Chapter 15
Witchcraft Attack
GERALD'S POV
It was the early hours of the morning. I decided to take a stroll around my mansion.
As I walked down the hallway, I took notice of footsteps echoing in my direction, a solemn, urgent rhythm echoing through the halls of the mansion.
"Sir," the guard said, as he drew closer to me. His voice was a low whisper, a respectful murmur, as he approached me.
"The herbalist requests your presence, my Alpha. He says it is a matter of great urgency."
My brow furrowed, my eyes narrowing with suspicion, my mind racing with the possibilities of what could have made the herbalist request for me at this hour.
"Very well," I answered, my voice calm, and controlled, despite the turmoil that brewed within me. "I shall meet him at his chamber shortly."
The guard nodded, his face a mask of compliance and respect, before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the hallway, his steps swift and silent as he made his way out of the hallway.
I watched him go, my mind a whirl of thoughts and ideas and my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat of anticipation.
With a heavy sigh, I made my way to the herbalist's chamber, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the stillness of the mansion like a funeral march.
I opened the door to the study, the smell of herbs and incense irritating my senses, the herbalist's wrinkled face turned towards me, my eyes piercing and wise, my hands held together in supplication.
And there, amid the chaos, I had seen the herbalist, his hands working with skilled, practiced precision, his voice a low, steady hum as he tended to the warrior's wounds.
"He was one of my men," I said, my voice barely a whisper, the words escaping his lips like a confession, a plea for understanding. I recalled the event that led to his predicament. How I had found Roderick lying down unconscious in the middle of the forests.
"Alpha Gerald," the herbalist called out to me, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, his tone laden with import. "These injuries are not ordinary. I fear that dark forces are at work in your household, Sir." Ethan said.
He was the great herbalist of my Pack, a man of indeterminate age, his face lined with a thousand stories, his eyes dark and piercing, he stood in the center of the room, his body intertwined in the smoke of burning incense, his hands folded in supplication.
His clothing, rough spun, and earthy, hung from his frame like a shroud, the smell of herbs and spices clinging to him like a cloud.
Ethan was a mysterious man, of secrets, a man who walked the line between the seen and the unseen, a guardian of knowledge and power that few could comprehend.
Ethan's voice, low and gravelly, seemed to vibrate through the air like a wizard, his words carrying with them a weight, a power, that demanded attention, respect.
"I was lucky to find him in time," I replied, my words laced with humility, my face wrinkled.
The herbalist nodded, his eyes never leaving my face, his expression solemn, knowing.
His hands moved across the warrior's body, his fingers tracing the contours of the wounds, his gaze probing, searching for the telltale signs of the supernatural.
"These wounds are not of this world," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and awe. "They bear the mark of a curse, of a dark and ancient power."
With delicate, practiced fingers, the herbalist dabbed a cotton swab against the oozing wound, a drop of crimson blood blossoming on the tip like a macabre flower.
His eyes narrowed, his gaze focused, intense, as he turned towards the window, the last rays of the setting sun illuminating the sample like a beacon, a warning.
The herbalist's fingers deftly turned the test tube, the blood swirling within like a dark, forbidden brew, as he carried it to his desk, a mad scientist in his element. I observed with keen interest though I did not understand any of his experiments, I just observed.
The sun had long since disappeared, leaving the room shrouded in shadow, the only light the dim glow of a gas lamp, casting a sickly, yellow pallor across the room.
I watched him mix the blood with various herbs and liquids, watching the mixture transform before his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"As I suspected," he muttered, his voice barely audible, as the mixture in the test tube turned a sinister shade of black, its surface rippling like an oil slick, its smell a noxious cloud that filled the room.
My breath caught in my throat and my mind reeled with the implications of the herbalist's words, my heart pounded like a drumbeat of terror.
Ethan's words hung in the air, heavy with implication, with a sense of impending doom.
"This is the work of the claw," he said, his voice low, ominous. "A warning, a summons from the forces that hunger for war."
I felt my blood run cold, my eyes wide with disbelief, with fear.
"The claw?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "But how? Why?"
"The claw is a weapon of dark magic," he answered me.
"Forged in the depths of the underworld, it is said to be the instrument of the great dark ones, the generals of the shadows," the herbalist continued, his voice a low, rasping whisper.
"Its touch is deadly, its poison a corruption of the soul, a taint that spreads like wildfire. And now, Gerald, it has touched one of your men."
My mind raced, my thoughts a whirlwind of fear and disbelief.
"But why?" I asked, my voice quivering. "Why would they attack us?"
"Because they are at war with us, with all of our kind," Ethan said, his voice a low, solemn warning.
"They see us as nothing more than puppets in their game, as pieces on a chessboard."
"But why now?" I asked, my mind reeling with confusion, with tension.
"Because the forces of darkness are growing stronger," he said, his voice a dire prophecy.
"They seek to dominate the world, to plunge us into an age of chaos and destruction."
"You have a debt to pay, Master Gerald," he said, his words a prophecy, a warning. "And it is time to make good on that debt."
"I have sensed a dark presence in your home, Master Gerald," he continued, his words heavy with meaning. "A force that seeks to do you harm, to disrupt the natural order of things."
My heart raced, my mind whirling with the implications of the herbalist's words, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.
"What can we do?" I asked, my voice thick with desperation, with a sense of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm me.
The herbalist straightened, my hands falling to his sides, his gaze piercing into my soul.
"There is only one way to stop this curse, Gerald," he said, his voice a low, measured murmur. "You must find the source of the curse, the root of its power, and destroy it before it destroys you."
"To fight them," he continued his voice, a fierce omen of things to come. "That is the only remedy, the only way to defeat the darkness that encroaches upon us all."
And then, in the quiet of the study, I felt a change come over me, a metamorphosis, a transformation of spirit that was nothing short of alchemical.
My heart was no longer filled with fear, with doubt, but with a fierce, first rage, a burning desire to destroy the forces of evil that threatened all he held dear.
My jaw clenched, my fists balled at my sides, my eyes blazing with a righteous fury.
"I will not rest," I said in a dangerous growl, "until every last one of those witches is destroyed."
I felt my heart sink, my mind whirling with a mixture of fear and determination.
"But how?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "How can we win?"
"With courage," he said. "With faith.
My eyes widened, my heart racing with a renewed sense of purpose, of determination.
Ethan's movements suddenly halted, his hands freezing mid-air, his gaze darting about the room, his nostrils flaring like a beast on the hunt.
"Something is not right," he muttered, his voice a low, urgent whisper, his eyes scanning the shadows, searching for the source of his unease. I waited anxiously for him to explain what he meant.
The air seemed to shift, to change, the very fabric of reality vibrating with otherworldly energy, a sense of danger, of malice, that sent a chill down his spine.
"We are not alone," he said in an urgent murmur, as the warrior's body began to convulse, his muscles spasming, his eyes rolling back in his head, his skin turning a sickly, yellowish hue.
I stood there confused and anxious. The situation was beyond me.
The herbalist moved with a speed that belied his age, a blur of motion as he pulled a vial of pungent liquid from his belt, his hand shaking as he poured the contents into the warrior's mouth.
"Drink," he commanded Roderick who was convulsing seriously, his voice urgent, desperate.