Wolves Among Us Read Online Free

into her mouth. Mia wiped both mouths—Alma’s first, then Margarite’s—with her apron.
    At three years old, Alma should have been filling their home with laughter and songs, but instead she often fell sick, a relentless cough erupting from her chest—a cough so frightening that it made Mia’s heart constrict with fear. Alma never had a month free of her sickness, but she had better days almost every week now that the hardest days of winter were over. Her coughs were worse on cold, rainy days, and the sky had been a dead gray for hours. Surely the rain today would be heavy.
    Margarite shouted a garbled word.
    “Shhh, mother, not so loud,” Mia said. “Bjorn is in bed.”
    Margarite frowned, thrusting her face closer to Mia’s. Mia took Margarite’s face in her hands and turned it.
    “Your son is asleep,” she repeated directly in Margarite’s ear.
    Margarite nodded gravely. Mia sighed, reaching up and smoothing back Margarite’s thinning white hair. It fell forward again, the ends smearing across the mess on her mouth.
    Mia patted her own hair, her searching fingers pulling free the tortoise-shell comb, a wedding gift from Father Stefan. She admired its beautiful brown patterns for a moment. A lovely piece, not fitting for a housewife who never had visitors. Father Stefan had been so generous to give it to her when she was still a stranger. Bjorn had brought her here from another town years ago, and Father Stefan had been kind. This comb gave her courage to attend his Masses. The gift meant more to her than he could know.
    She pushed Margarite’s hair back and tucked the comb into place on her head. Letting go, she ran her fingers across Margarite’s face. “There. That’s better. You look lovely.” Margarite grimaced and moaned.
    “Is the pain worse today?” Mia asked, not expecting an answer.
    Urine pooled under Margarite’s chair. Mia stood to grab some straw to scatter over it, holding her back in pain from so much work. She spread the straw under the chair and sat to resume the feedings. She could try asking again if anyone in town knew of more remedies she could try, but the women were so cold to her—all but Dame Alice. Dame Alice wanted to feed her, surely only to pry her heart open and see what Mia hid. Mia did not trust herself yet. Not enough time had passed. Her memories were still open wounds. Unless she could find a salve for those—a salve that made her forget.
    Mia knew the women whispered of a healing witch who lived far off in the woods, but the thought of her frightened Mia. What good was a healing if it was cursed? Mia did not want healing if it angered the Lord. Even if healings could ease Margarite’s pain. Or save Alma, whose breathing became high whistles when the air turned cold. Every shriek for air, each shredding sound from her chest twisted Mia’s heart, making her half mad with fear.
    Alma stared at Mia, raising one tiny, soft finger to wipe a tear off Mia’s cheek. Mia took her hand and blew a raspberry into it. Alma smiled and squealed, showering them both with pottage.
    Bjorn stood in the doorway between the main room and the bedroom. His bedclothes were dark with sweat. Mia rose and took him by his arm, leading him to sit by the fire.
    “I am sorry,” she said. “We woke you.”
    He took the long spoon and used it to stir the ashes beneath the pot, then stood gazing at the swords hanging over their doorway and the pilgrimage badges on either side. Bjorn’s family was descended from a ghost warrior who served under Arminius. The memory of the ghost warriors of Germany still left villagers cold. Soldiers would paint themselves black, waiting until the darkest hour of night to attack. Victims saw only the whites of a ghost’s eyes before they died. Arminius had used them, used all the warriors Germany had, to betray his Roman master and slaughter the Roman army as they marched through the Black Forest. Ghost soldiers left a legacy of shrewd betrayals.
    She