The Call (The Great North Woods Pack Book 2)

by Shawn Underhill

  A slight turn of her head showed that her tormentor had been hit. The cat was spinning, reeling and thrashing in violent shock. Instinctually rather than fairly, the young silver-white felt the wolfish urge to rise, to spring upon his back, to close her jaws around his neck, and ensure her own survival. Through the fog of fear and confusion her muscles and tendons began slowly to react to this wild impulse.

  Just as she began to move, however, a second clap of thunder shook her to the core. Dropping to her belly once more, she cringed there, waiting for the pain and the warm dampness of fresh blood she so feared. Again she watched the spot where the shot had flashed from the tree. All retaliatory instincts left her as the second shot reverbed through the trees. You have to run, she told herself. As fast as you can! Forget the cat! Go! Now! Run!

  But nothing happened. The unnerving fear sweeping through her rendered every muscle in her marvelous body to quivering mush, temporarily paralyzing her lightning-quick physique. From just yards away, the sounds of the dying cat further deepened her terror—the horror of a violent end. This can’t be it, she thought. I just found out. I just changed. Not now. Not like this!

  Then from the tree there were shadowy movements. Holding her gaze steady, Evie distinguished the moving shape of the hunter amid the dark branches. He had been so well hidden until those small movements made him painfully obvious. Faintly she heard muffled sounds along with those movements—a metallic sound, like a mechanism grinding and clicking. Then above those sounds a voice suddenly spoke loud and clear. It was a man’s voice, angry, cursing and sputtering, naming many of the saints.

  The commotion of the cat at her side began to fade. At first Evie thought he was settling down to die, but as she turned her head back to him she realized that he was moving away, despite his injuries, escaping with his life once again. She watched after his golden outline for a moment, smelling his blood, feeling the wild urge to finish her foe rising up in her once more. But still she remained frozen in place, too stunned to move. The urge to kill soon faded again under the very human repulsion of such a horrific act. Hurry, she told herself. Get away! Now!

  Several long seconds passed, and still she remained anchored to the ground, her entire body trembling. But now the metallic sounds from the tree ceased. The man’s voice sounded out again, but this time he spoke softer, more directly, as though addressing another person. “You okay, Joe?” he said.

  What? Evie thought, straining her eyes towards his shape. The thought of a second hunter hidden somewhere in the darkness first occurred to her, and she began frantically scenting the air. Then the word Joe flashed boldly in her mind’s eye, and a blend of confusion and strained hope set in on her. Of the North Pack, in all these acres of dense woods, there was only one other white wolf. Could it be that this hunter somehow associated the silver-white before him with Joseph Ludlow the man?

  Cautiously, with her curiosity slightly overriding her fear, Evie stood up straight with her nose pointed to the man in the tree, trying to identify his scent while trying to comprehend the newest turn her already strange situation had taken. The tingling in her spine began to lessen. The prickly, electrified hairs of her hackles slowly softened and relaxed to her shoulders and back.

  “Joe,” the man repeated. “You okay?”

  “Who’s there?” Evie asked with a whine. Only after she’d made the sound did she realize the absurdity in her attempted communication—force of habit.

  “Take it easy,” the hunter said. “I ain’t gonna shoot you. Gulldamn gun’s jammed anyway.”

  Standing at almost her full height, Evie took a cautious step toward the tree, still scenting, still dreadfully confused, and still planning to run at the slightest hint of danger.

  “Don’t jump at me now,” the man said in somewhat comic, somewhat serious tone. “I’m comin’ down.”

  She kept her eyes locked on the man but did not advance further, watching closely as his silhouette fumbled in the shadows. With a heave he slung his rifle over his shoulder by the strap and carefully descended the ladder on the far side of the tree. After a moment of struggling his feet met the ground with a crunching of leaves. He exhaled loudly, as if relieved or satisfied, and then stood absolutely still by the wide trunk of the tree.

