by Maria Vale
At the curve below the Fire Tower, they rock it until it flips onto its side. Then slitting the tires, they buttress it with boulders.
Now the Goddess of the City of Wolves takes the rifle strapped to her back and fixes it to a tripod on the body of the car. The car moves slightly and Lorcan, my Alpha, runs off to the wood, returning with another smaller boulder that he crams into the gap under the car to keep it steady for her.
Tiberius, Tara says, is still too far away, so it is up to Thea to stop the hunters. This is not just a matter of delaying them until after our change but keeping them away for three whole days when we are wild, which is why when Elijah comes back, he brings an oilcloth bag filled with papers. Legal documents to refute any claim to access into our land. They are speaking softly, but softly for a human is loud enough for a wolf. Once they have moved beyond the law to other matters, I signal the wolves away to give them space.
She knows enough about wolves now to know that power is built on sacrifice, and if the humans get past her, Elijah will not be hiding. That her mate will be among the first to die. I watch her scratch the corner of her eye, then turn to him with a smile that has nothing to do with happiness. He leans forward and rubs her cheek and neck and hair. One side, then the other. He holds her hand as long as he can before heading to the trees and the mountains and the 9th. Thea rolls her shoulder, stretches out her neck, then settles in behind her improvised blind. She is still, quiet, fierce, and deadly as she readies herself to defend her Pack against her own kind.
Lorcan comes back to Evie, head bowed, waiting for instructions.
Pack have no time for regrets, so this is as close as a wolf is going to get to an apology. We also have no time for recriminations, so Evie simply nods and wishes her echelons Eadig waþ.
Happy hunting and happy journeying and happy wandering.
“And be yourself not hunted,” Lorcan replies, but instead of the quick and formulaic response, blurted out by Pack impatient for the change, Lorcan says it slowly and intentionally.
Then he repeats it to me. “And you, Varya. The 12th needs you.” He puts his hand awkwardly on my shoulder. “I need you too.”
He hesitates a minute and then tentatively leans in. When I don’t move away, he marks me, the feel of his rough beard so different from that of my Arctic wolf. He doesn’t mark my left cheek, just waits, the heat of his skin emanating to mine, until I lean closer and mark him.
“Good-bye, Alpha. Remember to take off your…” I point to the back of my head near where he has his little queue.
He doesn’t have long if he is going to guide the 12th on the long walk to the High Pines. Evie has decided to divide up her Pack again, sending the subordinate wolves up to the High Pines in the company of a handful of her Pack’s Alphas, so that if the worst happens, there are still strong wolves who know how to lead.
The rest of the Alphas and Alpha Shielders will stay behind with Evie. If the hunters get through our lone human defender, we will disperse, killing them if we can, harrying them and keeping them away from the rest of the Pack if we can’t.
At the very least, the hope is that our strong bodies will be trophy enough.
Chapter 48
Nobody feels much like talking, so we sit in small groups, naked and in skin, waiting for the sun to set and the moon to rise. August Leveraux knew the patterns of our lives well enough. I doubt he had any interest in his wealthy, coddled, predator-hunters finding us writhing around in our grotesque between stage.
It just makes everything else sound so loud. The flyover mallards, the warblers, the tree frogs rehearsing. The whipping of tree branches, less brittle now than in winter and frilled with young leaves.
Look at me.
Listen to me.
Love me.
Make life with me.
Then, in the distance, a wolf howls, broken and discordant, the sound of a wolf who has never sung before.
Evie cocks her head to the side, as do all the others here by the access road. None of them recognize the voice, because it doesn’t belong to the Pack. It belongs to me.
Listening closely, I hear something else, something metallic and grinding. Loose stone. Another vast machine, only this one is ripping up rocks instead of trees. Eyulf howls again, warning me, warning us, in the only voice that will carry this far.
Alys us fram westendum and fram eallum hiera cræftum. Alys us fram westendum. Alys us.
We’ve gotten it all wrong. They’re not coming by the access road. August Leveraux decided to circumvent our protections here and use the savaged land beyond the Gin.
I drop to the ground and lean into my hips.
“Shielder!” Evie kneels in the mud, her hand on my shoulder. “You can’t. You won’t come back to us.”
“They’re already here. They’re coming from the north.”
“Varya! Don’t!”
“I will try to slow them. I—”
It’s too late. I wish I’d told her more. Told her that I loved the Great North, I loved Homelands, that I loved her. That however much I didn’t say it or show it, in my own way, I loved this Pack as fiercely as any wolf could.
In the muffled isolation that follows, I wonder.
What do wolves who have made this final change miss?
Is it the damp breeze on your skin? Is it the delicate motion of fingers? Is it the sound of your name on a lover’s lips? Is it the words to say the things I should have said and now never will?
Everything is gone, but I do feel Evie press my hand. My contorting phalanges cannot squeeze back. So that’s gone too.
Will I remember anything? The Great North who accepted me more than I was ever willing to understand. My Alpha who I think understood me more than I was ever willing to accept. Will I remember Vrangelya? As the change takes over, removing one part of me at a time, I rehearse those segments of my life I would hope I can take with me. But not that. I think it is time to let Vrangelya go.
