Wild Blood

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Aw, there you go romanticizing shit again!” Sunder snorted as he walked up. “We go to the Howl because it’s a bang-up party and we can hang out with out worrying about Changing back and forth. Me, I could care less about fucking something that actually wanted it. I participate in the melee because—well, when I get a whiff of Heat, the little head takes over, know what I mean?”

  “Always the poet-philosopher, Sunder,” Rend smirked.

  “Hey, don’t I know it? Anyway, Jag sent me down here to tell you two to get a move on. It’s time to go.”

  When Rend and Skinner returned to the vehicles they found the rest of the pack waiting for them in the clearing. Jez was sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass, retouching her nails with Fire Engine Red #5. She didn’t look up as Skinner approached.

  “Let’s get this show on the road!” Jag barked. “We’ve still got a long drive ahead of us before we make the lodge!”

  This announcement was greeted by various groans as the pack once more split up their numbers between the vehicles. But before Skinner could return to the equipment van, Jag grabbed his arm. His face was millimeters from Skinner’s and he radiated the hot, animal smell of raw aggression.

  “What did she say about me?” he growled.

  Rend coughed nervously and tried to draw the pack leader’s attention away from Skinner. “Jag, about the route to the Howl—”

  “Later, Rend!” Jag snarled, flashing his fangs at his subordinate. “I’m talking to the low-dog!”

  “Of course, Jag,” Rend muttered, automatically stepped back as he ritually exposed his throat in deference.

  Skinner jerked his arm free of Jag’s grip, his shoulders tensed and hair bristling. “I’ve put up with bastards bullying me around all my life—and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take any more of it!”

  Jag took an involuntary step backward, genuinely surprised by Skinner’s response. He glanced back at his sister, who was blowing on her freshly painted nails, apparently oblivious to the conflict. “I should settle this right here, mutt,” he said, lowering his voice. “But I don’t have the time to waste on you. Once we get to the lodge, low-dog, I’m going to tear your ears off.”

  “I’ll be ready and waiting,” Skinner snarled in reply.

  As he climbed into the equipment van, Skinner tossed a final glance over his shoulder and saw Jez wave to him—or maybe she was just drying her nail polish.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After leaving the Carson National Forest, they headed west, crossing into Colorado through the Spring Valley Pass. They continued to travel northwest, passing tiny unincorporated towns and the occasional ranch house set far off the highway, until the only evidence of mankind’s existence was the road on which they traveled even higher still into the mountains.

  During the winter, when the surrounding peaks were under a thick blanket of snow, the area was supported by thriving ski resorts. But during the off-season the country was all but deserted, save for those too poor or crazy to leave. It was the perfect place for a band of blood-thirsty werewolves to hold a jamboree.

  A few miles past Wolf Creek Pass the vans turned off onto a dirt road that looked more like a dry river bed. After twenty minutes of teeth-rattling and pothole-dodging, Skinner caught a glimpse of a huge building made from native lumber and natural stone set against the looming mountainside. A mile later they came to a wooden entry gate. As the vehicles came to a halt, three hulking figures emerged from the surrounding trees. Although all of them were wearing human skins, they were clearly vargr, although one carried an automatic weapon slung over one shoulder.

  “Snuff! Long time no see, cousin!” Sunder grinned as he rolled down the driver’s side window.

  “Yeah, it’s been a few moons,” the guard agreed, sniffing Sunder in welcome. “Who’s the new dog?” he asked, fixing Skinner with a suspicious eye.

  “His name is Skinner,” Sunder explained. “We picked him up in Albuquerque a couple of days ago. He’s cool.”

  Snuff grunted and snapped his fingers. One of the other guards handed him a clipboard and he scribbled something down. “You’ll have to get clearance from Lady Melusine if you plan on keeping him.”

  “We know the drill.”

  “Okay, you’re free to enter,” Snuff said as he waved the microbus into the compound. “Welcome home, cousins.”

  Why all the security?” Skinner asked as they drove up the winding gravel drive that lead to the lodge. “I thought the only ones who knew this place existed werewolves.”

