Wild Blood

by Nancy A. Collins

  “You mentioned something about coyotes …?”

  “You’ll learn about the coyotero, in time,” Rend said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Right now, all you have to do is keep your eyes open the next day or two and you’ll discover everything you need to know about vargr society. I’ve had enough with playing tutor—c’mon, let’s go check out the bar!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  If anyone had ever told Skinner that he would one day be drinking beer in the company of werewolves, listening to them reminisce about the Dark Ages, the Reign of Terror, and Nazi death camps, he would have laughed. And if they’d told him he’d be bored stiff on top of it, he would have thought they were nuts as well.

  “And then I shook off their guards and grabbed a knife from the village chieftain and yell: ‘Who dies first?’ Well, that gave ’em pause, don’t you know!” Shaggybreeks belched to punctuate his story, wiping the beer foam from his mustache. “Then, to make it look good, I went ahead and jumped into a pit full of half-starved wolves anyway! The humans assumed I’d been torn to bloody ribbons, of course, but I had nothing to fear. They were family, you see?”

  “Really?” Skinner replied, stifling a yawn.

  “Aye! I’m quarter wolf, and I’m proud of it!” Shaggybreeks proclaimed, bringing his tankard down onto table hard enough to slosh its contents. “Not like some I could mention! Way they run things nowadays, I couldn’t even be born! My dame—bless her sweet hide—was ulfr. There weren’t many half-wolf bitches, even back then. My sire was a vargr by the name of Tarquin. He was a Roman general stationed on the Rhine. After she whelped me, he brought us back to the outpost. He claimed I was his bastard by a Teutonic woman, and kept my dame as a ‘pet’.

  “We were a happy, secret family for several years—until my sire was caught mounting my dame while in his Wild skin. He was denounced as a necromancer and drawn and quartered, as was she. I managed to escape the murdering bastards and flee into the Black Forest.” Shaggybreeks fixed Skinner with a drunken stare, made all the more penetrating by his single eyebrow. “What about you, pup? What’s your pedigree?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug. “I was raised human.”

  “You look like one of Feral’s by-blows, if you ask me,” Shaggybreeks grunted as he got to his feet. He was big, burly and excessively hirsute, with tufts of thick body hair peeking out from the neck of his tunic. He wore woolen hose, cross-gartered sandals and a wolf skin cape fastened about his throat with a bronze fibula. It wasn’t hard to believe that this hard-drinking, foul-smelling drunkard had once been one of the most feared Viking warriors to terrorize the coasts of Western Europe. “But that’s the trouble with vargr today. No sense of history. Excuse me—I need to make room for more ale.”

  “Don’t let us stop you, cousin,” Fenris sneered. After the Viking lumbered off in the direction of the bathroom, the Nazi leaned forward. “Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, we usually exclude those with bestial pedigrees from the Howl. But Shaggybreeks is the last of the old breed, so he is granted special dispensation. The same holds true for the Hound over there,” he said, pointing to a red-headed vargr dressed in nothing but a kilt and blue woad. “They’re dinosaurs, really; remnants from when Mankind still dwelt in the land of myth and dream.”

  Suddenly the interior of the lounge had become uncomfortably close. Skinner set aside his drink and got to his feet. “Excuse me … I think I need … some air.…”

  He staggered through the lobby and out the front door. The smell of aspen leaves and pine needles was bracing and helped clear his head. It was close to dusk and the setting sun threw long shadows across the lodge’s carefully manicured lawn. He wasn’t in a big hurry to return to his drinking companions, so he decided to take a walk and scout out his surroundings. Anything was preferable to spending the rest of the evening listening to the others drone on and on about their exploits.

  Although it was well into spring elsewhere in the country, at this altitude there were still patches of snow and crusted ice underneath the trees and shrubbery. The wind coming down off the nearby mountains was sharp, threatening to become frigid once the sun had set. Still, Skinner found being close to the Wild invigorating, regardless of the situation. Following an instinct he did not fully comprehend, he dropped to the ground and vigorously rolled about on the grass. Without realizing it, he shifted into his Wild skin. However, the sound of high-powered rifle fire put an end to his romp. He sat up, sniffing the air cautiously, then loped off in the direction of the blood he smelled. A second later he spotted the vargr called Snuff standing over a badly wounded human.

