side of the road, making his heart lurch until he realised that he himself had kicked it. He half-collapsed against a wall, tense and still, trying to bring his breathing back under control before he could bring himself to go on. The shadows appeared to leap out at him, developing claws to drag him back to them.
A thin mist rose from the ground, patchy and distorting both sound and sight until the familiar streets of his neighbourhood seemes strange to him, as if he were being pulled into some otherworld. When a door slammed behind him he clutched himself, sobbing with fear, not daring to look behind as the silence lengthened, broken only by his muffled sobs of terror. When he could eventually look round he saw nothing. His nerves stretched to breaking point and past, yet somehow he kept going, kept stumbling towards the doubtful safety of his house.
He entered the familiar street, and something brushed against his legs. Karl yelped and reflexively jumped back, but still too drunk to keep his balance he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, each breath a whimper. The sight of the cat reassured him only a little, and he backed away as it tentatively approached, at the same time getting back to his unsteady feet again. With the fear of the hunted he began to draw back again into the shadows between the street lamps, to continue his silent flight. It was then that he heard the wings in the distance.
With a despairing cry Karl bolted, but even as he did so the cat before him changed, black coat becoming black hair but green eyes the same, her smile painfully twistinghis gut. Almost against his will he slowed, until he was standing before her, swaying slightly.
'Karl,' she said sweetly, her voice ringing clear.
''Lo Morg'en,' he slurred helplesly, his tongue tangled between the name she had given him and the name he now knew her by. Already he knew he could not flee her. Instead he wanted her, despairingly, helplessly, shamed by the force of his need. A need not alcohol nor fear nor even death would ever take from him.
In her face he saw his death, consumed by the hunger in her soul that no lover could ever fill. He was burning with a desire worse than lust, worse than hate, for the heat aching within him was the cleaving of the darkness in his soul to that of one who was nothing but shadow. She called to the hunger within him and he had no choice but to respond. He wanted her beneath him, wanted to hurt her as he entered her, wanted to tear her with the force of the need she had engendered within him.
She smiled and Karl's vision blurred with a haze of heat. Then she held out one slender hand, beckoning. With a desperate sob Karl reached out and grabbed her to him, his ribs crushing against her breasts, her hands like ice upon his fevered arms, his whisky-laden breath on her cheek as her hair fell about his arms and shoulders, soft as feathers. And feathers there were, wings beating about him as he sank to the ground with her above him and the darkness closed him in.
Karl's death went virtually unnoticed amidst the flurry that greeted the simultaneous outbreaks of violence around the world. His body was found without a single mark, only a few black feathers found scattered near him. No acceptable cause of death was ever established. When his house was searched, first by the police and then by those who had once been his friends, only two interesting features were noticed. First, the stench of whisky that filled the premises, coupled with the bottles to be found in every room. And secondly, the empty canvas on the easel.