Then I pray to the moon, a different prayer than I’ve ever made. I make this sacrifice gladly, but if we survive, please let me remember my wolf.
When I am done, I pull in a deep breath and sing to my wolf, my other self, the light to my shadow. My voice breaks like his did, though I’m not new to this.
The Alphas and Shielders stand aside to let me run. At the end, I pass Evie, who smiles sadly before lowering her head.
I try to absorb everything rushing past, the cabins for the mated wolves, the dormitories, the Bathhouse, the Meeting House. Past the little cabin far from everything else where they put the Shifter and the wolf who was always a little too wild. Not as wild as I will be.
Past the marshy shallows around Beaver Pond with its loosestrifes and cattails and bulrushes. Past the spreading tangles of blackberries near the Clearing where John died trying to save us.
Past the fragrant and fertile woods that have protected us and nurtured us for centuries. Up to the promontory with the best view north toward the machine with huge teeth and jaws tearing across the Gin. It’s hard to see much through the pulverized stone, but clearly, if the machine is big enough, it doesn’t take much to tear through our false sense of security.
Then just as suddenly as it started, the sound stops. The drifts of rock dust rise from between Westdæl and the High Pines. And just like that, the Gin, the wall that has built up little by little since long before the Great North first moved to this land, is breached.
A few loose rocks tumble down into the void.
Alys us fram westendum and fram eallum hiera cræftum. Alys us fram westendum. Alys us.
Now I don’t dare call to him because in the silence, the humans will hear.
There is so much I will be happy to forget. But please let me remember him. Yours. Mine. Please let me remember just that much. Let me remember that much. Yours. Mine.
The slow truck moves bac
kward, its job done, and now I hear another equally foreign sound. The sound of metal against porcelain, of glasses, of human laughter. Keeping to the edges of Westdæl, I run along the tree line until I can get a closer look.
A few hundred meters away, the humans are holding a noisy party in long, open white tents on a low wooden platform set over the muddy ground. One corner is defined by eight ATVs parked in neat rows.
The netted tents are filled with tables and chairs and laughing westends eating at once-white tablecloths now stained with the wine and food of sloppy eaters. Of course the hunters are eating first, because this hunt is not about hunger.
Some have finished and are busy talking to less richly dressed people. Their guides, I presume. I recognize one of them. Anderson, I think. Owner of junkyards and setter of traps. He is busy showing his client how to use a high-powered light that even at this angle and this distance sears my eyes. The idea, I suppose, is to blind the Pack and then shoot us with the high-powered rifles neatly stacked in racks on each ATV.
Once these men have geared up, the Great North has no chance. We will be blinded and killed for no better reason than dominion and brutality. There’s a brightness in my blood as I race toward the platform. The sun isn’t even fully set. Maybe being wild, I am more sensitive to the moon’s pull on the currents of my body.
The other pull on the current of my blood appears beside me, running in perfect coordination. We turn together and leap together and run together. Together, we will bring chaos and confusion and the promise of pain to those who are here believing that the slaughter of the Great North is like a video game, a chance to kill something more powerful than yourself without actually risking anything.
I sail across the muddy trough to the platform that feels slick under my paws and with another leap land on the table. Without letting them think, I start on the hands. As many hands as I can. The bones are delicate and quickly damaged. Don’t let them use their hands.
The screaming starts immediately. A gunshot and pain, but the shooter screams and I smell cold. I know the cold. YoursMine. Can’t forget.
Never forget YoursMine.
The wild is growing in me, and I feel the strands that bind everything together running through me. I feel the fear of men as my jaws slash and break. Do not kill. No time to kill. Just hands.
Remember YoursMine.
New men and machines coming fast. More hands. Wrecked hands. The new men. New men arrive yelling. There are so many words said loudly. Words that I don’t understand.
Snap.
Where is YoursMine?
There is confusion and screaming, and in the middle of it all, a new man sets himself before me, his bare hands out. He is not YoursMine. YoursMine is light and smells like cold. This man is dark and smells like evergreen and crushed bone.
He is talking more with words I don’t understand.
I lunge at him, but no. I smell pups. I know that smell. I know those pups. They are my Pack. I don’t understand. My pups and evergreen and crushed bone.
Where is YoursMine?
There is a light blinding YoursMine. He cannot see the man with the gun. But the man who smells like pups yells at him. Two shots. There are two shots. The human with the gun falls. There is a black hole in the middle of his forehead. Now red.
A man smelling of reeds at water’s edge carries white fur and lays him in front of me.
YoursMine.
I snarl. The reeds man moves back, his hands held high. I nose YoursMine. Bop.
YoursMine, YoursMine.
I don’t know your name anymore. But I know you. Look at me. Listen to me. Love me. Make life with me.
His eyes open, one green and one blue. Yes, that’s right. Heaven and earth. He is bleeding. His leg. Only one leg. We have done this before, YoursMine. He struggles up and leans against me. Evergreen man says something. I show him teeth. He goes away, and I take YoursMine.
