by Laura Taylor
And more than that, he was impressed with Caroline’s willingness to stand by a member of her Den. It put Caroline’s reputation on the line, as well as that of her entire Den, but then again, Caroline had never been one to shy away from a challenge, or back down from her beliefs. Andre discreetly took out a notebook and made a few pertinent notes. He was beginning to think he’d have a most interesting report to send to the Council, once his assessment of Caroline was complete.
Dinnertime at the Densmeet was both a warm social celebration, and a period of tension and spontaneous quarrels, and everyone was at pains to be both patient and forgiving when tempers flared.
The problem was that, far from being a human mind with access to a wolf’s body, a properly merged shifter was equally influenced by both sides of their personality – the human one, and the wolf one. And wolves were very particular about meal times, the dominant members of the pack privileged with first go at the food, down through the ranks until the omega wolf was left to clean up whatever scraps might remain.
Within any given Den, the problem was dealt with through routine and ritual. The shifters sat at a long table, the alpha at one end, the omega at the other, and everyone knew their own rank, who they must wait for, and who must wait for them.
But at the Densmeet, there was the sudden problem of having to deal with fifty shifters crammed into a small space, with no clear lines as to who was the ranking wolf in any given situation.
For convenience, dinner was served as a buffet, with each person left to help themselves, but who got to stand where in the line was a matter of some heated discussions. Some of the ranks were obvious – the alphas went first, with Baron and Caroline given priority as a mark of respect for their efforts in hosting the Densmeet. Other people, knowing they were of low rank, gathered beside the wall and waited anxiously for their turn, letting the bulk of the group go first. But in between, there were twenty or thirty wolves who weren’t quite so clear on their order, and while there was a certain amount of human politeness at play, awkward offers to let a visitor or a host go first, there were a number of inevitable squabbles as well. The Russians, in particular, seemed very focused on rank, making an effort to use physical size and prolonged eye contact to intimidate others into giving way.
But the problem was that a person’s size or stature in human form wasn’t always indicative of their rank as a wolf. Some large men, being of a rather more placid nature, were lower ranking than expected, while some rather small people – John being one of them – were actually ferocious fighters, skilled at both hand to hand combat and fighting in canine form. So Baron wasn’t entirely surprised when he sat down at his table, plate of food in hand, only to hear his boyfriend engaging in a loud and prolonged argument with one of the Russian shifters. But John spoke no Russian, and the woman who’d picked a fight with him seemed to speak little to no English, so all that resulted was a lot of shouting, which came ever closer to the moment when one of them would attempt to shove the other out of the way and risk a sizable brawl right there in the dining room.
Baron glanced around, seeing Nikolai joining him at his table. Despite being an alpha, and without a doubt one of the toughest warriors Baron had ever met, the man seemed to be remarkably level headed.
“You speak Russian?” he asked quickly, knowing that many Ukrainians were fluent in the language.
“I do,” Nikolai replied, already standing up, seeing where the problem was. While he could have asked one of the Russian translators to assist, given their apparent tendency for conflict, he was far more inclined to enlist the aid of someone who would help solve the problem, rather than just pour more fuel on the fire.
The two of them arrived beside the arguing pair, and John immediately shut up, folding his arms and waiting for Baron to do something useful. The woman, on the other hand, let rip with an onslaught of accusations in Russian. Nikolai listened patiently, then turned to Baron with an air of boredom.
“She feels that the English shifters are taking advantage of their superior numbers to secure higher positions,” he translated drily, “and she would like to see some evidence of the young man’s rank.”
John raised an eyebrow at that. “Permission to shift?” he asked, turning to Baron with a scowl. “With no challenge intended.”
Baron nodded, and John waited while Nikolai translated the information, then shifted into his wolf form.
As the members of the English Den already knew, his wolf was fearsome to look at. Battered and scarred, with cold, grey eyes that could look straight through your soul, he turned his gaze on the Russian woman. Who took one look at him and turned pale. She said something in Russian, and Nikolai laughed.