  The wolf scanned his shadowed face as he stared back at her. He was a nervous man, and he was not a young man. She understood this partly by his mannerisms but mostly by his scent. Yet he was not a frightened man—not afraid of her; respectful perhaps but not frightened. She detected no sense of hostility from him, no strong adrenalin hormones to indicate fear—even unintentional fear. His nerves seemed more of the eager, expectant type. Strange, it seemed, for an elderly man with a jammed rifle, alone, standing face-to-face with a massive wolf—the apex of apex predators. He knows, she realized. He must know. But how?

  Now the man inched forward from the tree. Evie growled a faint but clear warning. He had saved her from the cat, she understood, but it had been a very bad night, and her nerves were on a razor’s edge. She would leave nothing else to chance. If he made even the slightest move for that rifle, she would pounce.

  “Take it easy,” he said, holding his hand up defensively. “I know it’s you, Joe. And you know me.” And as he spoke he moved slowly into a small patch of filtered moonlight streaming through the branches, granting Evie the clearest view yet of his face.

  She knew him in a second. With only his voice she’d been unsure, but his face she recognized instantly. He’d sat near her at The Kitchen’s counter, and soon after, on the roadside he’d scolded Erica for speeding. Ed was his name, if memory served. Erica had promised him a free lunch or two, and he’d accepted gracefully. In the instant that this recognition settled in on her, Evie decided that he’d earned himself free lunches for life.

  ***

  “Take a good look,” he said, just as Evie recognized him. “It’s me … old Ed from town. See?”

  Evie groaned in response to his admission. Instantly she felt some of the tension leaving her, and she relaxed her defensive stance to a more neutral one.

  “I guess you’re wonderin’ how I know,” he mumbled shyly, almost like a boy confessing some small crime. “Well, the truth is, I’ve seen you before. Like this. As a wolf, I mean.”

  Evie’s eyes never left him as he spoke. He kept inching closer. Though his face bore the wrinkles of sixty plus years, it now bore through those wrinkles a wondrous expression—one nearer to a boy who had just caught Santa in the act of leaving presents. His eyes were sparkling in the ghost light, and his lower lip was quivering.

  “My God, look at you!” he exclaimed with a little stomp of his foot and a smoky laugh. “How magnificent! Forgive me if I stare, it’s hard to believe it’s you in there.”

  “I’m not him,” Evie groaned, then hung her head in frustration. Mistrust of him was leaving her quickly; gratitude was taking her over and calming her. But how would she communicate?

  “Now, now, don’t worry, don’t worry,” Ed said, as if he partially understood her—or at the very least, like one of those people who habitually talked to dogs and imagined their responses. “I ain’t gonna tell no one,” he proclaimed. “I never have. Not in all my years. Well, except my wife. But she don’t believe me anyhow!” He laughed. Then, lowering his eyes to Evie’s red-stained shoulder, his face suddenly hardened and he muttered, “The bugger gotcha, hey?”

  Evie grumbled mildly and twitched her ears, in part as a response, in part as a mild warning to keep him from getting any closer. The wolfish mistrust of a man with a gun she could not completely set aside, and old Ed kept pressing excitedly closer.

  He seemed to understand the message and took a short step back. “I won’t try to pat ya, if that’s whatcha nervous about.”

  “Good. Don’t.”

  “My house is just a ways through the woods,” he said. “The cats steer clear of my place on account of my dogs barking and my taking shots at ’em. You’ll be safe there.”

&nb
sp; Read that one right. He’s a dog person for sure.

  Then for a moment Evie turned her head to the north, wondering if there were any more cats between her and the pack gathered in Wilson yard. The idea of feeling safe under a roof, even at the house of a virtual stranger, was immensely appealing.

  “C’mon,” Ed motioned excitedly, drawing her attention once more. “There’s more of ’em out here; I’d bet my boots on it. I don’t like standing around with a jammed cartridge; gives me the shivers. They won’t come after us at my place.”

  Evie did not move right away. Instead she pricked her ears straight forward, straining to hear something in the distance.