  “Sector Nine reporting: intruder located and immobilized,” he said, speaking into a hand-held radio.

  Skinner moved closer for a better look at the man bleeding to death at Snuff’s feet. He was white and looked to be in his mid-thirties, with long, matted hair and an equally unkempt beard. He wore dirty, ragged clothes and a tattered cloth coat that was unsuited for the harsh climate of the Continental Divide There was blood on his lips and blood flowing from his nostrils. Snuff had shot him in the side, doing irreparable damage to his spleen and liver.

  “Please …” The dying man gasped, a bubble of bloody froth forming at the corner of his mouth. “Let me see her … I just want to see her …”

  “Damn fool esau,” Snuff muttered. “This is the third one I’ve shot this season. If they keep showing up, we’ll have to relocate the lodge.”

  The esau clutched a canvas rucksack to his blood-smeared chest, fumbling at its straps with numb fingers. “Please, tell her … tell her … I brought gifts …”

  Skinner plucked the bag from the dying man’s grasp and looked inside. It was full of human scalps. Some were dried and leathery, while others were still quite fresh.

  “See?” The esau smiled, blood drooling into his beard. “I’m one of you …”

  Snuff set aside his rifle and removed a handgun from the holster on his belt, working the action to chamber a round. “Silver-jacketed bullets,” he explained upon noticing the look on Skinner’s face. He pointed the muzzle at the wounded man’s temple and pulled the trigger. He holstered the gun and thumbed the walkie-talkie back on. “Snuff to Thrasher. Intruder eliminated. Proceeding with perimeter check, over.” As Snuff prepared to leave, he eyed the sack full of scalps. “You want that?” he asked.

  “It’s all yours,” Skinner replied, shoving the grisly ‘gift’ into the guard’s hands.

  “Thanks, cousin! Oh, and watch out for the traps we’ve got set for the true wolves and ulfr. They don’t do permanent damage to vargr, but they hurt like hell and it’ll take you a couple of days to regenerate your foot.” With that word of warning, the guard shouldered the rucksack and strolled off into the gathering dark, leaving Skinner with the body of the dead esau.

  He stared at the rapidly cooling corpse. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do about the body. He certainly wasn’t hungry enough to eat it. Besides, chowing down on the hapless bastard was sort of cannibalistic, kind of like a human devouring a chimpanzee.

  As he continued to investigate the grounds, it wasn’t long before he found a wolf caught in a trap, about a mile into the tree line. It was big and gray, its shoulders easily twice the width of a Rottweiler’s. When it saw him, it laid its ears against the side of its head and bared its fangs.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, big fella,” Skinner said, trying to make his voice sound as nonthreatening as possible. He eased forward, trying to figure out how to pry the trap open without getting too close to the biting end of its catch.

  It was obvious the beast was in pain, though far from incapacitated. As he drew closer, he got a better view of the wolf’s wounded foreleg and saw what looked like a human thumb in place of its dewclaw. Skinner jerked back, staring hard into the eyes of the trapped animal. They were blue and possessed of an intelligence he found both disturbing and compelling.

  “Do you understand me?” he whispered.
>
  The ulfr made a short bark Skinner assumed was an affirmative.

  “I’m going to try and help you.” He grabbed the jaws of the trap and forced them apart. Even with his vargr-born strength, it wasn’t easy. The ulfr yanked its foreleg free, whimpering and licking the mangled paw. It raised its head and fixed Skinner with a quizzical stare, then turned and limped into the forest.

  As he turned to leave, a shadow separated itself from the dark and moved to intercept him. It was a heavily built vargr male with dense black fur. Even before he spoke, Skinner recognized Shaggybreeks by his scent.

  “I saw what you did.”

  “So?” Skinner replied tersely.

  “No need to get your back up!” Shaggybreeks laughed, clapping the younger werewolf on the shoulder. “I approve! I’m just surprised a vargr your age would help an ulfr!”

  “Why shouldn’t I? We share Wild blood, don’t we?”