  “There’s more than one kind of ‘werewolf’,” Rend replied. “You, me, Sunder and Hew here are mongrels, mutts. We’re half-human, but we can Change. That’s what makes us vargr. Those half-humans who can’t shape shift are called esau, then there are the half-wolves, called ulfr. The guards are here to make sure no esau or ulfr tries to enter the Howl.”

  “But I thought this Howl thing was supposed to bring together everyone who shares Wild blood?”

  “Not all Wild blood is equal,” Rend explained. “There’s probably more esau than there are pedigreed and mongrel vargr combined. However, they are pathetic creatures, wrapped in the flesh and form of man, but possessing the nature and appetites of vargr. Gilles de Rais, Albert Fish, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jack the Ripper were all esau, for example.

  “While we vargr may sympathize with their plight, we find it prudent to distance ourselves from them. Esau are driven by their need for human flesh, and tend to be reckless. That makes them dangerous running companions. Even the most cunning of them, like Bundy, eventually betray themselves. The last thing we need is to have media attention trained on us because the damned fools can’t stop killing prostitutes.

  “Vargr have dwelt in the shadows for centuries—preying on mankind at our leisure. It suits our needs that humans continue to dismiss us as myth—a quaint superstition to frighten their children into good behavior, or to be turned into grist for their entertainment mill.”

  “And the ulfr? Why are they excluded?”

  Rend blinked, surprised that Skinner would even bother to ask such a question. “Because that would be bestiality!”

  “All out for Wolfcane Lodge!” Sunder crowed as the Volkswagen came to a halt.

  As Skinner emerged from the microbus he was surprised to see a wide selection of automobiles arrayed along on the gravel apron. Everything from fuel-efficient Japanese imports to a ’59 Cadillac that could have passed for the Batmobile was gathered in the parking lot.

  “Looks like we’re the last to arrive—as usual!” Rend said with a laugh as he clapped Skinner on the back. “C’mon we better go ahead and get you cleared!”

  The doorway to the lodge was flanked by towering carvings of rampant, snarling wolves fashioned from black walnut that faced one another, so that visitors had to pass between their upraised claws. As Skinner entered, he cast a nervous glance at the guardians’ faces, forever frozen in angry snarls.

  The central lobby looked like a cross between the foyer of a hunting lodge and a rustic cathedral, with a high, vaulted ceiling that seemed to disappear into the smoke that escaped from the vast natural stone fireplace that occupied an entire wall. Roughhewn staircases fashioned from split logs connected the lobby to the east and west wings of the lodge.

  The interior of Wolfcane Lodge wasn’t much different from that of the dozens of ski resorts in the area, except for the fact at instead of having taxidermied elk or mountain lions for decoration, they used humans. One of the ‘trophies’ was an older man dressed in the long black robes of a judge, a gavel held in one hand and volume of the New York State Municipal Code, circa the 1930, in the other. Skinner squatted on his haunches and squinted at the brass plate at his feet: JUDGE CRATER. There was no need for him to read the plaque attached to the squat, jowly, man dressed in an early Seventies business suit. He’d seen pictures of Jimmy Hoffa before.

  “Rend! I was wondering when you’d finally make it!” exclaimed a man tricked out in Nazi regalia as he
strode across the lobby to greet them. As he drew closer, Skinner was shocked to realize the stranger was wearing what appeared to be an authentic Gestapo S.S. uniform, not merely an elaborate costume.

  “Fenris! It’s good to see you, cousin!” Rend said warmly as he clasped the Gestapo officer’s hand.

  “Same here, my young friend! And who’s this handsome young fellow?” the Nazi asked, flashing a toothy smile. “Skinner, I’d like you to meet Colonel Fenris,” Rend said.

  The Gestapo officer clicked the heels of his highly polished jackboots and delivered a Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” Fenris broke into laughter. “You should have seen the look on your face, my dear boy! I swear, even after all this time, it’s still guaranteed to drop jaws!”

  “Rend! You handsome dog! There you are!” This was called out by a man dressed in the flowing red robes of a Roman Catholic cardinal approached them with the determination of an ice cutter plowing its way through the Arctic Circle.

