Turning the lens on myself, I transformed, trying not to let the quasi‑sexual sensation get to me, much. Instead I held tight in my diminished cerebral cortex the purpose I had, to use animal senses and sinews for my human end.
Therefore I noted a resistance to the change. I needed twice as long as normal to complete it. More counterspells no doubt. I probably couldn’t have lycoed if I’d not had the right chromosomes, unless I were a most powerful thaumaturge.
Never mind. I was wolf again!
The feeble illumination ceased being a handicap. Wolves don’t depend on their eyes the way men do. Ears, feet, tongue, every hair on my body, before all else my nose, drank a flood of data. The cave was not now a hole to stumble in, it was a place that I understood.
And . . . yes, faint but unmistakable from one tunnel came a gust of unforgettable nastiness. I checked a bunter’s yelp barely in time and trotted off in that direction.
XXVII
THE PASSAGE WAS LENGTHY, twisting, intersected by many others. Without my sense of smell for a guide, I’d soon have been lost. The lighting was from Hands, above the cells dug out of the rock at rare intervals. It was public knowledge that every candidate for primary initiation spent a day and night alone here, and the devout went back on occasion. Allegedly the soot: benefited from undisturbed prayers and meditations. But I wasn’t sure what extra influences crept in subliminally as well. Certain odors, at the edge of my lupine perception, raised the fur on my neck.
After a while they were drowned out by the one was tracing. Wolves have stronger stomachs than people, but I began to gag. When finally I reached the source, I held my breath while looking in.
The dull blue glow from the fingers over the entrance picked out little more than highlights in the cubicle. Marmiadon was asleep on a straw pallet. He wore his robe for warmth; it was grubby as his skin. Otherwise he had some hardtack, a ferry can of water, a cup, a Johannine Bible, and a candle to read it by. He must only have been leaving his cell to visit an oubliette down the tunnel. Not that it would have made any large difference if he didn’t. Phew!
I backed off and humanized. The effluvium didn’t strike me too hard in that shape, especially after my restored reasoning powers took charge. No doubt Marmiadon wasn’t even noticing it any more.
I entered his quarters, hunkered, and shook him. My free hand drew the knife. “Wake up, you.”
He floundered to awareness, saw me, and as did. I must have been a pretty grim sight, black‑clothed where I wasn’t nude and with no mercy in my face. He looked as bad, hollow‑eyed in that corpse‑light. Before he could yell, I clapped my palm over his mouth. The bristles of unshavenness felt scratchy, the flesh doughlike. “Be quiet,” I said without emphasis, “or I’ll cut your guts out.”
He gestured agreement and I let go. “M‑m‑mister Matuchek,” he whispered, huddling away from me till the wall stopped him.
I nodded. “Want to talk with you.”
“I?How?In God’s name, what about?”
“Getting my daughter home unharmed.”
Marmiadon traced crosses and other symbols in the air. “Are you possessed?” He became able to look at me and answer his own question. “No. I could tell?”
“I’m not being puppeted by a demon,” I grunted, “and I haven’t got a psychosis. Talk.”
“Bu?bu?but I haven’t anything to say. Your daughter? What’s wrong? I didn’t know you had one.”
That rocked me back. He wasn’t lying, not in his state. “Huh?” I could only say. He grew a trifle calmer, fumbled around after his glasses and put them on, settled down on the pallet and watched me.
“It’s holy truth,” he insisted. “Why should I have information about your family? Why should anyone here?”
“Because you’ve appointed yourselves my enemies,” I said in renewed rage.
He shook his head. “We’re no man’s foe. How can we be? We hold to the Gospel of Love.” I sneered. His glance dropped from mine. “Well,” he faltered, “we’re sons of Adam. We can sin like everybody else. I admit I was furious when you pulled that . . . that trick on us . . . on those innocents?”