  Shaggybreeks gave Skinner a long look before replying. “You’re new to vargr ways. In time you’ll see that those of us who boast true wolf blood are considered undesirable. There’s too much human diluting the breed nowadays, if you ask me.”

  “I may not know much about vargr ways, but I know setting traps for your own kind is wrong.”

  Shaggybreeks grunted and pulled on his beard. “You’re better off keeping such opinions to yourself, pup. Even if there are those of us who are sympathetic to your views.”

  “You’re not going to tell them about this are you?”

  “If you hadn’t freed the ulfr, I surely would have done so myself,” the old werewolf assured him. “Come along, cousin. It’s almost time for the Grand Bal. You don’t want to miss out on the party!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The ballroom was all polished crystal and refracted light, with buffed hardwood floors that gleamed like the hide of a well-fed animal. A large stage draped in black bunting dominated the far end of the room. On it sat a deranged version of prom queen’s throne, flanked on the right by a smaller, more austere chair. Heavy black velvet curtains hung behind them obscuring who or what might be waiting backstage.

  There were at least thirty vargr in various forms of historical dress circulating on the dance floor, talking amongst themselves and sampling the all-meat buffet table, when Skinner and Shaggybreeks made their entrance.

  “Make yourself comfortable, pup. And don’t worry. No one will learn of our little secret,” Shaggybreeks said with a wink. “Enjoy the feast—Melusine really knows how to put on a feed, that much I’ll grant her!”

  As Skinner turned around, he saw Rend walking toward him, a highball glass in one hand.

  “There you are! I was wondering where you’d gotten off to,” Rend said, looking more than a little drunk. “I thought you’d run out on us …”

  “I took a walk, that’s all,” he replied. “Anything wrong with that?”

  “My, aren’t we being oversensitive!” Rend laughed. “Here, try this—it’s human veal.” He thrust a plate heaped with paper-thin slices of pale white meat at his friend. “It practically melts in your mouth! Truly exquisite!”

  Although saliva was pooling in Skinner’s mouth, he shuddered and pushed the offered delicacy aside. “No, thanks.”

  “You really need to let go of the taboos humans placed on you, or you’re going to starve,” Rend pointed out. “Besides, it’s not like you’ve never eaten human flesh before.”

  “I know. But it’s different when you kill to defend yourself. Eating something that’s been butchered—it just seems, I don’t know, unnatural.”

  Rend rolled his eyes. “Look, I used to think if I only preyed on junkies, muggers, pimps and other sleaze, and left good people alone, it would make a difference. Now I don’t care if they’re serial killers or Sunday school teachers: meat’s meat.”

  Skinner grunted and glanced around the room, studying the different vargr gathered there. He spotted Shaggybreeks talking with someone dressed in the uniform of a Napoleonic general, while Fenris held forth with a tall, wild-haired man wearing a cassock who looked suspiciously like Rasputin.

  He nudged Rend and whispered in his friend’s ear: “You call this a party? Where are the women?”

  “I told you bitches be scarce among the vargr,” Rend replied. “There are only two vargr females in our Pack: Melusine and Jez. And since Jez is in Heat, she doesn’t dare show herself. Just one whiff would start a riot.”

  “How often do you hold these shindigs, anyway?”

  Fenris stepped forward, the steel death’s-head adorning his Gestapo uniform gleaming in the light from the crystal chandelier. “I hope you two don’t mind me joining your conversation, but I couldn’t help but overhear. To answer your question, my young friend, Howls are normally held once every ten years, or whenever a vargr bitch goes into heat, whichever occurs first. The older the bitches get, the longer the time between heats, of course. But this is the third Howl in as many years.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the lovely Jez has yet to drop a pup. Personally, I don’t think it’s her fault, poor child. I believe her brother is the one to blame—Ah! Speak of the devil! There he is now.”

  Jag strode into the ballroom flanked on either side by Ripper and Hew, with Sunder trailing behind him. He still wore his motorcycle boots and denim jeans with the knees slashed out, only now he was bare-chested beneath his black leather jacket. Upon catching sight of Rend and Skinner, he motioned for the others to stay put.

  “It seems I am needed elsewhere,” Fenris muttered under his breath as he hastily departed.

