Magwa lifted his left arm, then tried to look at the left shoulder blade. He could just make out the top of the new scar made by his father’s knife. “Yes, Father,” he said. “I do not feel the wound at all.” Magwa gracefully folded himself down to sit beside his father.
“That is the wolf,” Gar answered. “The wolf regenerates quickly for us so that we are always strong. Because you have the Gift, you will live a very long time, I am told.”
“And you, Father? You will live a long time, too?”
“Perhaps,” Gar answered. “Perhaps. Fate will determine that. You are a man now. Soon you will want to go out into the world and see what is beyond the forest, beyond the Indians we live with.”
“Are you going back there tonight, Father? To the village of white men?”
Gar nodded, refusing to meet the boy’s steady gaze.
“Why do you go there?”
“Long ago, the people of that village did an evil thing to me. For that, I give them no peace.”
Magwa lowered his gaze, not understanding his father’s words. He knew his father often transformed to his wolf shape and went to a village of people like themselves – white people who did not speak like the Indians of the forest. Once there, Gar would circle the village all night, howling and killing livestock. Magwa, who knew his skills as a tracker were greater than those of his father, had followed Gar to the village on many occasions and witnessed this strange behavior.
“Will you ever kill them?” Magwa asked.
“No. I have killed …” Gar hesitated and looked away again. “I have already killed those most responsible for the evil that was done to me. Do not question me on this, my son.”
Magwa paused, wanting to press his father on the matter. “Shall I prepare breakfast?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Gar answered. “You know the Chawana are preparing for another raid. There will be sacrifices. Probably in two days. Maybe three.”
“Yes, Father. They will want us to lead them to war, as we always do.”
“You will lead them to war, Magwa.”
“Me, Father? But they look to you for leadership. They give the sacrifice to you.”
“I will not be here.”
Magwa sat quietly for a moment, pondering his father’s words. Finally, he asked, “Where will you be?”
“With someone I lost long ago.”
“I do not understand, Father.”
“No. And I do not expect you to. But in time I think you will.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I cannot say. Come, let us prepare breakfast together.” Gar rose to his feet.
Magwa hesitated, looking up at his father. Gar began walking away, so Magwa rose and followed.
All during the day Gar spoke of things he had taught his son, reminding him of their importance. Magwa found the reminders annoying and wished his father would return to their home and leave him in peace. He had planned to spend the day joining the other young men as they practiced shooting arrows at targets, but Gar insisted he help with other tasks, such as adding mud daub to the cracks in the walls of their hut. All the while they worked, Gar spoke of his teachings.
“Remember that silver is deadly to us, as are certain plants. Do not be caught changing your shape. We are vulnerable at that stage where we are neither man nor wolf. Any weapon can kill us then.”
“Yes, Father,” Magwa answered, slathering a handful of thick mud over a chink in the log wall. “You have told me these things many times before.”
“And I have told you how I passed the Gift to you. But I will tell you again,” Gar said.
Magwa made sure his father could not see him as he rolled his eyes and mouthed a curse. At the other end of the village he could hear his friends cheering as arrows were fired from bows.
When night came, Gar announced he would go. Magwa bid him farewell, but Gar hesitated. His face seemed very gaunt in the light of the fire inside their hut. He chewed at his lower lip for a moment, then opened his arms. “Come to me, my son.”
Reluctantly, Magwa embraced his father. “Why are you so somber today, Father? What is troubling you?”
“It is nothing,” Gar answered, his arms still around his son. “You are a fine man. I am very proud of you.” He released Magwa and stepped away. “And now I must go.”
Magwa watched his father lift the skin covering the door of the hut and slip into the night. He waited, knowing Gar would enter the forest, remove his clothes and transform into a wolf before starting his journey in earnest. Magwa quickly stripped off his own buckskin breeches and moccasins. He closed his eyes and concentrated. His bones began to itch, then they stretched and contracted. He felt the hair erupting from his flesh, his ears lengthening and the tail sprouting from his lower back. A moment later and he stood in the small hut as a large black wolf. Still he waited several moments before slipping through the door and following his father’s scent into the forest.
It took only moments to find where Gar had hidden his clothes and transformed himself into a wolf. Magwa wondered that his father simply left his clothes in a heap on the ground; Gar had taught him to always hide his clothes so they would remain undisturbed while he was away. Magwa sniffed the clothes, then hurried after the other wolf.
He heard his father long before he found him. Gar was near the village, howling. His voice floated back to Magwa and he immediately recognized the mournful note in the howl. This was not the call of the playful beast taunting his old enemies. There was something more in his howl. Something of despair. Magwa quickened his pace.
Soon he heard the barking of many dogs and the sounds of shouting men. They were chasing his father. From the excited baying of the hounds, they were close on the tail of the wolf. Magwa ran full speed in the direction of the sounds.
He heard the battle begin. Dogs yelped in pain. The barking of others was drowned in the gurgling of blood. Men yelled and cursed. Gar roared in pain and rage and anguish.
