The Patron Saint of Devils

Humans have their legends and their myths. Beautiful and blessed, these legends tell of heroes who endure epic quests and slay evil monsters. But what about these monsters and why are they so evil, and according to whom? What if these monsters had a hero? This is the legend of “The Patron Saint of Devils.”

But before she became a legend, the legend was just a pup.

June was adopted by the Greer family in unusual circumstances. Late one full moon, the Matriarch Greta heard a commotion in the coop.

When she went to investigate, she was happy to discover that not a single chicken was harmed.

She was stunned, however, to see their rooster, Chanticleer, standing over the battered, would-be intruder.

Chanticleer had fought bravely to defend the hens, but Greta had a soft spot for all animals. She believed that the small dog was so hungry that she had tried to kill and eat a chicken only so she could survive. And if she had been even a little full, Greta was convinced the pup would have gone in that coop just for warmth and snuggles.

So, with that in mind, she took the dirty, stray dog inside her home with her husband and children, tended to her wounds, and let her sleep by the fire.

Imagine her shock the next day when she found a young child by the fireplace instead.

What she thought was a runt of a pup was really a runt of a werewolf. Regardless, she believed this creature came into their lives for a reason and they decided to raise her properly.

In a house with six boys, she was happy to get her daughter: Greta Greer Junior (or June for short).

Fifteen years passed and June was truly a Greer in name and spirit.

Being a werewolf, she had some advantages. June was stronger than an average human, though not as strong as a trained athlete. She was fiercely loyal, and she was great with the other Greer children. Her parents raised June well, and she was able to quell her animal instincts.

But not always.

One evening, June went wolf at some neighborhood men who were being handsy with a woman walking home alone. She sprouted fangs and claws and even slashed one of the men to defend her. Not only did the men run from the wolf-girl, the woman whom June had tried to save fled just as quickly.

The Greers had to leave town before any trouble came. The bad men would be dealt with using law and order. Monsters of any kind would always be dealt with fire and steel.

June had only wanted to help someone in need, but instead, she jeopardized her own family.

The Greers moved to distant Carrionburg—a city where the mayor came from a long line of famous monster hunters. Greta claimed this was “hiding in plain sight,” but June felt like she meant, “mess up here and it’s over.”

Regardless, Carrionburg was a peaceful city (in part due to its monster-hunting culture), and June managed not to pup it up for four years.

And then the hunters captured a redcap.

Redcaps were known as violent, forest goblins who dipped their caps in the blood of their prey to dye them red. The mayor and leader of the hunters explained that this redcap was responsible for several murders in neighboring towns. She and her hunters were cheered as heroes by the townspeople.

However, June saw through the celebrations and only the redcap. She could tell by the way he looked, the beating of his heart, and the terror in his eyes: the redcap was innocent.

June had to speak with him.

As noticeable as a werewolf could be, June was very missable as a person. She stealthily entered the prison and avoided the guards like an awkward ghost.

June approached the cell and inside saw the redcap. The redcap spoke in its native language, but June kept her stare. She didn’t just look at him—she looked into him.

Even in her human form, she retained some werewolf abilities. She was able to view the very essence and soul of the redcap, feel his emotions and thoughts as if they were her own. And by doing that, she bared her own soul to him—allowing them to converse through thoughts and emotions.

What am I doing in here? the redcap’s soul demanded.

They think you killed a human, June explained.

Nonsense. The Powrie want nothing to do with humans.

Powrie? Is that what you call yourselves?

If you spoke our language, you’d know Powrie was a very apt word to describe us.

We call you redcaps because you keep your caps red by dipping them in the blood of humans you kill.

That is outrageous. And impractical. And unsanitary. Besides, only the foragers wear red caps so we can keep track of one another in the wilderness. We have a full spectrum of colors based on our jobs.

June could smell the hat on the floor of the cell with the Powrie.

If what you are saying is true, why does your hat reek of blood?

That is NOT my hat! One of those people tossed it in here with me when they scooped me up and threw MY hat away. And that was my grandpa’s hat, it was.

The Powrie gingerly tossed the cap to June, whose nose investigated further. It was dipped in blood but was no longer red—more rusty brown due to oxidation. June began to sniff deeper. This was the blood of multiple humans who had died at different times—and Wild Ones. Her werewolf sense allowed her to detect beyond smell—cruelty, hatred, and privilege. She had a lead, and she followed it.

The trail led her toward the outskirts of town, to a root cellar on unoccupied land owned by the mayor. She broke the lock and entered.

What she found was a true spiritual contamination.

The cellar was a workshop of cruel horror. Humans and Wild Ones had been brutalized in horrific ways, displayed like art in an exhibition of sadism. She recognized what she could of some humans as missing persons, and Wild Ones as the alleged culprits.

She was so stunned she almost didn’t notice the figure approaching her from behind.

June lunged out of reach, feeling only a slight slash of her attacker’s blade across her back. She turned and saw the villain.

Helen, the mayor’s daughter.

June had seen Helen at many town events. She had many admirers but never accepted a suitor. Despite June’s werewolf gifts, she could never get a read on her and assumed it was because Helen was of a higher class. But now she understood the dull look in Helen’s eyes.

Indifference. She did not care for or respect the lives of anyone.

Despite the small slice, June felt weak.

“Silver blade,” Helen explained, brandishing a smile. “Perfect against werewolves.”

“You knew?”

“Of course. With my hobby, you need to know about any and all potential scapegoats to utilize. It’s a shame really. I had a such a canvas in mind. ‘Family devoured by daughter.’ I still think i can pull it off within the evening but I wanted to plan more.”