  “Where the hell have you two been?” Jag snapped, his complexion ruddy with anger.

  “I had to get Skinner’s clearance approved,” Rend replied meekly.

  “You introduced him to my mother?” Jag’s face reddened even further. “Sorry, Jag,” Rend said, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I thought it would be okay.”

  “Who’s the alpha in our group, Rend? Me or you?”

  “You are, Jag.”

  “Damn straight, I am! It was bad enough you brought this mutt in without asking me, now you go and introduce him to Lady Melusine without my permission? Are you challenging me, dog?”

  Rend shook his head, all but tucking his tail between his legs in submission. “You know I’d never do that, Jag.”

  “What about your little mutt-buddy, here?” Jag snarled. “Does he understand?”

  “Get off my back,” Skinner growled, bringing his hackle up and his lips back. “You’ve done nothing but chew my tail, and I’ve had enough of it!”

  “As long as you run with my pack, mutt, I’m the one who calls the shots,” Jag retorted, his teeth growing very big and sharp. “Unless you want me to rip you a new one, low-dog!”

  “Children! Children! Save it for the melee!” Amadeo chided as he stepped in between the two.

  “Very well. I’ll wait,” Skinner replied, only to have Jag surge forward.

  “Perhaps you did not hear me, brother dear?” Amadeo said sharply as he grabbed the younger vargr by the collar of his jacket. “Or are you willing to disgrace our dame with such bestial behavior?”

  Jag shook himself loose of the cardinal and sullenly rejoined his running mates. As Rend moved to follow, Skinner caught him by the forearm. “You don’t have to run after him every time he snaps his fingers, you know.”

  Rend paused for a second, then pulled his arm free of Skinner’s grasp and hurried after Jag’s retreating back.

  “You’re not one of my demi-brother’s admirers, I take it,” Amadeo said with a dry laugh. Skinner turned to look at the clergyman. “Jag is your brother?”

  “Demi-brother. And I stress the word ‘demi.’ We share maternity, not paternity,” Amadeo sniffed. “I was one of Melusine’s earliest whelps. All I can say is that as she’s grown older, she’s become increasingly lax regarding her cubs. I would have never have pulled such a stunt when I was Jag’s age! Ask Fenris, if you don’t believe me.”

&
nbsp; “Did you two grow up together?”

  “Hardly. He’s my son by Lady Melusine.”

  Not knowing what to say to that particular revelation, Skinner excused himself and headed for the open bar. Before he had a chance to grab a beer, a large, calloused hand clapped him on the shoulder. Skinner turned around and found himself staring up into the broad, grinning face with a bristling red beard. The strapping giant was completely naked except for a kilt and bluish-purple body paint and wore a single braid of bright red hair that hung almost to his waist.

  “I am called the Hound. My good friend Shaggybreeks told me of your deed earlier this night! Fear not, young cousin. The tale will go no farther. I, too, am of ulfr heritage. I carry the blood of dire wolves in my veins, and none can ever make me ashamed of it!” He said proudly as he cast an angry eye about the room in defiance. “There was a time, my friend, when humans worshipped our kind as gods and heroes! Why, in my day, the humans made me their champion! I was so fierce in my battle rage, and moved so swiftly, I was said to have faces on every side of my head and six arms—each clutching an instrument of destruction!” The grinning, red-headed giant’s smile faltered and he absently pulled on his chin whiskers, now liberally shot with threads of gray. “But that was a long, long time ago, even for our kind.”

  Before the Celtic warrior could continue, the lights dimmed and recorded fanfare blared from hidden speakers. As everyone in the room turned to face the stage, the black velvet curtains parted and Lord Feral strode forward. He moved to the throne and picked up a wireless microphone.

  “Greetings, cousins, and welcome to the Howl.”

  “Greetings, cousin,” the audience responded as one.

  “Before the festivities get underway, let us consecrate ourselves to that which makes us vargr!”

  Feral clapped his hands and a servant walked out onto the stage, carrying a long black leather box that looked like a hybrid cross of a guitar case and a pool-cue sheath. The assembled werewolves dropped to their knees, throats exposed in symbolic surrender. Not sure what else to do, Skinner followed their lead.