  “What is it?” the old man asked. “More? By God those ears must hear clear to Vermont from here!”

  “Not with you constantly blabbing.” She shook her head in frustration. Then she lowered it to appear less alert, to set the man at ease. The sounds that interested her were from far away to the south, where Abel and the hunters had gone—where Erica had followed. The faint sounds piqued her curiosity, but after her experiences thus far, the idea of joining them held absolutely no appeal.

  “C’mon,” Ed motioned again, then turned and began marching noisily south. Every few steps he paused and looked back over his shoulder, pleading for the wolf to follow.

  Starting slowly after him, somewhere deep below her wild exterior Evie felt herself smile—the same relaxing release of happy hormones spread warmly through her. In spite of her size, the man coaxing her forward reminded her of someone trying desperately to coax a little puppy to follow them home.

  There was no choice. She had to follow him.

  With absolute certainty, by both wolf instincts and human, she knew that he had no ill intentions. If he hadn’t saved her life outright, he’d at least spared her an ugly fight and a frantic dash for help. And there was no way in her current form to make him understand that she was not her grandfather; no way she’d make the shift to allow such communications possible in the middle of the woods. In going with him, technically she was breaking yet another major rule. But this man had helped her. Surely that was the exception. And clearly she was not the first white wolf he’d seen—she was hardly outing the family. She worried also about another ambush; her inexperienced nose had failed her once already in the confusion of the evening, and she knew as certainly as she now trusted Ed that she could not afford another such failure. The scratch on her shoulder paled in comparison to what could have transpired.

  The walk to his house was short, and Evie spent that time wondering when and how this noisy, excitable old man—now crunching along so desperately far from stealthy—had been made wise to the secret.

  ~3~

  “All afternoon my dogs were going nuts,” Ed sputtered, picking his way along a narrow trail. “Yup, I knew there was trouble brewing. I always know. I told my wife, ‘We got trouble comin,’’ and she says, ‘Oh, Ed, give it a rest.’” He laughed out loud. “Well—”

  “Quiet,” Evie grumbled at his back. “My lord, you make ten times the noise I do. And I’m five times your size!”

  Ed stopped and peered back over his shoulder. “What’s the trouble? Smell something?”

  “Keep going,” she grumbled and nudged his back with the top of her head.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “We’re almost there. Guess I don’t have to worry ’bout nobody sneaking up behind me with you around. Ha! I’ll tell ya, that’s a good feeling in these woods. Dark and spooky they can get sometimes. Never know what’s lurking about. But I suppose you got better eyes than me, eh?”

  “Keep walking,” the wolf grunted.

  “Guess you’re in a hurry, eh?” Ed remarked, and at last put his head down and kept quiet as he trudged along a little quicker.

  Within a minute the yard became visible in the dull moonlight. Evie stopped just shy of the grass as Ed continued on. His dogs were barking from the screened porch. They could smell her as clearly as she smelled them. They were afraid of her themselves, and more so, afraid for their master; the sounds of their warnings unnerved her as small challenges. Another confrontation was the last thing she desired.

  “Stay right here while I get ’em inside,” the old man said, and hurried away as fast as his old legs would carry him.

  The wary wolf stepped out onto the grass once the dogs were out of sight. Halfway between the woods and the house there stood a clothesline, the clothes and sheets still hanging where Ed had forgotten them in favor of more interesting hunting activities. Near it she stretched her legs and lowered herself to the ground. It felt like the first time in many hours she’d been able to relax.

  From the house drifted the sound of Ed speaking excitedly with his wife. She heard it as clearly as if she were standing at their sides. Of course the woman didn’t believe his story. Round and round they went, bickering back and forth, until finally the woman exited the house, shoving angrily at the door with her raving husband close behind.

  ***

  It wasn’t Lucile’s fault. She’d been married to Edmond for nearly fifty years, and barely a week passed during those years where she hadn’t dealt with some mention, some hint or some sideways reference to the “magic wolves” haunting the woods just beyond their doorstep.

