Silenci

By R.M. Sayan

Speak no evil.

In Abadosos, nobody speaks of the werewolves—in fact, nobody likes to speak.

Joaquím is attacked by a werewolf on a full moon in which he foolishly forgets to take shelter. But he lives to see the light of day, mostly unscathed.

Nursed back to health with the help of his friend Zarif and his cousin Remei, he lives on unknowing whether he was bitten or not. But the curse of the lycanthrope proves to be more complex than it appears, and Joaquím begins to doubt not only himself, but those close to him and everything he knows about his hometown. The pressure and paranoia cloud his way, and nobody seems to have answers to his questions.

After all, in Abadosos, nobody speaks.

A suspenseful fantasy novella with a dash of slow-burn m/m romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.M. Sayan
• Release date: Aug 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684314850

R.M. Sayan

R.M. Sayan is a Peruvian writer, sometimes illustrator, amateur photographer, avid tabletop gamer, studious filmmaker, tattoo aficionado, and a constant work in progress. Often referred to as just ‘Robb’, they can often be found ranting about assorted fandoms on twitter, swooning over their beautiful partner, and being overdramatic. They like to dabble in many genres, from historical fiction to urban fantasy, from dystopian sci-fi to weird west, but always sneaking queerness somewhere in there. Find them on Twitter as @r_m_writes and on Facebook (and Patreon) as justsomecynic. Sign up for their newsletter below!

Book preview

Content Warning

This book contains minor suicidal thoughts, violence against humans and animals, religious extremism, and depictions of racism and sexism from an antagonist.

One

WANING MOON, AUGUST 1307 AD

Catalonia was far from cold at this time of the year, but it was the chilly morning breeze ripping into his broken skin that woke Joaquím up. Although waking would be an overstatement; his state was that of vague consciousness. In that dreamlike awareness, he managed to command his arms to search his body. He found his hands intact but bruised, his legs aching, and worst of all, his head agonizing. But they were signs of life.

"Alive," Joaquím breathed, almost laughed. Alive he was.

The serene morning filtered through the lively late-summer leaves, which, in his mind, seemed to laugh at his pain. He coughed and his ribs throbbed, but he managed to sit up with the fit. A wave of nausea invaded his throat with the contraction. The lowest tree branches danced in the wind before his eyes, free and mocking. He looked around and saw a boulder with a splotch of blood. His hand probed the back of his head and, after a sharp pain, his fingers returned with something a darker shade of red than his ginger curls. Memories of the night invaded his mind.

A flurry of black fur, yellow claws, and pearly eyes had smashed through his window. It had been too sudden to reach for his axe, too quick to react. The more he had struggled, the more its claws had torn. He remembered being dragged into the forest, smashed into a rock, gigantic teeth and putrid breath, then nothing more.

He raised his eyebrows at the boulder and tried not to think about the position this put him in.

Joaquím's legs, pale skin torn by the creature's claws, weren't bleeding anymore, which he supposed was good. Moving them caused a splitting pain, but he had to return out of his own means. The people of Abadosos would not search for him.

He couldn't crouch, but he did. Then he couldn't stand, but he managed. He stumbled and had to lean against a tree, world spinning around him. His hand didn't grasp just a tree trunk, but an old ribbon tied around it. Unwelcome memories of his father teaching him about the ribbon trail flooded back into his mind. But they made him realize he knew where he was. He knew how to return. He bent over, lost last night's dinner to the bushes, and then stumbled home.

The sun was high in the sky when the trees gave way to a village not cold in weather but in solitude. Joaquím tried to call for help, but nobody heard; or maybe his voice was lost in his throat.

Sound crawled from his mouth. Remei!

Either way, the absence of trees implied the absence of support. The moment he took a step forward on his own, his legs gave way mere steps from the main road.

"Zarif!" he called before sunlight was stolen from before his eyes.

Two

WANING MOON, AUGUST 1307 AD

Pain seemed but a dream when Joaquím woke up again. At least for a moment, until he moved his head to the side. Then pain throbbed behind it, so harsh it made him open his eyes.

Try not to move that much, Joaquím.

He saw a pair of amber eyes, their roundness remaining from childhood, joined by thick eyebrows and almost obscured by black curls framing dark golden skin. With little tremors, the ability to move seeped back into Joaquím's fingers, arms, toes, feet. But his head felt heavy as a rock. Zarif, he breathed.

Zarif reached for his head and turned over the wet rag he hadn't realized was resting on his forehead. He barely recognized Zarif's room. His gentle voice caressed his ears. You have a deathly fever and a nasty blow to the head. I had to stitch you up.

Of all the people who could've found him, Joaquím pondered in between feverish thoughts, Zarif was the best possible outcome. Not only did he speak the language of wounds and ailments fluently, but also—of all who were left in Abadosos—he was likely the last who still cared. Although the latter may not necessarily have been good. A childhood of forbidden friendship had once bloomed between them, but now all that was left of it was ghosts.

Everyone knows, Zarif said, his eyelashes trembling as his eyes drifted away. Everybody heard your screaming last night. Diego, Mikael, they tried to prevent me from helping you. But I couldn't leave you there.

Thanks, Joaquím moaned. Silence hung in the air with potential to stay there forever, but Joaquím couldn't help his curiosity. He tried to phrase it as a joke: What if they were right?

They weren't.