Home.
Epilogue
I acknowledge that big-game hunting is a potentially dangerous sport that could result in the loss of my life, the lives of others…
The law of humans is a beautiful thing sometimes.
I acknowledge and accept that my presence on the Property exposes me to many dangerous conditions.
And August Leveraux was very careful to protect himself.
In consideration of the privilege of trespass on the Property, I hereby release, protect, indemnify, and hold harmless the Property owners, their agents, employees, and assigns from any and all claims, demands, causes of action, and damages…
It goes on for several pages. Elijah says he couldn’t have done better himself.
There is only one death, which I suppose is something. The others with their mangled hands are relearning how to eat. They will never, or so we’ve been told, shoot anything again.
I fold the document up again and, after a little throat clearing, take a deep breath.
“Nu is seo mæl for us leornian þine laga and sida.”
My call to the law sounds through the hills louder than Victor’s ever did or Gran Sigeburg’s. It is picked up by those Pack who are wild. The howl starts high, goes higher, and then curls down with a little fillip at the end.
Being closest, the pups arrive first and tussle on the grass until the others arrive. A little group of Shifters, male and female; one Shifter mix, min coren; and one lone human, all of whom have other responsibilities, come running later.
Thea has an ear for the rough cadences of our language, but the Shifters are trying hard. Trying to understand our customs and our laws. And hopefully understanding that at the heart of everything we do, every law we’ve ever written, every story we’ve ever told is our sacred wild. I would say the Shifters have an edge there, what with being wild and all, but it turns out that Thea’s understanding is better than the crappy Shifter wolves we have given refuge.
I’m not worried. I know from personal experience how glorious they can be. I can’t help but smile when Tiberius sits beside me. When he grins back, he shows every one of those teeth that are too long, too sharp, too feral ever to be human.
I hadn’t gotten far in the lesson when it starts, a rough howl rolling down from Westdæl. It isn’t the gray wolf—we no longer call her Varya, because to name an æcewulf is to pretend to some claim on her—it is the white wolf calling from the Krummholz, the twisted forest at the top of Westdæl.
Winter-blasted, wind-twisted,
The world’s last sentinel.
Forsworn, forsaken
By all but the forever
Wolf.
The old song has come true, and Evie has done what she can. Westdæl belongs to the æcewulfs as does much of the land beyond that Tiberius inherited from his father. When we discovered that the gray wolf was pregnant, we cleaned out Ronan’s cave, so there would be no human trace that would make them move on, looking for a better den.
There wasn’t much: sleeping bag, some food containers. Clothes. But in a backpack was a worn pad with drawings. The last was of Varya. Of her sharpening a seax, looking as fierce as ever. Every mark on her hard body made beautiful. I would say even the claw marks across her torso, but maybe especially those.
I think Evie misses her friend, so though she put the notebook in the safe, she kept another page, one divided into panels each with a hardy Arctic flower.
She pinned it to her corkboard.
Varya had even less. Some wolf in the laundry found a matted ball of white fur in the jeans she had last worn. It must belong to the white wolf, but it didn’t smell like anything anymore.
The Alpha has also commanded that when the æcewulfs call, any Pack who is wild must respond so that they know, whatever else they may have forgotten, that they belong. That we will fight as hard for them as we do for each other.
Clapping my hands once above the tussling pups, I
point to the mountaintop to remind them.
They fumble to their feet and throw back their heads and howl their little orrrooo.
“Nu.” I begin classes like Gran Sigeburg always did. “Sitt mid me.”
Now, sit with me.
“And let me tell you the story of the Bone Wolf and the days that are coming. The days when men will be as wolves to men.”
Here’s a sneak peek at book one from Maxym M. Martineau’s Beast Charmers series
Chapter One
Leena
By the time evening fell, three things were certain: the gelatinous chunks of lamb were absolute shit, my beady-eyed client was hankering for more than the beasts in my possession, and someone was watching me.
Two out of the three were perfectly normal.
Sliding the meat to the side, I propped my elbows against the heavy plank table. My client lasted two seconds before his gaze roved to the book-shaped locket dangling in my cleavage. Wedging his thick fingers between the collar of his dress tunic and his neck, he tugged gently on the fabric.
“You have what I came for?” His heavy gold ring glinted in the candlelight. It bore the intricate etching of a scale: Wilheim’s symbol for the capital bank. A businessman. A rare visitor in Midnight Jester, my preferred black-market tavern. My pocket hummed with the possibility of money, and I fingered the bronze key hidden there.
“Maybe.” I nudged the metal dinner plate farther away. “How did you find me?” Dez, the bartender, sourced most of my clients, but brocade tunics and Midnight Jester didn’t mingle.
I shifted in the booth, the unseen pair of eyes burrowing further into the back of my head. Faint movement from the shadows flickered into my awareness. Movement that should have gone unnoticed, but I’d learned to be prepared for such things.
“Dez brought a liquor shipment to a bar I frequent in Wilheim. He said you could acquire things.” He extracted his sausage fingers from the folds of his neck and placed his hands flat on the table.