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Summary
Sent to minister to a remote parish, Changmin finds a community threatened by drought and marauding attacks by a savage wolf. The blacksmith, Yunho, has sworn to destroy the wolf, but this is no ordinary creature. When the harvest fails, the villagers lose faith in the power of the Church and cast about for a scapegoat. Meanwhile, the wolf has already claimed its second human victim. It’s only a matter of time before it comes for a third...
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“The wolf bit me,” Yunho says into the silence.
“It went for your heart.” Changmin tries to keep his voice level.
Yunho’s mouth twists. “It wanted to disarm me.” When Changmin stares, uncomprehending, Yunho lifts his left hand. “By nature I’m sinistral. I taught myself to be right-handed so as not to disturb people, but when I’m tired, when I’m under stress, I still favour my left hand.” His smile is mocking. “I fought the wolf left-handed. It tried to snatch the knife from me. I stabbed it, and so it bit me.”
Changmin goes closer, staring at the scar tissue. It’s livid, a vicious red edged with puckered white, the shape unmistakeable. With an effort, he glances at the furnace and the iron rods glowing orange. Disbelief sharpens outrage. Changmin raises a hand as if in benediction; he halts his touch inches from Yunho’s chest. “You did this.”
“It was necessary,” Yunho says. “There was a lot of blood. I sealed the wound.”
Nausea spins through Changmin. He’s seen it done before. The patients were usually drunk and bound and given a piece of wood to bite upon. The stench of burning flesh was foul, oily and fat with despair. The thought of Yunho cauterising the wolf-bite alone in the aftermath of the attack makes Changmin want to weep.
His emotions must be plain to read, for Yunho gives him a reassuring smile. “I knew what I was doing. I’ve done the same to animals.”
Gritting his teeth, Changmin nods. Country people. Country ways. He forces his attention to the healing injury. “You did well, but the scar...”
Yunho shrugs again. “A blacksmith always carries scars.” He holds out his hands, inviting Changmin to examine his arms. He wears the flecks and curls of stray sparks and slivers of hot metal across his knuckles and along the side of his right thumb; higher up there’s a spray of scars over his left bicep. Over his right collarbone there’s a nick as if made by a blade, and on his left cheek is a scrolling of scars, flat and faint and only noticeable when he turns his head to the light.
“I am not pretty, Father.” Yunho fastens the apron back on, hiding the injury from view. “Not like you.”
It should be an insult, but it’s said gently, without any kind of heat, and Changmin stares. Pretty. He thinks I’m—
“I’m not pretty,” Changmin says, stung.
Yunho tilts a smile at him. “My mistake.”
(Yunho smiles down at him, full and true and bright.
Changmin feels sun-dazzled.)
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none of them were as warm and vital and handsome as Yunho.
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Oh. My. God...