“John may go first,” he said with a chuckle, then, without waiting for any more discussion, returned to his seat where his meal was getting cold.
John returned to human form, and sent a sardonic smile the woman’s way. She backed up a step, and gave him a tight nod. Baron waited just long enough to send a warning glare John’s way, a silent instruction not to cause any more trouble than was absolutely necessary, and then he returned to his seat.
At the far end of the line, Mark was faring rather worse in his efforts to secure his own dinner. His day had gone badly right from the start, with Caroline pulling him aside early this morning to explain that he had been forbidden from participating in the Nochtan-Eil, the official summer recognition of those who had fallen during the year. The news had been heartbreaking, a sharp reminder of all he had lost when Luke had been killed, and a blow that completely disregarded any friendship the pair had shared. He’d vented his anger at Caroline – apparently the order came from the Council itself, rather than from her or Baron – and he’d been surprised when she’d refrained from retaliating. Usually she was quick to tell people off when they stepped out of line, but she’d simply listened to his rant with calm patience, apologised for the situation and told him that Luke had been an honourable wolf and he would be sorely missed. Mark had spent the rest of the day brooding, even Dee unable to pull him out of his dark mood.
There had also been the reaction of the other shifters to the obvious traitor’s brand on his left cheek. The hostile reception had been predictable, the shifters generally embracing strict standards of loyalty and solidarity, and his betrayal would be felt keenly, but it had been disheartening, nonetheless. And now that it was dinnertime, that hostility was coming out in new ways.
Branded as a traitor, he was automatically the lowest ranking wolf in the room, the omega of his own Den, and easily pushed aside even by the low ranking wolves from overseas. At first, he’d accepted the position with resigned dignity, joining the very end of the queue, waiting patiently while everyone else served themselves.
But when it came time to get his own food, he found out rather quickly that things were not going to be quite as simple as that.
“Second helpings,” a large Polish man announced, pushing Mark out of the way as he reached for a plate, and he served himself a second portion of the roast meat and vegetables. The man took his time, and Mark waited for him to move out of the way… but he was just reaching for a plate again when another man stepped in front of him, a Russian of medium rank, who muttered a few words in his native language, and rudely pushed Mark aside.
Mark gritted his teeth, seeing several more shifters take notice of his predicament, and not liking the calculating gleam in their eyes. He was getting seriously hungry by now, but it looked like it was going to be a long night.
Seated at her own table, finishing her plate of food, Dee watched the ongoing argument at the buffet with growing distress. Though she would have loved to go over and get some food for Mark herself, or better yet, lay into the bullies and throw her rank around a little, she had been expressly forbidden from doing so when she’d been informed of Mark’s demotion several months ago. It was part of his punishment for betraying his pack, she knew, and while they both understood that his low rank came with significant disadvan
tages, it was becoming more and more obvious that the other shifters were intent on stopping him from eating anything at all. And it wasn’t just the foreigners. Even among their own Den, feelings still ran hot about his betrayal, and garnering any significant support for him was going to be difficult.
Faeydir was none too happy about it either, offering to bite the legs of those who were giving Mark a hard time, and Dee had to concentrate to rein her wolf in. Biting humans was forbidden, she reminded the wolf, who merely snarled at her, and then offered to pee on the shoes of the troublemakers instead.
Dee glanced at Mark, who gave her a helpless look, but she could only shrug, both of them knowing she wasn’t allowed to interfere.
But there were others in their Den not subject to that particular restriction, Dee realised, and she immediately turned to Skip, sitting beside her, her teddy bear tucked safely in her lap. “Is there anything we can do about that?” she asked, nodding to where Mark was once again being shoved out of the way.
“Alistair would probably help,” Skip suggested immediately, Alistair being one of Mark’s closest friends, and Dee scanned the room to find him. Fluent in French, he was seated at a table with two of the French shifters, all of them laughing as one of them attempted to say a few words in English – clearly he hadn’t learned any of the language before coming here – and Alistair had yet to notice the stand-off at the buffet table.
