Shapeshifters are real. The zmeu that pesters me is proof enough, but there are more than that spirit beast to contend with. I'd read of them extensively, but never seen the genesis of one, until Radu Dumitru. It's fascinating, and I vow never to be so close to it ever again.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

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  Dragos jerked back, fingers clamped around the string as Radu’s arm swiped at him. The wanderer flung himself away, the man’s claw-like nails slicing across his chin. He spun, his prize snatched. But the cost may have been too high.

  “Ilinca! Run!”

  Dragos hit the wall and rolled, changing momentum to angle himself where he needed to go. His own claws lay in his kit. Too many steps away. If Radu didn’t control the bear, he’d never get to them in time.

  The woman by the table flapped her arms and screamed, “Radu! Stop!”

  The hulking being’s head turned her way. With a sinking horror, Dragos recognized its lack of recognition, its rage at being disrupted. The bear controlled the man.

  “Get out!” Dragos shouted, stumbling into a dive for the little pallet of rushes he’d slept on.

  Ilinca did not run. Instead, she threw the dutch oven at Radu, who swiped it out of the air like an annoying fly. With a tiny shriek, Ilinca snatched up the fire poker and brandished it wildly.

  “Stay back, Radu! You’re not a bear, by the Light!” Terror was laced through her words, but also an unmistakable tone. The one of a wife exasperated. She was a brave heart, indeed.

  Dragos dropped the tooth and snapped up his belt, yanking his bladed gloves from their sturdy pouch.

  Radu roared again and charged at Ilinca, bounding up onto the table, which groaned in protest. Ilinca backed up towards the low fire, illuminated from behind, a wild-eyed woman cornered, the poker up, point first towards her husband.

  “You’re a man, Radu, and true men don’t act like this,” Ilinca chided, but her trembling voice betrayed the terror she tried to suppress.

  The gloves slipped on, dull metal claws jutted from Dragos's knuckles. Iron, meant for other spirits, may well be a deterrent for the spirit of a bear trapped within a man.

  That the bear hesitated when Ilinca waved the iron poker at him…

  Dragos buckled his gloves with cold calculation as Ilinca held off a raging werebear with a simple fire poker. Perhaps Radu’s hesitancy spawned from her words. He hoped so.

  Taking a long, deep breath, Dragos glanced at the door. He could run. This had not begun with him, and it would not end so. He could leave Ilinca and Radu to whatever fate decided. He had his own family to find.

  The urge to go for the door was strong.

  Ilinca could die.

  He dashed forward, leapt up, arms out to bring his claws down squarely into Radu’s thick back. Radu roared, spinning around. Flung off him, Dragos's claws tore from the beast’s flesh. As he crashed to the unforgiving earth, Dragos caught sight of thin wafts of vapor from Radu’s new wounds.

  Dragos hit the bed frame in a tumble. Sparkles danced in his eyes.

  A memory surfaced. A pale girl blew dandelion fluff in his face. A sunny day, the air so clear it sparkled…

  Shaking his head free of the impact’s effects, he scrambled to his feet as Radu turned to face him. One last time, he cried out.

  “Ilinca! Go!”

  This time, the woman broke. With a sob, she fled. The door banged open, the dazzle of morning light flooding the house, blazing across Dragos's eyes. Her figure imprinted on that rectangle of light, and then she was gone.

  Radu bounded at him on all fours. Fast. Faster than a man. Dragos scrambled under the bed, the searing burn of claws caught his leg before he slithered under, lithe as a snake. The werebear rounded the bed, flattened, and swiped a thick arm beneath it, catching Dragos's shirt, long black claws tearing the fabric as easily as they could tear open his flesh.

  The wanderer met the enraged fury within those amber eyes, his own gaze steady. His heart thundered in his chest, but a part of him was wholly unafraid. Detached. Fascinated. Radu’s shirt tore as his forearm split the seams, fur bursting forth. The werebear swiped again, huffing angrily. Dragos swiped back, iron claws scoring the bear’s paw.

  Pressed between a backful of bound rushes and a belly of cold earth, Dragos stayed put, throat rumbling a wolfish growl of warning as he stared the werebear down.

  Radu could decimate the bed above him. He could crush him.

  The bear spirit had no understanding of reason or strategy. It was angry. Hurt. Dragos's growl promised more pain. The tang of blood hung close, metallic. The wound on his chin throbbed, and his calf—he didn’t want to contemplate it.

