Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  “Officially, the pack heir is no different. There is no precedence for his failure because it has never been conceivable that he could lose.”

  “I see.”

  “You do not see. Asking such questions! Clearly, you do not see.” He stepped immediately in front of her and forced her to lean back to meet his eyes. “Understand this: if you lose this battle, you will be disowned. These little tests,” he said, growling over the word, “are no such thing.”

  “I thought … Aren’t they … ” she said cautiously. If she wanted answers, she had to be careful to not to ask any questions directly. Her father had always taught her that questions showed weakness or fear, and neither was acceptable in the pack heir. “These are the tests that admit us to adulthood.”

  “Of course! That’s true enough. To be considered an adult you have to fight here. Over the years, we have made the process all very formal.” He said the word with distaste.

  “But, Father, they are more than just a formality. Without passing these tests, we can’t leave the village. We can’t … we can’t … marry if we don’t participate, right? That is more than a formal show. I don’t understand. Why have … Father, I have never heard any of this before.”

  “Worried, are you? And well you should be. However, you will not speak casually to me, regardless of your present confusion.”

  “Father,” she said more quietly and lowered her head, trying to look patient.

  “Said calmly enough, I suppose. Well, if you cannot understand … ” He paused briefly, as though she should claim some previous knowledge of all of this. When she didn’t speak, he continued. “We have merely adapted the old laws. In the past, to be considered an adult, you fought in battle with those beasts,” he sneered. “Of course, back then, there was no waiting list, no application process, no returning if you failed the first attempt. It was war. When your time came to serve, you fought, and, in fighting, you became an adult.”

  “I study our history, Father,” she said, still unsure how to frame her questions.

  “Do you? So you see that today these tests are really ritualized war? These tests are small controlled battles.”

  “A battle,” she said flatly, although she did not understand.

  “Yes. With these gatherings we see how strong the vampires are, and the vampires observe our strengths. If we remain relatively even, if our wins approach theirs, if our skills seem more or less matched, then we both know it would be fruitless to fight an all-out war. But, of course, if ever we seem weak, they would attack immediately.”

  “Are you … Father, you are saying that, if I lose, there might be a war.”

  “No,” he said shortly, curtly shaking his head.

  “No.”

  “I am telling you, daughter, that if you lose — in order to prevent a war — the pack will reject you as leader. The pack’s rejection will send a message to the vampires that we do not accept you. It will tell the vampires that we deem you insufficient because there are others stronger than you. I am telling you that, if you lose, disowning you will the only way to avoid war.” He crafted his sentences so that certain words cracked like whips over her head.

  Listening to this, her breath quickened, her heart raced. He had spoken calmly, logically, emphasizing important words. To outsiders he may have sounded like a teacher, struggling to educate a simpleminded student, but he had always spoken to her this way. His lecture infuriated her. She mimicked him, her voice rising. “You tell me this now? Why would you wait with only a few hours before the trials to tell me something like this? Do you want me to lose?”

  “How would telling you before have been any help to you?” he prompted indifferently. “What is true for you is always the case with pack heirs. It is not a burden that others could not bear, and thus it is not a burden that you cannot bear. It is true that when the pack heir goes to this test, much lies on his shoulders. It has always been this way.” He moved forward and put his hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if he wanted to comfort her or to emphasize his point.

  “A strong and formidable heir keeps those blood-hungry creatures away. If they sense that the pack heir is strong, they will not wage war. They would rather live on in our uncomfortable truce than risk spilling their own blood in fighting when they do not have a clear advantage. Seeing a strong heir, the vampires will fear our pack because they fear the pack heir. If they do not fear you, they will not fear the pack.”

  “Father — ”

  “Elisabeth, I believe that you will make me proud. I know you cannot control a shift. I know, too, that I have always sharply criticized you. But I have always been conscious of the fact that you have been trapped in our village, safe, unchallenged, and untrained. I believe, and have told the other elders, that wolves cannot mature in the security of peace. Our kind has always been more docile at home. Your mother used to tease me, call me her pet.” He smiled briefly, thinking of a memory, but then continued sternly, “I understand that — living as you have, always at peace — you have not really been in a situation that would enable you to shift. I do not place the blame entirely on your shoulders.”

  “Father, I … ”

  “This is your time. You must show our enemies what you are capable of. You must remind them of why they have always feared our family.”

  “But Father — I cannot shift!”

  Shaking her shoulders gently, he interrupted her. “Elisabeth, have faith in yourself. You shifted when you were only a babe.”

  “But Father, I have never shifted since. I cannot force the change. I have told you. I do not know how.”