Magwa found them in a ravine. Gar had his back to the wall of the depression. The ground before him was littered with the bodies of the dogs that had tracked him. A dozen men stood in a semi-circle, facing Gar, muskets raised. To his horror, Magwa noted that his father stood before them as neither man nor wolf, but in his vulnerable in-between stage, the body of the last dog held in his massive deformed hands. The men fired their guns.
Gar roared and staggered backward, the body of the dog falling from his hands. Blood ran from many wounds in his body.
“See?” One of the men called. “He is a devil. Lead will not kill him. Shoot him, Charles. Use the silver.”
Another man handed off the musket he held and unslung another from his shoulder. He looked at several of the other men, each of which nodded at him. Charles nodded back, then raised the musket and deftly fired.
The ball caught Gar in the chest. He fell face down on the ground and lay motionless.
Magwa roared in anger. The men turned to face him, their dogs dead, their weapons spent. Magwa sprang from the lip of the ravine onto the closest man, tearing out his throat before they hit the ground. He whipped his head about and tore open the tendons in the ankle of another man, then snapped his jaws closed on the man’s throat as he fell. Panic ensued. Men tried to strike him with the butts of their muskets, but Magwa eluded them, snapping at legs and groins as he darted among the men, bringing them down and killing them with a second attack.
Only one escaped the ravine, and he did not make it ten yards into the forest before Magwa leapt onto his back and killed him.
His vengeance complete, blood staining his muzzle, Magwa returned to his father. Gar had returned to his human form. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. Magwa changed his shape and knelt beside his dying father. Gently, he rolled the man over. Gar smiled up at him.
“Gretchen,” Gar whispered. “She is coming for me. We will be together again.”
Then he died.
* * *
“Father,” Ulrik w
hispered to the ceiling of his Mexican motel room. A single tear ran from each eye and into hair that had long ago turned gray.
He had buried his father where he’d fallen, but had not marked the spot. The men and dogs he piled together and left for the carrion. He’d then roamed the woods as a wolf for three months, not returning to the Chawana village until after his third cycle had run its course. There, he’d learned that Gar had already informed the village elders that he would be returning to his mate in the spirit world. He had promised that his son would continue to be the emissary of the gods in the village. Magwa had tried to do that.
But his heart had not been in it. Two weeks after returning, he simply left the village and never returned.
Ulrik sighed deeply. So long ago, it was. I have grown older than I ever would have guessed. And … I never had a love equal to that of Gar and Gretchen.
There had been women – many women – in his life. At first, he tried to live and love as a normal man, but such was not to be. Then he had learned the legend of the Mother of the Pack and he had taken on the quest of finding the Mother as a mission in his life, determined that he would be the one to mate with her and father the long-awaited leader.
But the years, decades and finally the centuries rolled by without finding her.
Until I’d become an old man.
He smiled ruefully. Names drifted through his memory – Hannah, Elysia, Kiona, … and Shara. There had been others, but it was those four who stood out most in his memory. Only Kiona and Shara were still alive. Hannah had not accepted the Gift and she died during her pregnancy, tended by Indian women horrified by what they witnessed at the white woman’s passing. The memory of Hannah’s pain was more than Ulrik could bring himself to dwell upon. Elizabeth, a young woman without family, rescued from a Massachusetts witch trial, killed herself two days after completing her first cycle; her sobs of guilt still haunted many of Ulrik’s dreams. Elysia had been killed moments after Ulrik found her; he’d followed a dream in which he saw her and sensed where to seek her out. She was killed by the religious women charged with educating and protecting her.
But despite it all, he is coming to me. This boy born of a woman to whom I gave the Gift. He will become my son, as I was Gar’s son. I will mark him with the Othala rune early and will not abandon him once he is marked. He will become my son.
Shara
A day and another night passed. Thomas McGrath’s wounds healed quickly, but when he stood and tried to walk, the deepest gash on his stomach opened again and his broken leg still ached. Shara sewed him closed once more. She spent two of her silver bullets shooting rabbits that day; she skinned them and cooked the rabbits so that she and Thomas could eat dinner. And once again she bedded down under a blanket with the naked man who had tried to protect her son.
Her thoughts were divided between her son and her husband. She’d left Chris the briefest of notes, afraid of his anger. But she’d expected to catch Joey and be back the same day. She knew Chris would be frantic with worry. Frantic and angry and hurt.
Mostly angry. He’ll be furious with me for failing, for letting Joey know the truth. And if Joey likes being a wolf it’ll only be worse. Chris will hate me for that.
Joey … Joey would be on his way to Ulrik. But could the Indian woman protect him from those who wanted to hurt him long enough to actually deliver him to Shara’s old mentor.
Shara refused to sob, but let the tears roll over her face until sleep finally took her.
She awoke to the sound of howling. At first she thought she was dreaming old dreams from the days before she created the serum that suppressed the wolf. But the hard earth and her aching back reminded her quickly where she was and what had happened.
“Shhh,” Thomas whispered. He lay on his back but turned his head to face Shara when she began to move.
“How close?” Shara asked.
“Too close. You have your gun?”
Shara slid her hand under her pillow and pulled out the pistol. The black steel was cold in her hand. She laid the gun in her lap. “What do we do?” she asked.
“We should go.”
“We can’t outrun them. Not … not in this shape.”
