Wolf Omega: The Lykanos Chronicles 2

Chapter Forty

We traveled for days in our werewolf form, keeping our distance from others and moving through whatever shadows we could find.

"We must place as much distance between us and home as possible," Maximo insisted.

He was certain Duccio or the Sforza's would hunt us, and he needed only to quote Sempronio's last command to convince me that our grueling flight was essential.

I'd never been in my werewolf form for longer than a few hours at a time. Our exodus soon brought me face to face with certain practicalities for which I was unprepared. We needed food, so we hunted small game in the forest. Our predator bodies were able to devour and digest the uncooked meat. We needed fresh water, and so we remained near rivers and lakes throughout our journey. I needed to relieve my bladder and bowels quickly. It was an experience so unusual that you will never read another word about it from me. Suffice it to say that my longing for my lycan body soon launched a campaign of debates with Maximo.

"How do you intend for us to do that?" Maximo finally countered with more than just a shake of his angry head. "We have nothing. No currency or valuables. Not even clothing to shield us from the elements. Do you intend to take them from bandits? Will we locate a ruffian wearing a dress in your size?"

"I will be fine in the simple tunic of a farmer's wife. It's easy enough to fetch one."

"To steal one, you mean? Is that how you intend to solve our problems now? Go ahead, steal a dress. Steal a horse and a purse. Hell, steal a castle while you're at it, and we can sit there to wait for Duccio."

Maximo stopped moving and turned to me with growing anger in his eyes.

"We are running for our lives, do you not understand?" he growled.

"But running where? Where are we headed but toward the setting sun?"

"We're not yet past Sforza's border. From there, we walk through the Brunello domain, who are no friends to us either. Past them will be the pack of Pont-Saint-Martin. And past them... I pray to find someone who will not be on the lookout for foreigners, though that is foolishness. Everyone knows Sempronio's name, and when word reaches them of the master's death, they will never receive us kindly as refugees. Even the least of our enemies will hunt us for his secrets. Some will hear his name in the anguish of our passive thoughts. So we have no choice—we must be rogues."

"To what end? Will we exhaust ourselves to live as werewolves forever?"

"I don't know!" Maximo shouted in frustration. "I don't know how."

He turned from me and sat down heavily against a tree. In seconds, he reduced to his lycan form. With his knees pulled to him, Maximo held his head. He was suffering the same as me.

Seeing him filthy and naked in his sorrow, I stopped my retribution to sit beside him. When I lay my head silently against his shoulder, he wept without a sound.

"I don't know how many others Duccio killed," Maximo whispered once he could, "but I hope you remember all Father told you. His works are gone. I saw his study in flames before Duccio killed him. The entire library—all his creations—nothing could've survived it. We may be the last to know anything of his wisdom."

The words paralyzed me.

My mind raced through everything Sempronio had ever said to me; of every drawing, map, schematic, or painting he'd shown me. I scoured my memory in vain for the master's observations on this subject or the next. All of it was but a ghost impression, lingering intangibly in my memory.

I wanted nothing more now than an ink quill and writing parchment—some way to capture every fragment that was still available to me—before it all disappeared.