  He waved his hand, ignoring her. “I believe that, when the time is right, you will perform admirably. You will remind the vampires of the reason for our truce. You will also remind our village of why they have so long trusted our family with their fates. Today, you will remind them all that you are my daughter.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Chapter 2: WHAT’S IN A NAME

  The sparring building was tall, a single large room with a ceiling easily two or three floors over their heads. To the left, high above the practice area, there was a small recessed area for observation. The rest of the room was one simple rectangle, with a raised dais at the front of the room on the lower floor. The walls had wood frames, leaving room for many windows, and where windows would have been, there were thin papers made of wood pulp that would allow light to filter in. Because the wolves worked and lived during the day, by the cycle of the sun, there weren’t even lights placed in here — as a general rule, there was little electricity in the village. Tonight, the room was lit by tallow candles placed inside crannies in the walls. The beasts loved natural things. Even the floor they stood on was covered in mats filled with straw rush. In its simplicity, the room was soothing — or it might have been, if Caleb wasn’t having to battle his thirst again.

  He clenched his jaw against the pain and tried to focus only on his breathing. This usually helped, but right now it seemed to be making things worse. The damn smell of the wolves. His gut was on fire again. Now he would have to stand here for interminable minutes and act as though he wasn’t fighting a desire to kill everyone in the room. He had been warned that he would need a greater control than he had ever exercised. Usually, when he needed to kill, he hunted his enemies and silenced his inner demon. But here, while killing wasn’t expressively forbidden — in fact, in the trials, it was permissible — he couldn’t just give his demon free reign. Fights to the death were seen as not entirely desirable, for obvious reasons, but they remained, in everyone’s mind, a worthy and sometimes necessary avenue of discovering what a warrior was truly capable of. In fact, he had and still did anticipate letting his demon have its way, eventually.

  Still, he had not been prepared for how desperately his blood lust would rage. He wanted to kill badly enough that it was starting to be the o
nly thing he thought about. His mind functioned through a haze of violence. The world he saw shifted. His memories of family, country, and mission started to disappear and fade. Who he was narrowed down to one thought: hunter. He couldn’t recall the names of the vampires around him — like the wolves, the vampires that he had been raised and trained with were merely other targets. The combination of his desire for blood and that of the beast inside him made it impossible to distinguish between friend and foe. Everyone in the room was also reduced to a single word: prey.

  He crossed his arms and gripped his own biceps hard enough to bruise them. He was squeezing his arms so badly he might be damaging muscles, but at least the haze was lifting again, if only a little. He was the vampire prince. He could not afford to lose control here. He took short, choppy breaths, taking in air only when he had to. He would not breathe the wolves’ scent any more than strictly necessary. He would remember who he was. He would remember his damn duty.

  If only he could skip this infernal and unnecessary preliminary. He just needed to make it a while longer, and then he could return to the quiet of the schoolhouse. He could rest there again. Lay his head on the cool desk once more. This time would be better — the sun had set. He would be able to rest, surrounded by the sweet smell of the forest — and possibly of the girl. He could smell it even now. He started to relax his grip on his arm.

  He was gaining control, but he had to remember not to breathe here. If even the memory of a scent could clear his brain, he needed to reconsider how dangerous true scent could be here, how dangerous smelling the dogs could potentially be. He wanted to take a deep breath, but he held his body tense, erect, and immobile. Maybe he would try to remember that smell again. Whether his theory of why it soothed the beast was wrong or right he didn’t care. It seemed to work, so he’d use it.

  His control here was necessary. The truce demanded that no real battles occur. Of course, the Great War still raged on, albeit differently than it had done a generation ago. There were no great skirmishes, just espionage, sabotage, and quiet armament. Armies were built, soldiers created, powers gathered on each side. But still the summits continued: a farce, to be sure, but, for many, a comforting one. And, for others — others like his father — who regretted the artifice, it was a chance to gain important intelligence. Even though the charade was a bit distasteful to him, a born soldier, and to his father, the Vampire King, they both endeavored to make the best of this opportunity. Dear old Dad, so desperate for the simple truth of war. What would he have done if he had been face-to-face with the unprepared and defenseless pack heir? Would he have quickly taken her measure and then murdered her where she stood?

  Poor child, she had probably come there as he had, for some peace, some rest. His father would have given her peace — of an extended kind. He would have logically determined that she was a hazard to her pack, to herself, and, of course, to the vampires, and his father would have concluded that her death was better — for everyone, herself included. Well, Caleb couldn’t say such a thing with a certainty, though that was the probable outcome. His father favored the direct, the immediate, the definite. He, on the other hand, had actually liked the irony of the civil unrest that her rule might bring. Perhaps he was more theatrical than his father. His current scheme did seem a bit Shakespearean.

  • • •

  Libby scurried in, trying to go quickly but quietly, to the front of the room. She was late, as usual. She figured her father expected the pack heir to be a model of punctuality. Chalk up another mistake, then. Almost all the others had arrived before her and, from what she could see, they stood waiting calmly.

  She had expected more noise, more commotion … more … exuberance. She thought there would be some amount of excited talking, if not between the two groups, then at least between peers on either side. But it was all eerily still and silent. The competitors were lined up in tight rows and columns. There was no sense of accomplishment or play, no feeling of camaraderie. She’d hoped that she could find some common ground with the challengers — the shared pressure and the shared hope of the trials — but she was disappointed, greeted by the old and familiar animosity.