But just as she was about to get up and go ask him for help, another woman stepped up to the buffet, Annabelle, from the French Den.
“Excuse me, Mark,” Dee heard her say, her table not too far from the buffet. “But can I just get a little more meat. Thank you so much.” She stepped in ahead of Mark, and Dee was momentarily taken aback, having thought the woman to be more reasonable and compassionate than most of the crowd here. But Annabelle wasn’t done yet. “I hear you are a carpenter,” she said, starting up a conversation with Mark, who was looking like he was reaching the end of his patience. “You make tables, yes? And they are profitable? I would like to know more of how you do this.”
Just then, another woman from the Norwegian Den approached the table and tried to step in between Annabelle and Mark.
But Annabelle was having none of it. “I am having a conversation!” she snapped loudly as the Norwegian woman rudely butted in, and the woman drew back in surprise. “Don’t look at me like that,” Annabelle went on, her accent thick in her anger. “I know you speak English. And you know that I outrank you. So remember your manners, and get back in line.”
Too startled to respond, the woman did just that, and Dee watched, a grin on her face as Annabelle took her time selecting her meat, keeping up a running conversation all the while with Mark, who loaded up his plate as quickly as he could, knowing he wasn’t likely to get another opportunity. Then Annabelle led him over to her own table, shooing Sabine out of the way so that Mark could sit beside her. Annabelle was a warrior and a physician, ranking fourth in her own Den and taking responsibility for the vast majority of their medical care – a high responsibility, when battles with the Noturatii were so common – and Dee could think of no reason why she would suddenly take an interest in carpentry. She was going to have to thank the woman later, she thought to herself, impressed at the way she played politics, and finally able to quiet Faeydir from her unhappy internal rant.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After dinner was over, Dee found herself alone. Skip had headed off to bed, exhausted from a long day of dealing with so many strangers. Heron was talking intently to Sabine from the French Den, Mark had headed out, sick of the constant harassment for his status, and Tank was caught up in politics, planning out some future event in the Densmeet that needed urgent attention.
Dee would have loved to take the opportunity to meet some new people – that was the point of this event, after all – but every time she caught someone’s eye, hoping for the opportunity to start a friendly chat, they immediately turned away, pretending to be busy or already caught in conversation. But though she was feeling lonely and altogether rejected by the cold treatment, Dee couldn’t really blame the shifters for their feelings towards her.
After she’d learned the truth about her wolf’s unusual history, she’d finally managed to track down the much-debated prophecy in the Den’s library. It had been hard work, sifting through a dozen thick volumes which talked about ancient shifters, their magic, their allies and enemies, myth mixed with factual history, until she’d finally found the record of Fenrae-Ul and the prophecy of destruction that haunted her. After reading it through a dozen or more times, captivated and horrified by the words recorded in beautiful, cursive handwriting, she’d easily memorised the verse.
‘Thus be the truth of the wolfe Fenrae-Ul,’ the words had read, no doubt translated into English a century or two ago. ‘The daughter twice removed from Faeydir-Ul. The cause of the death of her mother’s unhappy tale. By magicks deep and ancient, she shalle return henceforth to life anew. Ye shalle know her by the separation of wolfe from man. And under her reign, the shyfters shall be restor’d to the natural order. No more divided, but united as one being. And peace shalle reign as the old discord is laid to rest.’
Dee sighed, feeling a heavy weight settle in her chest as she recalled the words. The message seemed clear enough. Fenrae-Ul had indeed returned, Dee’s wolf able to separate the wolf half of a shifter from their human half. From the sounds of it, Fenrae had been the granddaughter of Faeydir, an ancient wolf indeed, and according to the prophecy, at some point during her life, she would restore the natural order to the shifters. No longer divided, they would become one being again; wolf, or human. And so she would become the ‘death of her mother’s unhappy tale’, the end of the shifter curse that the original Faeydir had unleashed on the world.
