The Beast Within

The Changeling: Chapter Five

My eyes opened.

I was in bed, tucked safely in the room Sampson had surprised me with. Outside, birds were chittering and singing, signaling the passing of night into morning. Before I looked at my hands to confirm it, I knew I was no longer a wolf.

But I did not have time to fret over what happened to me, for there was a new and more heinous worry on my mind.

Moira.

The child was gone, replaced with a wicked, nasty thing.

I wondered if Sampson and Angela would notice, if upon looking at their daughter they would see the terrible switch that had been made while they slept. I was desperate to see the child, and I prayed her abduction had been another nightmare.

I was up and pacing around the tavern's main room before anyone else, and I watched with uneasy anticipation as each guest left their room for breakfast, all of them groggy and holding their heads, no doubt suffering from the celebration of the previous night. An uncharacteristically late Angela appeared with Moira in her arms, but dashed into the kitchen without saying a word to anyone. I tensed, preparing for the moment when the woman would run from the kitchen screaming, once she realized her daughter was not at home.

But it never happened. After several minutes, Angela reappeared and sat her child on the counter before motioning me over with a smile.

"Been a slow and tired morning," she confessed, "and Moira's more fussy than usual. Would you mind looking after her while I start the house?"

I nodded, eager to have the child to myself for a moment, and took Moira in my arms.

"Mind her grumpy mood," Angela advised, "she bit me when I took her from the crib."

The woman left to tend to breakfast.

"Good morning, Moira," I greeted with thick suspicion as I studied the child's eyes.

They held no sign of an imposter. A perfect black circle sat inside a hazel iris, and there were no wrinkles on her face. Moira grew impatient with my staring, and she put her hands on my cheeks before gurgling in displeasure.

I released her onto the counter and she began to whine, but I could not detect a change in her voice.

Still, the hair on my neck was standing straight. Something was wrong, I was certain of it.

Moira's complaining continued, threatening to turn into screams, until her mother set bowl of warm porridge before her.

"I'll take her now," Angela said, "she'll be mighty hungry—goodness!"

I followed the woman's wide eyes to Moira, who was punching fistfuls of food into her mouth at a rapid pace, like a starving bear devouring scraps from a carcass. We watched in morbid fascination as the toddler lapped every last glop of oats. Then, with a dexterity she'd never shown before, Moira held the bowl to her face and licked the dish clean.

"Careful, love, or you'll burn your tongue!" Angela exclaimed.

When she moved to take the bowl, Moira pushed her mother's hands away and uttered a low growl before tossing the empty dish and demanding in a high voice, "More!"

Angela's stare was dumbfounded. I was confident the ruse was up.

After a pause, Angela laughed.

"One thing I've learned in raising a child is that they grow in peculiar ways."

She took the bowl into the kitchen to refill it.

We watched Moira consume two more helpings before she was satisfied, and from the corner of my eye I could see Angela growing worried. At last, Moira threw her third clean bowl to the ground and announced that she was full.