No demonologist worth his salt can go a year or two in this discipline without hearing whispers of the infernal hounds, often called canis infernalis, or otherwise referred to as hellhounds. Rumored to be dogs born of bone-crushing hyenas of Africa that mingled with unknown and terrible beasts from the darkest unmapped, unchallenged corners of the plains, I knew I could not rest until I saw one of these creatures for myself.
It was in Marrakech that I came across a man claiming to breed these beasts. The information was bad, but meeting him whetted my appetite. If the average market swindler knew of these dogs, then perhaps they were more than myth after all. I’m certain many a foolish wanderer was tricked into purchasing one of his inferior animals, but I lingered in the city, keeping to the least reputable establishments. I will admit with some shame that I patronized opium-addled dens of sin, crime, and iniquity, and broke bread with folk from all over the world who had come to the labyrinthine markets to escape—and for some, to simply bathe in depravity until it drowned them. Often I would sit late at night, most frequently in a place I will call The Spinning Djinn, smoking a water pipe and listening to the idle gossip, not discarding even the most witless and intoxicated babble.
At last a pair of young ladies appeared; too young, I thought, to be alone in the darker haunts of Marrakech. But come they did, ordering simple tea from the purveyor and sitting on purple cushions to speak in low voices. The shorter girl carried a sturdy leather bag that she guarded closely. They caught my attention because the taller one wore a large necklace of teeth, and her arm had recently been injured. The wound looked grievous; even through bindings, fresh blood seeped through the linens. Veiled and quiet, they took caller after caller, speaking to adventurous sorts that came and went.
Just before midnight I approached them, offering to buy tea for us all. They agreed, though wary, and asked what I wanted.
“Those teeth you wear,” I said, pointing to the taller one’s adornment. “I hunt a similar beast.”
“No, mister, you don’t,” the shorter girl replied. Her eyes twinkled sapphire behind her veil. There was no telling her nation of origin, but her accent, surprisingly, sounded similar to a Bostonian’s I once met. “Thank you for the tea, now move along.”
“I have money.”
“Not enough.”
With a shrug, I pulled what looked like a small stone from my pocket and placed it on the low table between us. The untrained eye would think nothing of it, but I suspected these travelers would know its worth.
They nudged each other, sharing a look I could well interpret. Then they leaned close and had a whispered exchange, and I enjoyed my tea, noticing that the leather satchel between them was moving. The taller girl took the egg on the table and stood, and then they both left quickly. Only the wriggling bag remained.
I took the satchel and left, not daring to open the latch until I was again in my lodgings. When I looked inside, a small brown face peered out at me, innocent and long-snouted. The fur on its neck bristled and then fell, and a wet black nose touched my fingers. It licked my palm and squirmed out of the bag.
In time it would grow big, but that would not be for perhaps two hundred years. The beasts grew slowly, but when at their full size became immensely powerful. If tales held true, a fully grown hound stood taller than two men and could snap a draft horse between its jaws like a twig. I would never find out where this pup had been found or from what terrible mother it had been stolen, I knew only that in his dark eyes a low fire simmered, one that would eventually swell into an inferno.
Rare Myths and Legends: The Collected Findings of H. I. Morningside, page 50
A soul braver than I would immediately run to test the limits of this power. If I were just a common thief prowling the streets of Malton, I would have been more than happy to know of this power, but now it marked me as one of them. I wanted to forget all about the biscuit, the bread, the feeling that shimmered through me when I felt the change take place in my hand.
Mr. Morningside dismissed me after taking a tracing of the paper I had found and the symbol on the wall. He encouraged me to experience my powers but not to exhaust myself, for in his words, “The cost of such beautiful, dark magicks is time.”
That meant little to me, but I remembered Mary lamenting being unable to shield me from afar after using such skill during the storm and the widow’s death. Perhaps it would be hours or even days before I could use that “skill” of mine again. I pushed it out of my mind. And aye, I know how foolish that sounds, how strange. Why, if a person woke one morning to find they had wings, would they not attempt to fly? But those wings, like my power—my Changeling power—marked me as other. God, it was no wonder nobody at Pitney liked the look of me. Why strangers recoiled. Why my grandparents would rather pay the high cost of room and board rather than care for me themselves.
I fiddled with the scrap of burnt paper and watched Mr. Morningside retire to his offices. The green door guarding his sanctum still called to me, but it was quieter now, manageable. Everything, in fact, seemed quieter and less urgent now that I had the truth of my blood and my birth dangling right there in front of my eyes.
My mind was filled with cupboards and arguments as I idled in the foyer. Mrs. Haylam’s voice cut through the thoughtful din.
“What do you mean another lamb’s wandered onto the property?! Fetch it, Poppy! You’ve arms and legs that work. Fetch it!”
I dodged out the front doors, circling around to the kitchen entrance on the east side of the house, meeting up with Poppy and her pup as they tumbled out into the daylight. Bartholomew loped up to me, going onto his hind legs and pawing at my waist until I scooped him into my arms and scratched his ears.
“Has one of the shepherd’s lambs wandered over?” I asked, matching Poppy’s quick pace.
“How do they manage to get free?” she asked with a jutting lip. “They’re ever so small, and that fluffy mutt of his ought to keep them in line.”
“It’s a lot of sheep for one dog to manage,” I pointed out. Bartholomew seemed content to lounge in my arms, licking at my chin occasionally, his ears popping up in one configuration and then another as he eyed the fields.
“There it is!” Poppy squealed, running full tilt toward the barn.
A tiny blob of white and black paced in front of the doors. The horses inside whinnied and stamped. I bent over and let the dog jump from my arms, and all three of us reached the little lamb as it backed itself against the wood side of the barn and bleated, terrified.
“I have you now,” I said softly, coaxing it into my arms. It didn’t fight, snuggling under my chin. It was warm and smelled of clover, its new woolly body pleasantly scratchy against my skin. “Shall we find your mother?”
“Or we could eat it,” Poppy ventured, following me as I turned toward the neighboring pasture. “Mrs. Haylam makes a lamb roast that’s ever so tender.”
“It isn’t ours to keep, Poppy.”