  Their desire to fight was a nearly tangible thing. She actually heard a kind of drone created by their energy, as the women of her kind were always attuned to the emotions of the people and animals around them. There were limits, of course. The more subtle the emotion, the harder it was to actually understand. Also, pretenders or actors could, in some cases, create misreadings, at least for a while. But none of that was the case here. No, this was simple, easy enough to read. A mass of dark energy crawled through the room, and, to Libby’s sensitive body, the room was simultaneously hot and cold, changing temperature as she was hit with searing anger or chilling calculation. If she focused hard enough, she could attribute different emotions to each individual challenger.

  She noted that a lot of the energy she felt was directed at her, from all sides. So, it was true then. Her own kind wanted her to lose. Well, that wasn’t so surprising. She just had to show them all they were wrong. As she looked around, she reminded herself to move slowly and not attract attention. Her father had reminded her constantly when she was young about never giving the appearance of discomfort. With subdued glances, she noted that, unlike her, none of the other fighters moved. They appeared to be standing at attention, as though they were soldiers, waiting for orders. Did they all subconsciously know what she had just learned? Could they all feel that this was, in a sense, a battle, a war?

  Even comparing herself to the others, she couldn’t stand here as though she were only a soldier. She was curious. She wanted to see what was happening. She had always been this way; her grandmother had teased her that she was more house cat than warrior wolf, needing to roam, unable to heel.

  Taking careful glimpses around and trying not to move too much, she saw her oldest and worst nightmare. Lukas. He’d had hated her since they were kids, and he was probably the most powerful werewolf in her family for generations. He was standing completely still, his tan, muscular face looking only toward the platform. She could read his emotions clearly even with distance between them. They were written all over his body. He had only one desire — beginning the battles. His hands, fisted with impatience, told her that he thought he had been waiting far too long already. But he was comforted by the inevitability of events. His lips were lifted in a slight, but very eager smile. Libby wondered whether he was happier about getting a chance to beat vampires or her, but she was too scared to try to read him more deeply.

  She continued looking around, and slowly moving her head to the left, she saw him — the boy from the school. He was here. She had been right, and she was happy about it: he was competing, which meant he was young. Of course, vampires defined “young” a little differently. He might be anywhere between twenty-five and fifty. Her nose scrunched up at the idea that the boy might be that old.

  Trying to read him, she noticed that he was as still as the others, but without the strange combination of reverence, fear, and anger that kept everyone else motionless. He seemed frozen out of disinterest or mere habit. His eyes were almost closed, seemingly relaxed. She could tell he was sizing everyone up, but little affected him. It was as if he found nothing exciting about standing here, preparing to do battle.

  There was his cute little ear again, so white against the dark black of his hair. She almost giggled at herself. His ear peeking out of his hair belied his serious demeanor. It made him a boy, not a solider, certainly not a warrior. It made him seem approachable, friendly, not vampire. It made her want to talk to him. A foolish train of thought, sure, but still …

  “Welcome.” Her father’s voiced grabbed her attention and she forced herself to look forward. Although she felt compelled to stare at the boy, her father would notice her poor behavior, and if she had to listen to another lecture on her shortcomings today, she would likely go completely insan
e. “Welcome,” he said again — this time his voice laced with a subtle amount of dissatisfaction. He looked pointedly at her. It might seem to the others that he was merely repeating himself, but she knew him well enough to understand that he was welcoming her specifically, again, because she had not been listening the first time. She nodded almost imperceptibly to acknowledge his reprimand. He tilted his head and removed his gaze from her.

  “Congratulations, young of our pack,” he continued. “You have reached the dawning of your maturity. I know you will shine and represent our traditions proudly and with honor.” He turned to his other side, acknowledging the old enemy of their kind, and spoke warmly. “Vampires, I bid you welcome. I am glad to offer you comfort and community within our walls. In the spirit of camaraderie, tomorrow, we will test our strength. Tomorrow, we will encourage the growth of our families. Tomorrow, we will open the trials. But, today — today I bid you meet each other and discover that which you have in common. As you know, the summit talks and the trials have long been a celebration of our truce and our peace — our partnership. Therefore, for the opening of the trials, you will be partnered: one wolf, one vampire. As you and your partner gain knowledge and confidence with each other over the following days, the worthy will advance to the next stage. As for the next stage, well … we will leave a little bit to the unknown. Fare you well.”

  After these sage words, her father disappeared into the shadows. He had long ago learned the value of being rarely seen, and he never lingered long in public. Libby knew he did so to gain tactical advantage. To the enemy and to his people he seemed elusive, mysterious, untouchable. It was an image he consciously and successfully cultivated. As he exited, several betas reached the center of the dais, and one of them started to speak.

  “As the alpha explained, you will be partnered randomly for the trials. When I call your name, break from the group and walk to the wall, so that your partner can find you.” He continued talking, but Libby was too nervous to listen. She would be paired with a partner. Then she could start to let everyone see how much she had grown. Her time had come. It was frightening, but now all she had to do was wait.