“Abel,” she said.
The shadowy monster entered the yard with heaving sides and steaming breaths, having run many miles in few hours. He surveyed only for a second or two, and then with a roar threw himself into the battle, hitting it like a tidal wave, bulling wolves from his path, and striking at the nearest cat with a massive bite. Tearing with his strong jaws, with a jerk of his powerful neck the black wolf all but severed the head from the muscled frame of what had been the largest of the cats present.
At the sound of his growl and the sight of his first victim, every cat still capable of running gave up its battle and fled the yard by the southern tree line. Startled also were many of the wolves, some of which had never laid eyes on the fabled giant. Several of the angriest and least injured wolves sped off in pursuit of the fleeing cats—one of which was David, with the lust of vengeance rumbling in his throat as he tore past the nervously-watching silver-white.
“Grind their bones!” roared Abel as the pack parted around him, with many wolves looking on with bleeding wounds and heaving sides. “Leave nothing of them whole.” Then he turned his head briefly to the crying she-wolf being attended by her father, now human, Doctor Wilson; her awful cries were the only sound louder than his own voice. “Cats abound,” Abel seethed with a shake of his head. “Children bleed. And where is my brother?”
“Away,” answered Anthony. Though one of the oldest wolves present, he kept his head lowered as Abel stepped by him. Each male wolf did the same in the presence of the old giant.
Abel growled a deep laugh in response—but far from a happy one. “Then let us do his work,” he said. “Those with heart to fight, follow! The rest, scour this ground. Leave nothing!”
At that he broke off into a thunderous run toward the south. As he passed by Evie he locked eyes momentarily with the young silver-white. Instinctually she cowered as he blew by in a rush with several strong wolves running behind. Then, at her side, she sensed Erica moving away. In a second she turned, warning, “No!”
The sleek black wolf whirled around and snapped her jaws, growling deeply before turning again at a run toward the south. Evie made no more sounds. After a quick, troubling glance toward her injured friend, before any other wolf could stop her, she ran silently after her cousin.
-17-
Within a dozen strides into the dark woods Evie got a firm hold on Erica’s tail. The young black wolf yelped, lost her footing and, as Evie let go, fell into a rolling heap. When she stood again, she was shaking with rage. The silver-white and the black circled, staring each other down, exchanging warning snarls laced with angry words.
“Getting away!” Erica roared.
“Not our fight!” Evie replied.
“Coward!”
“Fool!”
“My friend bleeds!”
“My friend too!”
“Help them!”
“Abel needs not your help!”
In a flash Erica struck at Evie’s scruff, ending the argument by pulling a large tuft of hair from her neck. Evie struck back, and the two young wolves rolled and tumbled through the brush. Their strikes were heated warnings, not death bites. Neither drew blood until one of Erica’s fangs dragged over Evie’s white shoulder, tearing through the hair all the way down to the skin. As Evie yelped a cry of pain, Erica bolted away after the hunting party.
The silver-white gave her shoulder a lick as she stood, whining low and nasally. Instinct told her that it was more of an aggravation wound than a serious one—like a paper cut. Her ears detected Erica moving away in the distance, and her nose still pinpointed her scent from the many others lingering in the area.
After a moment she began to follow. She felt the sharp pain and the heat of the blood with every stride. Her shoulder refused to work well, and for the next few minutes she could not reach her full speed. Not even close. Soon, the sounds of the pack behind her were very distant, as were the sounds of the hunters before her. She stopped once more and sat back on her haunches to groom her burning shoulder.
Behind her, a dear friend lay wounded terribly. In her mind, Evie pictured Emmy as she’d last seen her, thrashing in agony, crying in a tone that broke her heart. Part of her wished to go back and check on her, but she feared deeply what she would find, what she would see. Another part of her wished to simply go home, settle, shift, and hide in the comfortable house until all danger had passed, until her grandfather had returned. And another part of her still felt compelled forward, to find her cousin in spite of her aching shoulder, and urge her home.
The silver-white Snow stood again with a whine in her muzzle. My pain is nothing like Emmy’s, she reminded herself, and started off at a lope, scenting the ground and brush as she moved. Erica’s scent was there, but it was confused with the scent of both cat and wolf blood. Still her shoulder ached with every stride, though she kept reminding herself that it was nothing. She moved on through the thick woods, following the scents as best as she could for several minutes, until a stronger scent stopped her in her tracks. Very similar to what she’d detected before she’d found Dale in the basement, she now smelled human scent.
Evie dropped her belly to the ground and held her breath, scanning the dark woods around her with her ears pricked. Her eyes caught no movements. Her ears heard faint sounds at her back, even less from the south before her. Nothing sounded close. The human scent was strong, though, and easily distinguishable from the confusing scents of the bleeding animals she was following.
After a while she stood nervously. Taking several light steps, she moved forward, watching for the slightest movements, listening for the faintest sounds. Dropping her nose to the ground, she faintly detected Erica and the others. Then, raising her nose high, she smelled the human strongly on the air moving from the southwest. Between these two scents she smelled cat. In her nervous state she could not distinguish whether it was old or new.
Suddenly her mind changed. She knew she had to get back. The southern woods were no place for her, and she had been foolish to consider navigating them on her own. With the others behind the Wilson house she belonged, or on the trail leading home. Here was not a good place, and for a second she was angry with herself for making such a rash decision.
Evie wheeled around and began loping in the direction she had come from. Before she could cover much ground, however, the presence of a cat became alarmingly evident. With the painkiller of fright driving her, she took off into a run, made several long leaps, and then in a startled panic pulled herself back in mid-air. She landed awkwardly with a chill in her spine and every hair on her body standing on end.