  “Amadeo!” Rend took the cardinal’s hand and kissed his ring. “And how have you been keeping yourself, Excellency?”

  “Well enough, my pet,” the cardinal replied, pushing back his broad-brimmed hat to reveal a tangle of dark curls and a carefully maintained goatee that made him look like a picture book devil. “And yourself? Are you still traveling with those wretched brats?”

  “Yes, I’m still running with Jag and Jez.”

  Amadeo rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Honestly, my boy! I don’t see what you find so attractive in those hellions!”

  “Jag’s my friend, Amadeo.”

  The cardinal chuckled and winked at Fenris. “My, isn’t he the loyal little doggie? And who is this fine figure of a youth?” Amadeo asked, eyeing Skinner as if he were a slave on the auction block. “Another member of your ragtag band no doubt, judging from his abysmal taste in clothes …”

  “His name is Skinner. He’s only recently discovered his Wild blood.”

  “Ah! A virgin!” Amadeo chuckled knowingly.

  “Who else is here?” Rend asked, glancing about the lobby.

  “I saw the Hound an hour ago in the bar,” Fenris replied as he removed his peaked hat and ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “He was drunk, as usual. He had Shaggybreeks with him and they were reminiscing about the Viking invasions by the time I left. There’s nothing more tiresome than listening to them rehash the good old days while they’re in their cups!”

  “It’s good seeing you both, and I’d really love to hang and chat,” Rend said as he led Skinner away from the oddly dressed couple, “but we need to get Skinner cleared first. I’ll catch both of you later in the bar!”

  “Sounds perfect, my pet!” Amadeo grinned. “And be sure to bring your new friend with you!”

  “Is that guy really a Nazi?” Skinner whispered as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Was, not is,” Rend stressed. “And, yes, Fenris was a high-ranking member of the Gestapo during World War Two.…”

  “But that was over seventy years ago, and he can’t be any older than forty-five!”

  “Try two hundred and forty-five,” Rend replied. “Vargr aren’t like humans in a lot of ways—one of which is aging. Mixed-bloods can live to be four hundred years old, the full-bloods even longer. Hell, Amadeo back there was born the year Christopher Columbus sailed for America!”

  “You mean he’s over five hundred years old?” Skinner gasped in amazement.

  “Yep. His sire was none other than Rodrigo Borgia, better known as Alexander VI. And before you ask, yeah, the Pope was a vargr—and not the only one.”

  “I’ve heard of Cesare and Lucrezia Borgia, but not this guy …”

  “That’s because they had different mothers. His was vargr, theirs was human. That’s why they’re dead and Amadeo is still farting around.”

  “I thought you said vargr are impotent in human form.”

  “They are—but there are always those willing to do anything to have access to power.”

  Rend led Skinner to the east wing and up a narrow flight of steps that twisted back on themselves like the chambers of a nautilus.

  “Where are we going?” Skinner asked

  “To see the Bitch Queen; the big mama who runs Wolfcane Lodge and controls most of the vargr in North America.”

  “Is she Jag and Jez’s mother?”

  “She’s their dame,” Rend said, correcting him. “The pedigreed prefer that term to ‘mother’.”

  The narrow staircase ended at a doorway tall enough for a vargr in Wild form to easily enter, but required a human to stoop. Rend rapped on the door jamb and a panel slid open in the door. A second later a vargr poked its snout through the slot and sniffed loudly, then quickly withdrew. A second later the door was unlocked and swung open. The guard glowered first at Rend, then at Skinner. Like the ones posted at the main gate, he carried an automatic weapon slung over one twisted, hairy shoulder. It struck Skinner as about as necessary as a shark carrying a switchblade.

  “We’re here to see Lady Melusine,” Rend said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Suddenly a tall man dressed in a black frock coat with a stiff Gladstone collar stepped forward. He had long, luxuriant white hair that was pulled away from his face and fastened in a loose ponytail that hung well below his shoulders, and eyes that shone like rubies. “Of course she’s expecting them, you moronic lickspittle!” he snapped, speaking with an accent born of the finest British public schools. “Her ladyship told you as much!”

