The Wicked: A Love Story

The Book of Pamela Strauss

”Wolfbane,” Augustus said, holding the plant up.

“Of course.”

He was pounding the plant with a mortar and pestle when he said, “Bring me that bottle, my dear.”

I did and he said, “Not too much. Just…”

He took it and with his elegant brown hands, he poured a little into the mixture.

“This should do.”

“What is it?”

“Silver nitrate.”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Yes,” Augustus said. “There are actually many ways to prevent a werewolf, but it depends on the type of werewolf. I don’t know what your father’s story was, but he seems to have one power which comes out at a particular time, and which it seems like he can control. You have ultimate control. You do not have to transform at all. Your brother has no control which turns out to be a sign not of him being more of a werewolf, but less of one, with blood that is less pure. Your parentage was strange. What, I wonder, was your father’s? You will have to ask him, ask him as much as he knows.”

“And ask Hagano?”

“Oh, you have to.”

“I have not seen him in many years.”

“Then you must call him up, because you must know.

“Did you know,” Augustus continued, as he set the mixture to boil, and began to add a thick, dry bay leaf, “there are some who say the werewolf is what joins the witch to the vampire?”

“The vampire!”

“Yes.”

“You mean those creatures from dime store novels? Count Dracula?”

And then, when I saw the look on this man’s beautiful brown face, a face smooth and noble like mahogany, I said, “Augustus, do the vampires symbolize a thing?”

“They symbolize themselves,” Augustus said, “They are real. As real as you. The specifics differ from the novels, but they are real and in this world. Just as myself. Just as you.”

Well, now, this was a surprise, and it led me to wonder if I had ever met one. The truth is once I think I did, but he said, “It was said, in the long ago, that vampires could take the shape of wolves, and that werewolves who were killed and not properly attended to could return as blood drinkers. Why, even in that dreadful book, Dracula can become a wolf and has control over wolves.”

“Do,” and this mattered to me, personally, “do vampires have control over werewolves?”

“No,” Augustus said. “Vampires have control over very little, except perhaps common mortals, and many mortals are quite uncommon. But it is said that witches used to summon the wolves to ride upon them, that the greatest witches are riders of wolves and even transform into them.”

“Then the witch has power over the wolf.”

“You are concerned with power?” Augustus smiled at me. It was a predatory, powerful smile, but it did not frighten me. Rather I was chastened.

He said, “Pamela, you are not hearing me. The witch once rode the wolf. I believe in a long ago time when men and all other animals were closer, when men were more… spiritual, but that is not the right word, for the spirit I talk of is not of Our Father in Heaven, but of our Mother in the Earth, back then, the wolf and the witch were one, which is why there is witch in you. Before there were werewolves or shapeshifters, many men, many people believed themselves descended from animals, and Mr. Darwin tells us this is so. The line between man and beast is a thin one, but it can only be reached through the spirit, through witchcraft. Ah, I have already said too much, but,” Augustus turned the flame of the stove down.

“If you can, you must go through with your idea of the Kellers, you must marry them to your siblings. Their blood will make you stronger, less subject to what Jimmy is going through now.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Augustus sighed, looking humble for once, and humility in such a man was a strange thing to see.

“Not truly, Pamela. I have dealt with one, maybe two wolves. An entire family history? This is new to me. But you must talk to Hagano as soon as you can.”

Frau Inga would have bowed at this man’s feet. Power always knows power. Wise power always honors it. He pulled from one of those cabinets two mushrooms, a toadstool, brown and grey and withered, and one that was dried but had been high in color, red and white spotted.

“Just a touch, just a touch,” he murmured, and he pulled from one of his many drawers a long wooden spoon of dark wood, fragrant and evergreen.

“Yew,” I recognized it.

“The death tree,” Augustus said. “And poisonous. You would not make a common ladle from it. We will make you something, dear, and Hagano will come to you through it. I promise.”