Work Text:
Everyone knew how a man became a werewolf: he went down to the crossroads and spilled his own blood, and called out to the devil to acknowledge the sacrifice. If the devil cared to respond, he would give the sinner a wolf pelt which he might wear, allowing him to change into the form of a ferocious beast.
Everyone knew what a werewolf did: murders in the form of a wolf, violations in the form of a man, crimes of all sorts in the form of either, then slip away into the forest seeming to be nothing more than a beast.
Everyone knew how to catch a werewolf: wound the enormous animal, then see which man in town had the same wound.
But even knowing this, nobody believed Veronica when she pointed to the cut on handsome young Peter’s wrist, because they found a wolf pelt in her basket.
***
They flogged Veronica to make her confess, and showed her instruments that luckily nobody had the stomach to use on a maiden, but she would not stop professing her innocence. They let handsome young Peter visit her alone, and although he used her cruelly for his own pleasure, no one answered her pleas for help, for wouldn’t a werewolf say anything to deceive and cast blame upon honest men?
“You brought this upon yourself,” he said with a smile as he fixed his clothes fastenings back on. “I meant to place the wolf pelt in the home of one of the judges who now threaten you, and laugh as the good people of town burned their venerable elder. But you had to see the cut on my wrist, and cross yourself so that I knew you had seen it, and forced my hand.”
Veronica pulled her dress about herself and wept.
“There is still time to save yourself,” said Peter, his voice almost kind. “The town has no true stomach to watch a woman burn. Confess, and they might simply imprison you. Swear to renounce the devil and all his ways, and perhaps they might even lighten your sentence to lifelong indenture.” When she said nothing, he gave a sweet-sound laugh. “I might even buy you at auction.”
“They’ll know, when I’m dead,” Veronica murmured. “When the killings don’t stop. They’ll know it wasn’t me, or only me, and they’ll find you.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but it will be too late for you.” Veronica said nothing, but only shook her head, and Peter sighed. “No? Then I’ll see you dead, sinner.”
He left her there to sob and went back into town to plan his next depredations. Some wicked part of Veronica’s heart hoped they would be vicious and bloody, that the town that burned her falsely might pay with their lives.
***
Peter told the truth about one thing, at least: the town had no stomach to burn a young woman who insisted upon her innocence. Instead, they left a door open in the jail, as if they could possibly forget to lock up a devil-worshiping murderess. She was not such a fool as to not guess their game- they would shoot her when she ran, and claim her flight was proof of her guilt.
Nevertheless, she ran, because it was all she could do. Death by gunshot was better than burning.
A bullet caught her in the shoulder, but Veronica’s fear kept her running even though her flesh screamed with shock and pain. Barefoot in the woods, rocks and twigs pricked her, but she ran nonetheless. In the distance, a wolf howled, final proof to the men who hunted her in what they wished to believe.
Veronica might have simply lay down and let herself be shot, but once she heard that howl, she had to keep running. Who knew how dreadful death might be in the jaws of a werewolf?
Bleeding and weeping, Veronica tried to think of any saints she hadn’t yet prayed to. She had prayed to Saint Hallvard, the patron of innocence, and Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes, and Saint Leonard, the patron of prisoners, and none of them had saved her. And why should they? Saints were often martyrs themselves, with god only saving them from the first attempt at execution and then letting them die on the second, to show that he could intervene if he cared to. In the end, he did not care to.
When she lost hope for more life, Veronica had prayed to Saint Olga, patron of vengeance (or so she’d heard rumored, although the village priest said it was false and even blasphemy to say so.) And yet Peter still lived, as did the men who would rather wish her dead than listen to her proof. Perhaps those prayers would curse them after her death, but what good would that do her when she could not even watch?
Veronica kept moving, although her pain and injuries were finally starting to slow her down. She made it through the woods, but that would not be enough to save her, for the next village was many miles away. And even if she reached it, they might also believe her guilty and send her back, or even burn her themselves.
Even so, she moved as far along the road as she could, until she could go no further. When she looked around and saw where she stood, she laughed and wept until she could not even stand.
She had made it to the crossroads.
Veronica prayed to Saint Columba, the patron of witches, and Saint Cyrprian, the patron of magic, and even the lord god himself for forgiveness, although she was about to do the only thing he could not forgive. If they truly wished to stop her, they would strike her down now, before she could grant hell another damned soul. With the sounds of hunters and monsters behind her, and wishes of blood and punishment in her heart, Veronica let her blood fall onto the earth and called out to the devil to make her a werewolf.