No wonder no one wanted to talk to her.
Dee suddenly felt a cold pressure against her neck, and she jumped in surprise, spinning around to see that huge Ukrainian shifter standing behind her. He was grinning wryly, holding out a glass of liquid with ice in it, and she took it hesitantly.
“Go on, it won’t bite you,” the man said. “You looked like you were away in another world. I thought I should bring you back.”
“Thank you,” Dee said, but then she took a careful sniff before she drank. And lowered the glass again without tasting.
“You don’t like vodka?” The man seemed taken aback, and Dee’s heart sank. The one person who actually wanted to talk to her, and she’d inadvertently offended him.
“I like it,” she assured him hastily. “But I’m not used to drinking it straight. Usually I have it with tonic.”
To her great surprise, the man burst out laughing. “English wolves,” he said, with equal parts disdain and amusement. “I’ve been told you’re fierce warriors, killing hundreds of Noturatii this year, say the rumours. But you’re frightened by a little vodka? Ha! Warriors, my great fat arse!” He took a sip of his own drink, then grinned at her. “I’m Nikolai,” he introduced himself. “Alpha of the Ukrainian Den.”
“Dee Carman,” Dee replied. “But I’m sure you knew that already.”
“Taste the vodka,” Nikolai said, and then waited, the conversation apparently going no further until she did, so Dee lifted the glass and took a tiny sip. It was strong, but good – Nikolai wouldn’t settle for second rate vodka – and he grinned with satisfaction as she coughed.
“Good, yes? You will learn to like it. Now, do you want to know a secret?” he asked, with a look that suggested that whatever he was about to say was a statement of the highest importance. Dee nodded, not knowing what else to do.
He bent down, putting his mouth right beside her ear, and then whispered, “I am not afraid of you.”
He stepped back, looking smug, and downed the remainder of his drink.
This man was not like the others, Dee realised quickly. Strong, confident, but with an undefinable quality that was both peaceful and violent, a creature totally at ease with who and wh
at he was. And as far as humans went, that was a rare quality indeed. So she asked, genuinely curious, “Why not?”
Nikolai looked pleased with the question. “We live in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone,” he said, enunciating the words carefully. “A dead world. The forest died with the explosion. The people fled. The insects and the birds suffered great losses. And the tourists come to see the gravestones, the remnants of lives ended by the folly of mankind. But the wolves?” He smiled again, a strangely peaceful expression. “The wolves and the deer grew in number. The trees slowly take back the towns. The roads give themselves up to weeds and grass. The humans left, and so the wild creatures roam free. That is where we live. So if the prophecy is not true, we will continue to live as we have, on the fringes of civilisation, wild and free. And if it is true?” He shrugged. “We will re-join our wolf brethren, and rule the land that humanity forgot.” He levelled a serious, contemplative look at her. “What have I to fear, when the worst that will happen is that we will return to the wild where we belong?”
“That’s an excellent philosophy,” Dee said, relieved to have finally met someone who could see past the rumours and take the time to have a real conversation. “I admire your outlook on life.” Faced with the prospect of her own death, by whatever means, Dee didn’t think she could remain quite so composed.
“I have an idea,” Nikolai said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “These wolves… half of them don’t know what they are, jumping at shadows, blaming you for their fears. But the Ukrainians? We know where we stand. We face our enemies without fear.” He eyed her glass, seeing that it remained largely untouched, and a scheming look appeared on his face. “I grow tired of this endless politics,” he said, nodding at the shifters around the room, stiff faces and forced politeness at every turn. “Come over to our cottage,” he invited her, and she recalled that the Ukrainians had been given exclusive use of one of the buildings set away from the main house. “You will help us practise our English,” he said, more command than request, “and we will teach you to drink vodka like a Ukrainian.”