June’s claws flexed against the stone floor. Her heartbeat thundered, her wolf-sense tasting Helen’s malice like iron on the air.

“You killed them,” June growled. “You slaughtered living beings.”

Helen tilted her head, feigning curiosity. “Killed them? No. I elevated them. I reveal who we are inside, cut through the bone and into each of our hearts. Empty. No souL A mess and yet a blank canvas. And art requires sacrifice. Nobody gives a goblin’s dick about what happens to the Wild Ones so I use them. ‘It’s their fault people are massacred.’ And then they get the justice they need. And the humans who go missing? People mourn them but then they cheer when the monsters are punished. I call it ‘The Cycle of Grief and Gratitude: 8th Edition’ I give them that. They allowed me to create all of this. I am the Essence of the very Cycle of Grief and Gratitude. I cause and bring grief into peoples’ lives and then they are able to get the gratitude they deserve.”

“Dionysys in a bottle,” June said, angry and revolted.“You really believe that. You aren’t even insane. You are evil.

“Oh of course it’s not just for the art,” the mayor’s daughter admitted with a flick of the wrist. “Monster hunting is our main export. It’s good for the economy, stupid!”

June’s vision swam, half with blood loss, half with rage. She thought of the Powrie’s terrified eyes. She thought of Greta and the family who had given her warmth by the fire and raised her like she was human.And she was human. Then she thought of every Wild One who had been accused, beaten, burned. How many wanted to live peaceful, normal lives with family and friends, and how many were murdered just because of what they were and not who they were. We may not be humans but we are people too.

The moon was not full that evening, but it did not matter to June. Helen threatened her family, and that was more than enough to summon the entire wolf within her, even if it was in broad daylight.Thankfully, it was a waning gibbous moon (you know, the one between the right half and crescent?)

June’s jaws elongated, bones snapping as her body warped with a sudden, violent shift. Fur ripped through her skin. Her fangs gleamed. With a guttural snarl, she lunged.

Helen slashed, silver edge flashing, but June caught her wrist in her mouth and severed her hand with one bite. She screamed, staggering backward, clutching the bloody stump. The silver blade clattered to the floor.

“You . . . you monster!” she shrieked.

But June was not finished. She bared her teeth, not only in rage but in focus. This time, she unleashed the full weight of her soul sense. Her golden eyes bore into Helen’s, piercing past flesh into spirit.

Helen staggered as though struck. “What—what are you doing—?”

June’s voice was a low growl, yet her words resonated inside Helen’s mind. You cannot hide who you are anymore. I see you. I show you to yourself.

For the first time, Helen’s composure shattered. Her soul was a bleak void—an endless, echoing chamber of cruelty and contempt. And June just tore it open, revealing her true spirit into consciousness of her mind, where rational thought met the unthinkable subconscious.. But when June dragged it into the light, Helen recoiled and convulsed at its emptiness.

But Helen was not the only one.

Helen was wrong. We are not empty. Living beings have souls and life is everywhere.

The essence of a life is not something you can keep in a single vessel. Life is very much all around us and is still running undefeated against death. Life is lived and loved and experienced and life can exist and be felt with the memories and places you lived. And not all life essence is the same. Life can also be found in tragedies. Tombs become homes for the worst times of life, and those tiny, many, moments, contain large amounts of horrible life.

And June just opened their door into the physical world.

The horrible, tortured life saw their moment to attack their abuser at her most vulnerable.

“No!” Helen gasped, clutching at her chest as though something were tearing her open.

But June pressed harder, forcing her to witness every act she had committed: the blood she spilled, the lives she warped into grotesque displays, the hollow satisfaction she felt. And more than that—she showed her the terror of her victims, the pain she had dismissed.

Helen fell to her knees, wailing like a wounded animal, despite not spilling a drop of blood..

June withdrew, not out of mercy, but out of necessity. Her strength wavered; the silver wound pulsed with poison. Helen lay still on the ground, breath even and eyes dull. She was alive, but her soul was no more.

She was empty.

June stood tall over Helen. “Your soul was filth,” she growled. “Now everyone will know it.”

The guards arrived too late, drawn by Helen’s screams. They burst into the cellar, weapons drawn, but froze at the sight: the mayor’s daughter on her knees, her mutilated arm pressed to her chest, and the cellar walls dripping with evidence of her atrocities.

June stepped back into the shadows, forcing her body to shrink into human form before their eyes could catch the beast. She staggered, bloodied but alive, and vanished into the dark as shouts filled the air.

Shortly after word spread that Helen was the culprit of the series of murders—both human and other. Helen was sent to a sanatorium and the mayor had vanished.Carrionburg had to figure out who was going to lead them, but before that, they all agreed on one thing.

For the first time, a monster was declared innocent and the Powrie was released.

They say that there is a special shrine in the woods now not found on any human map but well known to the otherworldly citizens. This shrine was created by the Powrie and is dedicated to “The Patron Saint of Devils”: a hero to the scorned and rejected. It is a rock formation surrounding a stump that some say looks like a wolf and others say looks like a woman. They say that the forest citizens will pray at the shrine and leave offerings and notes begging for help. Some days, a woman is said to be seen stopping by the shrine, reading notes. Some nights, a lanky wolf may appear, sniffing trinkets and listening to the chatter of the night.

Whether this being is real, people could not say. But as for nonpeople, they believe. The monsters in myths don’t have or need heroes with mystic might or magical weapons. All they need is someone—or something—that is willing to care and willing to help.