John stepped out of the shadows, and reached for the baby. The rapidly rising moon behind him threw his form into silhouette. It elongated his outstretched arms, and created a sharp beak from the brim of his slouch hat as though a fairy tale monster was creeping up the wall toward me.

“Hurry, Sowilo, the moon is a full one. We needed its blessing to get this done, but even so, it turns to a dangerous time.” As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder into the darkness of the field. “Hurry!”

I pressed the child into his hands. “Take him. Careful! He’s mewling.” The baby twisted and turned in the blanket, releasing little whimpers and snorts that reminded me of a piglet I’d raised when I was only a bairn myself. The scar was burning livid on his cheek once more, and his pure white skin had dulled to the golden tan of newly-smoked buckskin.

The window was almost at ground level. With the baby in one arm, John assisted me as I sat on the sill, twisted, and jumped outside.

In the far distance, hunting dogs howled, and eerie shouts drifted across the blackened field. Trader had gathered a force. He could raise a thousand umbrae if he wished, shades from the DeadLands forced to his will, and there would be shadow dogs in their company, too.

When we’d discussed this mission in the privacy of the bed we’d shared not three nights earlier, John had warned me to expect this. He’d faced them many times in his crusade. I knew of Trader, of course. We all did. But I’d never come up against either him or his army before.

The quivers running through my hand transferred to John’s, and he caught my eye. In the darkness, I felt his strength, the fire in his heart. His voice came low, pouring calm into the moment, “Just as we planned, Wilo. We knew he’d be coming.”

My own heart spilled over. Excitement? Maybe. More likely it was the desire to get to the fight. In my heart of hearts, I was not driven by a desire to save this child, but the upcoming battle would bring me closer to freeing the one who remained in my every thought, my dear girl.

I raised my chin and released his hand “The shakes are not fear, John. I’m ready.”

His teeth gleamed a smile in the moonlight, and I heard him shift the child to his other arm. “Good. Remember, God is with us. We do His work tonight.” He brought up the rifle, a brand new Winchester, and thrust it at me; he’d not be able to fire it one-handed. “Take it!”

The baby whimpered piteously, the earlier grunts now twisted into angry yips, and he squirmed so violently in the crook of John’s arm, I thought he may drop him. I grasped the gun, glad he’d chosen the child over the weapon.

I must admit, I did tremble a little when the reek of the oncoming army reached me. Rotten flesh, old blood, and brittle bones—the stench caught in my throat forcing me to cough and gag. Trader had raised an army from the recent war dead. Their bodies had not yet lain in the ground three years before he’d forced them to his side. Soldiers from both sides risen for a single purpose: to chase us down, and snatch the baby from us.

Together we ran across the smallholding, keeping to the softer sand, moving as silently as possible. But the hot desert wind had risen with the moon, and declared our trail by scent alone. The dogs barked louder. Turning, I could see their outlines leaping over the dead crops, showers of saliva spraying from their mouths, like clouds of aphids’ wings reflecting the light, and rising in one mass into the air. The moonlight flashed off the dogs’ teeth, and I heard their jaws snapping. The gap between us closed with every bound.

“Nearly at the river! We’ll make it. They can’t cross.” John yelled the words over his shoulder. He measured his long stride to not get too far ahead of me. I closed the space between us, finding a little more breath in the desire to reach safety and determination not to hold him back.

The river marked the northern boundary of the homestead, and I could see the charms we’d set before entering sparking dull colors in the brush by the steep bank down to the water’s edge. The magic, together with the purity of the fast-running water and the lead-filled rocks on the river bed, was sufficient to prevent our pursuers from crossing. Lead weakens the shades. On contact, it will pull them back down to the depths they have left; the darkest parts of the DeadLands.

“By Jesus! Stop, kid!” John continued to run, but battled with the child under his arm who squirmed and cried and kicked with a strength far beyond his two months. John now carried him like a parcel, his elbow holding his lower body firmly to his side with his hand gripped around the child’s head.

