Guardian Hound Read Free

it to Father, somehow, as well, when he started making potions.
    But Hans was determined. He’d be ready by the end of summer. Time enough to prove to Master Koenig, his father, even the hound clan, that he could be something more than a clumsy oaf.
    # # #
    Hans looked longingly at the rabbits hanging at the butcher’s at the market, but they couldn’t afford such luxuries here. Rabbits hadn’t been a luxury at home: He’d hunted many himself, his hound soul tracking the scent through fields and woods.
    For a moment, Hans’ felt his hound soul stirring. It didn’t wake as often in Hildesheim as it had in the country. It nosed up to him, regarding him with pleading basset-hound eyes.
    He would have to transform in the next week or so. They needed a run.
    Homesickness washed over Hans. Maybe for the Silvester holidays he could go and visit his cousins, and spend a week running in the fields and woods.
    Hans shook himself. He couldn’t afford to daydream, not here, not now, with his hound soul so close. He bought what he could, a few cast-off bits of chicken, enough for a stew.
    Then Hans made his way over to the northeast corner of the market, where the old women in black dresses and embroidered kerchiefs held court. They came to market with goods they’d made: Pickled onions and carrots, newly spun wool and thick sweaters, berry preserves and honey.
    Hans had discovered them early in his search for ingredients. They’d been a gold mine of information as well.
    Old Engel waved to Hans as he approached. Her plump cheeks were rosy, and curls of her iron gray hair stuck out from underneath her black kerchief. Her eyes were a watery blue, faded as if they’d stared at the sun too long, in her weathered, wrinkled, browned face. “Eh, got a present for you,” she said, pointing behind her seat.
    Hans smiled. Old Engel wasn’t as disabled as she pretended to be: He’d seen her stand quick enough when a bee came buzzing. But he indulged her and walked behind her seat. A large burlap sack sat on the ground. Hans picked it up and walked back around.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked as he opened it. It was full of pungent leaves, green but starting to wither.
    â€œThorn apple,” Old Engel said.
    â€œReally?” Hans asked, looking back at her, amazed. He couldn’t believe it. It was only midsummer! Yet now he had all the ingredients he needed to create his potion and cast his spells.
    â€œFarmer Thalberg had a run of bad luck, brought in some sheep to be slaughtered, and that as well,” she said, nodding. “Now, you know to be careful with those, eh?”
    â€œYes, I will. Thank you, Grandmother,” Hans said, using the honorific she’d gifted him with.
    â€œI know you’re a good lad, but those are powerful strong,” Old Engel insisted. “You test them out first, you hear me?”
    â€œI will. I will!” Hans promised. He already had the herbals waters prepared. If he could get the first batch of these leaves soaking tonight, it would only be a day, maybe two, before he could finish.
    â€œThank you, so much,” Hans said, gladly counting out the coins into her calloused hand.
    â€œNow, before you go, I want you to meet my granddaughter. Petra. Petra! Come here.”
    Hans stood with the sack clutched to his chest, his cheeks flaming.
    Women his own age confused him, with their soft curves and sharp tongues. He was never certain how to talk to one.
    Petra had a laughing smile, beautiful blond curls sticking out from the edges of her kerchief, and clear blue eyes. She didn’t wear black, but a coarse brown apron over her old-fashioned, pale blue blouse and skirt. She curtsied as she held out her hand for Hans.
    Hans shifted the bag to his right arm, then realized his mistake and shifted it to his left so he could hold out the appropriate hand. “Very nice to make your acquaintance,” he said, stumbling over