From behind, as she’d moved south, a clever old cat had silently stalked her. Now, before her it slunk low, large eyes aglow, creeping toward her in the darkness. When it saw that it was discovered it hissed, “Snow. Lonely white Snow. Where are the rest?”
“Leave,” Evie growled through bared teeth. Her body was lowered defensively, her paws spread wide, gripping the earth in preparation for a leap. “One call. One warning. More wolves come.”
“Call,” said the cat, slinking closer. His tawny coat was striped with fresh scars but not fresh blood. “Lift your head and cry.”
“You,” Evie snarled. “From last night.”
“Me,” he growled low. “Alone. Too near to the Snow lands. Easy prey. Leap on me now as you wished to then.”
“Back off!” Evie growled louder, stamping the ground with her forepaws.
“Smart,” he hissed, still inching forward. “You know not to leap. Fast learners live long, as the old White has.”
“He will kill you,” Evie warned.
“Will he?” teased the cat. “I have not seen The White this night. Do the children now fight all battles?”
“Back off!” Evie warned again, making her closest to a pounce, but reigning herself in at the last moment.
The cat stopped now. His chin appeared inches from the ground; his eyes flared brightly. “You know now not to charge,” he growled in a
low voice. “But can you evade me? Can you use the trees as I? Can you outrun me all night with fresh wounds? No, no. The Ludlow hanger is empty. The White is very far.”
“Abel,” Evie threatened. “He will kill you.”
“No, no,” sneered the cat. “Abel goes south for fresh blood. I am afraid you are alone.”
Evie growled her angriest growl. Into it she poured her pain, her anger over the attack, the injury of Emmy, and the hatred of her forefathers that raged in her blood. Every muscle in her body twitched. Every nerve trembled, awaiting the final decision—the signal to spring into action, to close this cat’s mouth for the last time. She’d never hated anything more in her life.
“Strike,” growled the cat, pleased that he had incited her rage. “I am alone. Finish what you began.”
“You first,” Evie snapped. “I move second.”
A long and strangled hiss issued from the cat’s mouth; his sides shook and his tail flicked. He was laughing at her. “Snows were once my greatest fear,” he grumbled. “Now they are soft; the young, ripe. The old fool has done all we expected.”
Within Evie’s chest her heart beat strangely—like a double beat, and a sudden explosion of energy spread as wind-driven wildfire within her. She leapt, snapping her jaws in one direction as her body twisted in the other. As the cat rose up to meet her, her feet hit the ground, and she sprang at once from her hind legs to evade his swipe.
“Good,” said the cat when both had stilled again. But he did not lower himself after his unconnected swipe. Rather he stood to his full height, nearly eye to eye with the young silver-white, leaving only a few yards separating them. “I do not fear you,” he jeered, taking a careful step, “but time runs short. At the least,” he hissed, bearing his teeth with one clawed paw held from the ground, “I can salvage small victory.”
“Try it,” Evie growled, rolling her tongue between her gleaming fangs. Every inch of her wolfish body desired to destroy her enemy. But in her mind the warnings she’d heard of these sly cats replayed over and again, holding her back. Deep down she understood that she lacked the skill to handle an experienced cat; the memory of her stricken friend strengthened this caution. Yet the battle between her body and mind raged every bit as fiercely as her visible standoff with the cat. By all appearances she was ready to fight to the death.
Standing straight and long, the cat’s body suddenly trembled from nose to tail. By this Evie understood that his own intentions were now settled; his game was over. Every move until then had been in mock—provocations to stir her rage, and so assess her abilities. But now his mind was made, his plan of attack settled. Seeing this, sensing it, Evie settled her own mind. She would not attack; she would only fake the frontal charge the cat hoped for. Her true intent was to swing around north, spring away and make use of the one strength she was surest of—her speed.
The old cat hissed, but this time no words mingled within his sounds. As he stepped forward in confidence, the young wolf snarled, seemingly poised to make the greatest mistake of her young life—to rush headlong in her fury, throwing herself into his waiting claws.
***
From his perch high in an unseen tree stand, a clever old hunter watched silently. Two great animals had wandered onto his property just south of the center of Ludlow. Being fully absorbed in their age-old feud, their senses had been distracted, and they had failed to detect his presence. Now they were staring one another down, warning with growls, their muscles twitching as they positioned themselves.
Within seconds the hunter knew these warnings would boil over into battle—one that would probably end in death. He knew also the elusive speed and toughness of each predator; one shot was all he would get. Once the roar of his rifle cut the night, injured or not, both animals would flee. His one shot must count.
Watching down the barrel of his trusty 30-06, the hunter held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Like the two fighters below, his mind was also settled; his sights were fixed steadily. The clean shoulder shot he’d been watching for had at last presented itself—the cleanest shot he’d get in such low light. It would not last long. Only a second or two more.
Now, he told himself. Now or never.
With a light push of his thumb he released the safety; his nervous index finger curled around the cold of the untouched trigger. He squeezed, feeling the immediate kick of the rifle butt against his shoulder. The barrel tip roared flaming thunder in the dark.
***
Resources:
For information on Oak Island visit:
www.oakislandtreasure.co.uk
www.unmuseum.org/oakisl.htm
***
Excellent wolf info & documentary:
www.livingwithwolves.org
***
The Great North Woods:
www.visit-newhampshire.com/greatnorthwoods
Silver-White (The Great North Woods Pack #1) Page 17