As the clouds cleared from the moon’s perfect form, the river came into view in front of us. A dancing ribbon of light that formed the boundary to the land. At the same time, the baby gave a pained whimper followed by a howl that set my teeth on age.

“Hell’s teeth, we have to get to the other side now. We’re running out of time. We can’t lose him this side of the river.” John jumped the bank. He disappeared from my view, but I followed the sound of the splash. I leaped with a little less bravado. I’m not scared of dirt or water or heights, but meeting all three in the dark gave me reasonable cause for concern.

I landed short, and skidded the remaining few feet coming to rest in three feet of water. The river was low, but the current ran fast. It pulled at my legs, threatening to overbalance me. I slung the rifle over my right shoulder holding the barrel to keep it steady, then hitched my skirts with my left hand and waded across the water. Three feet became four soon enough, and then I sank to chest level. There it remained for five or six paces before, thankfully, the river bed started to rise again, and I could feel the sharp lead rocks under my feet.

John had already scrambled up the bank, and was gazing across into the field we’d just run from. Looking back, I could see the hounds had reached the edge of the boundary and smashed into the charms. They whimpered and growled, some still showing teeth, hackles raised, but others already backtracking looking for another route. Our scents had been washed away with the stink of ragweed, river water, and mud.

I dragged myself up the almost vertical bank opposite to the dogs, and watched their dark shapes shuffle around, sniffing disconsolately at the brush and the odd little tree that stuck out from the bank.

Behind them, the ghastly soldiers marched up to the river and stood immobile, sensing the lead barrier that would halt their progress. Cold dead eyes dull under Confederate and Yankee caps. In death, they were brothers.

Finally, they parted, and Trader appeared. Keeping to the shadow cast by his men in the moonlight.

For many years I’d not believed in the devil whose name depicted his profession. Trader peddled human souls for the money or favors of the darkest of demons. Like others, I had believed he was just the nightmare parents used to keep their children in line.

But he was real. And here was my proof.

I couldn’t see him clearly at this distance. The moon gave me the impression of a swirl of black, and a glimmer of silver. My senses suggested the jagged edge of the sharpest diamond. Even from the other side of the river, I heard the discordant tones of a twisted mind.

“John Wolfe, I know you.” He barely raised his voice, but the low-timbred drawl fought the wind currents and echoed around us. “I will have the boy. He is promised. Blood was signed by his parents. A rightful agreement, fair and square. Blood will out, Wolfe, you have no jurisdiction over this promise. No rights to breakage. I will have him.”

John put his finger to his lips, hushing me to silence, though he needn’t have given the warning. If Trader hears your voice, he knows you forever, in this world and the next. When Trader knows you, your future is sealed.

After a pause, he turned and walked away, followed by the pack of dead and dogs, but his chuckle drifted back to us.

With his retreat, I breathed once more, and climbed the remaining few steps to stand beside John and the boy. “How’s the child?”

“Turned.” John pushed aside the blanket.

The baby was now covered in soft black fluff, changing to longer guard hairs on his back and sides. Although his lower portions were vaguely human, his upper half had transformed to resemble a canine. Needle-like teeth protruded from his mouth, black lips had rolled back in a sloppy puppy smile, and a long pink tongue lolled onto his chin. The flesh on his tummy was pink, the remainder tan.

One tiny fist, more a paw than a hand, still curled around John’s finger. He’d pushed the other into his mouth where he sucked happily now the pain of the transformation was over.

Without the brief heat of my knife carving the sigil, he would be dead, or in the arms of Trader, of that I was sure. It was the pact his parents had made. If that had come to pass while in human form, his soul would suffer for eternity.

And so at John’s behest, and using the magic of my Moura heritage, I’d offered him the protection of the charm, the old words sealing the scar he would sport for the rest of his days.

The mark of the wolf.