  The werebear huffed and slammed a paw into the bed, which creaked and slid but held firm. Dragos lay still. His low, threatening growl remained constant, broken only by breath. The bear smelled blood, pacing on all fours. Hard grunting huffs of breath gave way to sniffing. Dragos skittered, scraping around beneath the bed to keep pace. Hunted.

  Soon enough, the bear plodded to the hearth and snuffled there, bored of trying to get at difficult prey when there were easier things to eat. Dragos turned his head to watch with wary attention.

  Jugs smashed on the floor. Sacks tore. Something crunched in the werebear’s teeth, lips smacking pleasurably with some morsel found. The Dumitru food stores were raided, and the bear—who seemed to have forgotten about the bleeding creature under the bed—ambled through the bright square of the door, a sack dangling from its muzzle.

  Even after it was gone, Dragos lay there, cheek against the packed ground, heart calming as he considered things. The attack. The tooth dangling from a hemp thread. The change.

  Once the throbbing in his leg got worse, he crept from his hiding place, all bent elbows and scraping back until he was free. Before checking his wound, he hobbled to the door and shut it, firmly latching it. After that, he took his time, rolling up his pantleg. What was left of it. He washed and inspected the wound, jaw set against the gore. Two long claw marks parted his flesh but hadn’t done much more. It would heal with some stitching.

  The room stank of blood. Dragos ignored the anxious twitch of muscles and breathed slow and steady.

  He looked around the small room. It could have ended worse than sitting alone in a stranger's house, in his skivvies, while blood dribbled down his leg, eating bear stew and mending dirty, bloody clothes.

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  It was less hospitable without its owners. Still, he stayed. It would have been almost peaceful if not for the threat posed by Ilinca’s brother, who was like an axe poised over his head.

  Gheorge would likely kill him if he saw him again. No doubt would stay the farmer’s hand, no questions would cloud his decision. Radu’s curse would be ascribed to Dragos, no matter what Ilinca might say. Her brother could convince her it was Dragos, given enough time. People were gullible. Grieving people, moreso.

  His death would solve their hunger for justice. A simple answer for simple people.

  Bear stew soothed some of his tension, and adrenaline drained away as he ate, leaving him weary to the bones. He paused, after a few bites.

  Dragos held up his spoon, a chunk of meat sat in greasy broth. An ironic grunt escaped him and he ate it with a defeated sigh.

  He almost spilled some on himself when a knock came at the door. Hesitantly, he got up and slid a clawed glove back on. He buckled it as a second, more insistent knock came, and then the voice. That voice. Familiar, mildly irritating, but at the moment, welcome.

  “Dragos, let me in,” Zgavra’s dark tone carried through the door.

  “Yes, yes,” Dragos mumbled, limping over to flip the latch.

  The zmeu disguised itself as a hunter, a long spear in its hand, a bundle of twine hanging from its hip. The figure had a flat, peasant’s face, its shoulders laden with a wealth of small furs. Dragos regarded it a moment, then stepped back to let it in.

  “So glad you could make it. A half hour ago would have been better,” Dragos said dryly, a dull glare in his eyes.

  Zgavra looked him over and humphed. “I suppose I was late. You’re a mess.”

  Dragos bit back more bitter words and stumbled over to the table, where a chair waited for him to get off his leg. At least it wasn’t the one he’d sprained. Now he had one sore knee, and the opposite calf ached insistently despite the concoction he’d plastered on it. He flicked a glance to the kettle, where the water had not yet begun to steam.

  The gloves were taken off and tossed onto the table. He puffed white hair from his eyes with a breath and grumbled, “We’re flying out of here. I’m done walking.”

  Zgavra’s eyes roamed silently. A contemplative look fell over the zmeu’s falsely human features.

  Dragos expected protest. Something along the lines of, ‘I’m not your slave.’

  It merely nodded. “Now?”

  “No,” Dragos murmured, gaze cast to the door. “I should speak with Ilinca first. Zgavra, that tooth over there, by my box. Is there anything magical about it?”

  The zmeu’s brow quirked, and it stepped across the room to where Dragos slept the night before. It crouched down and lifted the cord with the bear’s tooth. The necklace dangled, the animal’s fang spinning gently in the dimness.

  “A curse? No. A—propensity? Yes. This tooth belonged to a werebear.”

  Dragos mulled that over and nodded to himself. He got up to make himself some tea when steam escaped the kettle. Medicinal tea, to soothe the pain and reduce swelling. More hot water was poured into a wooden bowl, and from a small kit on the table, he took a needle and dropped it in. A small spool of catgut sat beside it.

  He’d been taught that clean hands kept a wound healthier, and so he washed his bloody, dirty hands with a mix of hot water and cool. Mirel never ascribed to some of the quackery in the field of doctoring. A memory of her surfaced as he sipped the soothing tea.