“Aye, lass, that is true. I will run as a wolf. You must do the best you can and rely on your gun to hold them off.”
“What side are they on? Are they … with Ulrik?”
“I don’t think so. Come. Take your gun. Leave the rest.”
Thomas pushed the blanket off himself and flexed his muscles. Shara tried not to look, but found her eyes going to the naked man. She told herself it was to check his wounds, and she did note that he seemed completely healed.
“Do you still hurt?” she asked.
“No, no. I’m fine, lass. Fine.” Thomas smiled at her, then he closed his eyes and quickly transformed himself into a massive black wolf.
I used to be able to do that.
Shara shook her head. I gave that up. I don’t want it. She pulled on her boots, coat and gloves, put the box of extra silver bullets in her coat pocket and held the gun ready in her hand. She nodded to the wolf and unzipped the front of the tent. Thomas slipped through the opening and into the early dawn. Immediately, another howl went up. Shara crawled out of the tent and stood up. Thomas was growling, his tail standing up behind him, his lips pulled up so that his fangs were bared.
A large gray and black wolf stood less than twenty feet from the tent. It, too, was growling. It cast a quick look at Shara, then returned its attention to Thomas.
Shara deftly raised her gun and fired. The wolf jerked and dropped into the snow, a trickle of blood running from a hole between its eyes. Hair fell away from the body. The wolf skeleton stretched, seemed to melt and reshape itself, and then it was the dead, naked body of a young man Shara did not recognize. She saw the brand of the Othala rune burned onto the front of his left shoulder.
Something pressed against her leg. Shara pulled her eyes from the dead man and found Thomas, still in wolf form, nudging her. When he saw he had her attention, he hurried away, glancing behind to make sure she was following.
Shara caught up with Thomas and said, “We should angle more to the west. My truck is there. Maybe it’s still safe.”
Thomas changed his course to follow where Shara pointed and they hurried on. Behind them, the sounds of howling continued. Shara determined there were three wolves. She guessed them to be half a mile back and a bit to the east. They would have heard the howl of the werewolf she shot and would make their way toward where the call came from.
At least that bastard isn’t alive to keep calling them.
It had been years since she’d last killed a werewolf. After she’d taken the serum the first time and members of the Pack had seen a vision of her removing her wolf skin, only a few had tried to reach her. She’d dispatched them. Then they quit coming. She’d suspected Ulrik kept them away. Until she’d met Thomas that first time and he’d told her she and her family were under constant surveillance.
I should have been more careful after that. How many are there? Have I seen them in town, passed them on the road, and not recognized them?
Shara knew it was too late for such thoughts.
The wolf would have recognized them.
She pushed the thought away. For a while after taking the serum she’d retained the instincts of the wolf. But, in time, they’d faded. She still had the poor eyesight that resulted from spending two solid years as a wolf, forgetting she was human, still had the heavy eyebrows she had to keep plucked, and her fingers all were nearly the same length, but the good things, the sharper hearing and keen sense of smell, were dulled now.
If I could change shape I could run as fast as Thomas. We could be at my truck before the wolves behind us catch up. We could go home, be behind walls, with alarms and rifles.
The howling stopped. The woods were silent except for Shara’s own panting. Thomas paused and looked back the way they’d come, then his dark eyes found Shara. He tu
rned and trotted on. Shara hurried after him. She knew the hunting wolves had found their camp and were examining their fallen comrade. And looking at the footprints in the snow leading away from the abandoned tent.
“Oh God.” Shara pushed herself harder, passing Thomas. She didn’t run. She knew she would tire herself out too quickly, but she set a pace that was much faster than they’d been traveling. Thomas stayed beside her, his pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth, his breath coming in short steamy puffs from his open mouth.
Behind them, the howls resumed, then stopped as the wolves took to the trail. All too soon, Shara heard them behind her. One howled in triumph. Shara glanced back to see the three wolves split up. One stayed behind while another went to the left and the other to the right, flanking her and Thomas. She kept moving, making sure the gun clenched in her gloved fist was visible to all the werewolves.
The wolf to the right slunk closer to them, his eyes locked on Thomas. He lunged a moment before Shara was aware he was so close. But Thomas was ready and met the other wolf in the air. Shara froze, watching the battle for a moment. Then she found the wolf to the right trying to move in. She pointed the gun and the gray beast jumped behind a tree. Shara looked to the trail behind them and could not find the third wolf for a moment. Then she saw the black-faced animal watching her from behind a fallen log. Shara lifted the gun. The wolf blinked, then lowered its head slowly behind the snow-covered log.
The wolf that had attacked Thomas yelped. Shara glanced over and saw the animal retreating to the woods, blood streaming from its shoulder and staining the snow as it limped away as fast as it was able. Thomas looked at her. Blood dripped from his muzzle, but his eyes gave her the message to keep going. Shara nodded and they moved on.
They’ll probably keep their distance now. I don’t think they want to kill us. They want to know where we’re going and what we’re doing.
They want Joey.
Shara tightened her fist on the gun’s wooden grip. She wondered if Joey was with Ulrik already, and what her old mentor would do with her son.
Ulrik Page 6