  Early on in their relationship she had dismissed him as a joker, but time proved otherwise. He took his hobby—his obsession, according to her—as seriously as some men took hunting or fishing. When it became apparent that there was no deterring him from his beliefs, Lucile simply gave up trying. She accepted it as one of his few faults, numbed herself to it as best she could, and carried on with life. There were plenty of men that did far worse.

  In time came the addition of the oversized cougars to his stories. They were interested in the wolves, Edmond suspected, for reasons unknown; he took them to be more dangerous than the wolves.

  The only time Lucile came close to believing any of it was when one of their dogs turned up dead, obviously murdered by some large predator. But the death of a hunting dog in the North Woods was far from proof of Edmond’s outrageous claims. It was certainly tragic, but far from absolute proof. He claimed to have taken many shots at such cougars, shots he’d been sure had hit their marks. But not once had he produced a dead body as evidence to his tall tales. In the days before sophisticated testing, blood in the woods proved little of the animal that left it to the naked human eye. Dogs could recognize the difference, sure, but lacking the ability to explain to their human companions, such recognitions were of no real help. In Lucile’s mind, she had no logical choice but to carry on in her disbelief.

  So that night when she had heard the gunshots, and soon after, when Ed burst into the house almost crazed with excitement, she shot him down as always. When he absolutely refused to let it go, however, Lucile could hardly ignore him, and she began to worry. He was no spring chicken anymore; he could possibly have a stroke; the last thing she wanted to do was call the paddy wagon to pick him up for his own safety.

  At last she gave in, and to humor him, she stepped out onto the porch in her slippers. “There,” she stood ready to say. “Look. An empty yard. No wolves.” But instead she stopped in her tracks, clutching firmly to the railing with one hand, the other cupped over her open mouth.

  The moon and stars were beginning to haze due to an approaching storm, but at that hour there was still ample light for Lucile to see, at last, the object of her husband’s obsession. A great animal lay stretched on the grass near her clothesline—a wolf so large that a grown St. Bernard would’ve appeared as a puppy by its side. Its color was ghostly white in the evening gloom, and its eyes reflected the small light from the house at her back in a greenish glow.

  Ed, standing faithfully behind her, caught her when her knees buckled and she began falling back. Easing her to a seated position at the top of the steps, he could feel her shivering. “Now, now, don’t panic, Lucy,” he said. “He means us no harm. If you’d just trusted me there wouldn’t be any shock to worry
about.”

  ***

  “Poor thing,” Evie said, watching the scene unfold. She was careful to remain stretched out low and unintimidating on the ground. Her tail lightly flicked. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Honest I’m friendly.”

  Of course the old woman heard only whines from the slight movements of the wolf’s mouth and throat. But as she watched the massive animal she began to recognize its demeanor as being calmly composed. Its neutral, relaxed posture showed no signs of apprehension or aggression. In fact its face appeared almost to be smiling.

  Ed descended the porch steps and stood eagerly looking back and forth between the wolf and his wife. “You see that, Lucy,” he blurted. He was pointing as if the white animal wasn’t painfully obvious. “I told you I wasn’t nuts! A hundred times I told you, and you wouldn’t believe me. Look at him now! Just look! What an animal! By God what a sight! Now who’s crazy, huh?” He tipped his head back, roaring with laughter. “Not me, that’s for sure!” He clapping his hands and rubbing them quickly together as if he was cold.

  “Careful,” his wife struggled to say.

  “Careful my —,” he muttered and walked up to within a few yards of the wolf. “Look. See? It ain’t a wild wolf. He’s friendly.”

  “Is that,” Lucile began, her voice shaking with nerves. “His shoulder. Darling. Is he wounded?”

  “Yeah, damned cougar musta took a swipe at him. Don’t worry, though; I got him good. He won’t be back for a while.” His tone softened again. “Come close now,” he urged his wife, stepping back and extending his hand for her to take. “He’s safe as long yain’t a big cat or a barkin’ dog. Just move slowly so as not to spook ’em.”