  Her bright red hair, the milk-white robes that draped around her. Mirel’s glacial blue eyes never missed anything. She was nearly as pale as Dragos himself, but it was her hair that set her apart and marked her as Solomonar. Strigoi, blood witch. She taught her Cohort of Owls about things like medicine and physic. Hawk-sharp, her gaze as she watched him as he stitch and re-stitch the wounds on a corpse. “Practice,” she’d said.

  Practice. Though the wound on his calf was in an awkward place, when the needle was ready, he fished it out, strung it with catgut, and stood on his wobbly knee, twisting to place his other leg on the table. Painstakingly, he bent, contorting until he could get both hands where he needed, pinching the first wound shut.

  Zgavra sat, chin in its palms, watching with a glittering eyes fascination.

  Teeth gritted, he pierced his own skin and drew the needle through, over and over until the gouge was sealed. The bleeding stopped. The sting and ache of each stitch lingered until both of the wounds were sewn shut. Tied off. No blood vessels of note were nicked, so it was just a matter of rest.

  “Scare off anyone that arrives, but don’t hurt them. I’m…” Dragos sighed, struggling for the word. “Tired.”

  “Shouldn’t have drank that tea,” Zgavra commented.

  Dragos didn’t care. He’d had a night in warmth and relative safety. He already felt spoiled by it.

  He slept for a time. A few hours. When he woke, he ached worse than before, but got up and limped around, gathering his things.

  The bear tooth.

  He pondered over what to do with that when he stood beside the table, his peddler’s box packed, cloak on, and clothes back to a semblance of serviceable.

  It dangled between his fingers a while as he contemplated it. With a slap of his palm, the necklace hit the table. He left it there and, on his way out, threw the door wide open. If Radu came back, at least he’d have somewhere safe to sleep… unless Gheorge came for him.

  The zmeu had already transformed into the long, serpent-like dragon, crouched beside the door, waiting for him. Its tail swished lazily until Dragos took hold of its mane and hauled himself up.

  “Ilinca should be nearby. A few miles off, at another farm,” Dragos said, leaning into the dragon’s mane.

  Wind hit his face in a rush as the creature lurched up, wings scooping air until they circled far above the world. Even so high, he could see Radu’s progress, bushes shoved aside, disappearing into the density of golden leaves. The nearest farm was visible between the map of winding trees. Dragos pointed, and the zmeu landed close enough that he could watch the house from the hill above, through a stand of trees.

  When afternoon came, Ilinca appeared outside, staring off towards her home. Dragos took action. He struggled down the hill, grabbing at slender tree trunks as he went. Ilinca noticed him coming and took a step back as if to flee.

  He held up his hand, and she paused, glancing at her brother’s house. The woman took a hesitant step toward him, and he closed the distance to where they could speak without being loud. She’d slipped her knife out, but it hung by her side in the folds of her skirt.

  Dragos ignored it. “Radu left the house. I saw the path he took into the forest.”

  “He lives?” Ilinca breathed, hope flaring in her eyes, her free hand pressed to her chest. No doubt her heart wished to escape the cage around it.

  Dragos nodded curtly. “I’ve no idea how to appease or banish the bear. It can only be destroyed.”

  Ilinca’s lip quivered, eyes glossing with tears. “Will he come back?”

  “He may return home in winter. Bears sleep, and the man may wake. Then, if you want to,” Dragos paused, unsure of how to explain, “you might be with him again, for a time. He may have a chance to take hold of the beast. But, Ilinca, don’t take that risk lightly.”

  “Ghorge…” she murmured, looking back at the house, then at Dragos, where he’d hidden away in his hood.

  “Will try to kill him. I can’t tell you what to do, Ilinca. I’m sorry,” Dragos sighed. “Be careful, no matter what you choose.”

  A soft sob fell as Dragos turned away from her. Her gasping breath haunted his limping walk back to where the zmeu waited for him. Anger tinged his thoughts. There was precious little he could do for her in a world of widows and misery.

  The traveler found his dragon coiled in the sun past the copse of trees. The zmeu’s long, bearded snout lifted, dull scales a dark, ashen gray in the brilliance of the midday sun.

  “Maybe there will be signs of Solomonari from above,” Dragos said as the beast unwound itself, lowering its shoulders for him.

  “All things are better from above,” the zmeu replied. When the wanderer had settled, the creature bounded into the limitless blue of the day.

  As the wind bit at his skin, Dragos murmured, “A shame we always have to come back down again.”

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