  “Forgive me, Lord Feral,” the guard said, cringing in deference. “I forgot.”

  “Her ladyship is looking forward to making her acquaintance with your new find,” Feral said to Rend, then gave Skinner a disdainful glare that made it clear that the Bitch Queen’s eagerness was not shared.

  Lord Feral led them down a richly appointed hallway to the royal presence, his spine ramrod straight and one fist clasped behind him, pressed against the small of his back. Skinner could easily see how similar Jag was to his father. Despite their differences in taste when it came to dress and decorum, they shared an aggressive hauteur that made them bristle with hostile energy.

  He and Rend were ushered into a sumptuously appointed bedroom hung with rich tapestries. Seated before a huge vanity table littered with various jars of ointments, unguents and perfumes sat Lady Melusine, Bitch Queen of the Werewolves. Her face was painted dead white and had a small beauty mark pasted to the corner of one of her eyes, which were of a disconcertingly brilliant blue. Her lips and cheeks were so brightly rouged she looked like a porcelain doll. On her head she wore a powdered wig, dressed high and shaped with pads of cotton and wool. As they entered she flashed a brilliant smile with freshly carmined lips.

  “Rend! How marvelous to see you again, mon cher! And you’ve brought a new little friend, n’est-ce pas?”

  As she rose to greet them Skinner saw she was dressed in a pale lavender taffeta gown, the long V-pointed bodice laced up the front over a stomacher. The long flounced skirt opened in the front and was gathered full at the hip, shored up by stiff petticoats, a bustle and strange basketlike projections worn on each hip. She reminded him more of a cake decoration than a queen.

  “Come closer, mon chien. I will not harm you,” she said, smiling at Skinner.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied and obediently stepped forward.

  “How polite! I like that in a whelp!” Lady Melusine said, fixing him with a sultry gaze Skinner recognized all too well. “Are you a good doggie?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what is you name, jeune chien?”

  “Skinner Cade, ma’am.”

  “You will have no need of a surname after this weekend; that is a human conceit,” she sniffed in distaste. “Those born outside the Pack surrender their previous identities once they join it. But you may continue to call yourself ‘Skinner’; it is an appropriate vargr name.”

  Skinner glanced at Rend, who silently mouthed ‘say thank
you’, before replying: “Thank you, your ladyship.”

  “What a delicious pup you are!” she said with an appreciative smile. “And with such striking eyes! They’re quite mesmerizing. I’ve seen vargr with red, blue and even grey eyes, but never golden. What about you, my dear?” she asked, turning to Lord Feral.

  “Only once before,” her consort replied, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he spoke.

  “So, dear Skinner, where did my son find you?”

  Rend cleared his throat. “I’m the one who brought him into the Pack, milady.”

  Lady Melusine raised a delicately tweezed eyebrow in his direction. “Why is that?”

  “I had little choice,” Rend said hurriedly. “Skinner was badly wounded. If I hadn’t acted when I did, he would have fallen into the hands of the police. And I thought we could use a replacement after we lost Growler in Los Angeles …”

  A startled look crossed Melusine’s heavily made-up face. “Growler—?”

  Rend looked even more uncomfortable than before. “Forgive me, milady. I thought you knew. I was under the impression Jag had notified you—?

  “What happened to him?” she asked, all traces of her previous gaiety instantly evaporating.

  “We were in East Los Angeles and ran afoul of coyotero while on a hunt along the river …”

  Lady Melusine put a hand to her mouth and abruptly turned her back on Rend before he finished speaking.

  “Your audience is over,” Lord Feral said curtly. “When you see my son, tell him I would speak with him.”

  Rend bowed his head obediently as he hurried Skinner out of the room.

  Skinner waited until they were headed back down the curling stairway to ask Rend who Growler was.

  “He was Melusine’s favorite whelp.”

  “You mean he was Jag’s brother?”

  “Demi-brother,” Rend explained. “His sire was Lord Mammon, Lady Melusine’s previous consort, and one of the few she genuinely loved. She made no secret of preferring Growler to the twins.”

  “What happened to this Lord Mammon?”

  “Feral killed him in the rut melee, of course. That’s how you become a consort.”