Silver Collar

by Gill McKnight

Luc tested the bars. They were strong, but not strong enough. She could bend them like licorice if she had to. No big deal. She went to snatch the rabbit then paused. She squatted back down and thought it over. How could she exploit this? Was it in her favor to trigger the trap, and then spend more energy than the bait provided breaking free again? No. Luc was wily. There had to be a better way to work it. Maybe it was time to trip the hunter instead of the trap?

  *

  The rabbit was gone.

  Emily looked up at the snapped wire. She’d deliberately left it too high for foxes. And it was placed well out of reach of the most agile of wolves and bears. Yet the heavy gauge wire hung limp, snapped like string. At her feet, the ground was a churned up mess. Something had stood here, exactly where she was standing, and contemplated the bait. Something big. Massive, in fact. She placed her booted foot beside a huge paw print. Her footprint looked like a child’s in comparison. It had a discomforting likeness to the paw imprint on the cover of the Garoul almanac. Hadn’t she traced its whorls and crevices with her fingertip last night?

  Emily shifted in unease. She was on the right track. This was her first physical evidence. She took her camera from her backpack and snapped several photographs from different angles. Next, she examined the surrounding area and found more paw prints, which she also catalogued. She was surprised at how easy it was. She had expected it to be so much harder. Why was everyone else not up here in the Wallowas hunting for mythical monsters? But then again, this was the third rabbit drop, and the only one with any evidence. Had the beast become lazier with its effortless feeding? She checked the undergrowth for more prints, or better yet, fur. A piece of fur would be a lovely trophy to slot under a microscope. There was nothing. Come on. Don’t you even poop? She scratched some fur from a tree trunk very much doubting it belonged to her quarry. Its coloring was far too vivid, most likely a fox. There were droppings nearby, also probably fox. Emily took samples anyway, storing them in her glass vials. Her initial excitement was fading; there wasn’t that much evidence after all.

  Emily had been hunting since she was six years old and could sit still while her father and uncle sighted their Winchesters. She knew exactly what she was doing out here in the woods. She knew this particular stretch like the back of her hand, and every animal in it, even this one, or so she was willing to bet. Taking it alive would do nicely, but if that didn’t work out then she’d settle for mounting its ugly head on her wall and selling freak show tickets. She shivered, pushing down her anger, and glanced around. She felt spooked, as if she were being watched. The birds were silent. Not even the trees stirred. It was as if the entire forest held its breath.

  Emily gave herself a mental shake. She needed to concentrate and stop acting like an amateur. Common sense told her the beast would be miles away sniffing out its next free meal. Meals, she corrected. It had scarfed down three so far. It had to be complacent by now, and that was exactly what she’d hoped for.

  It was after two o’clock and a long time since she’d set out. She opened her backpack and rummaged through the contents. First a quick snack, then she’d head for drop number four. It was two miles southwest from here, and it was the important one. Number four was the trap. She’d rigged it up at the old logging camp, and she wanted to be energized and ready for what she hoped to find there. If it all went wrong, she was prepared to start over, but she hoped that would not happen. It was hard work trying to outhunt a hunter, but she was certain she could hold her own.

  *

  From her perch, Luc watched the woman circle the clearing. So this was her hunter. Not that impressive after all. She looked down at a lanky, scrawny, redheaded thing. She could take her out in two seconds. Not much eating on her though. Not that Luc needed to kill. She had gorged on three elaborately presented rabbits, had even gone on ahead and seen the fourth one dangling delectably on its wire. She was being groomed into eating without thinking. This hunter was sneaky. Luc liked that.

  So here she was, hugging a tree like a Christmas ornament, some twenty feet above her adversary. She had returned and stomped all over the third clearing, knowing it would give her hunter pause for thought. She watched with interest as the woman took pictures from one side then the other, and then scratched tree bark and fox poo into tiny bottles. Humans were curious creatures.

  Luc’s ears twitched. What were her options? Well, option one, she could drop out of this tree onto the woman and kill her.

  Pros: there was slightly more meat on her than a rabbit.

  Cons: there would be a missing hunter and a follow-up search party. Luc didn’t need more humans blundering through the forest getting in the way of her escape.

  Option two: avoid the hunter and her traps and keep on moving.

  Pros: no dead human.

  Cons: she was ill and becoming weaker. Her breathing was belabored and her head felt woozier than ever. Soon, the Garouls would be closing in on her. She needed time out, at least until she regained her strength.

  Option three, and this intrigued her the most: find out what the hunter was up to. Why set a series of traps luring her to an old dynamite store? That suggested she was wanted alive rather than dead. Now why wasn’t that comforting?

  Pros: she’d maybe get her time out. The Garouls would shy away from a human hunter. They always turned tail when one came near, cowards that they were. Plus, Luc knew she could escape whenever she wanted through the licorice iron bars.

  Cons: she had to be sure what the hunter’s intentions were. A bullet could harm her; it shouldn’t kill, but in her weakened state, she had to be careful.

  Below her, the human hunkered down under the spread of a basswood to light a small fire and heat some water. Luc zoned in on the backpack and the ammo belt beside it. The woman went down to the stream to refill her water bottle. Luc watched after her for a moment then slid out of the tree like an oiled snake. Keeping an eye on the hunter’s retreating back, she hooked the straps of the backpack with one huge claw and scooped the ammo belt onto her other arm. The hunter was still out of sight. Gleeful, Luc beat a retreat with her booty.

  *

  Emily froze. She’d barely taken two steps back toward the fire when she knew something was wrong. Her stomach knotted when she noticed the missing items. Shit. I didn’t hear a thing. Is it still here?

  She kicked out the fire and hooked her water bottle back on her belt. Winchester at the ready, she scanned the surrounding area. There were no clues that she could see. No prints in the soft earth, not so much as a bent twig. Sneaky. And alarming. She knew damn well what creature had snatched her goods. What was disconcerting was that it hadn’t left so much as a toe tap. She glanced at the churned mud and the walloping great paw prints she had just photographed and felt mugged. They had been made deliberately to detain her here. This creature could move like silk when it wanted to.

  Sweat trickled down her spine and the jagged pain in her gut tightened. Breathe. Nice and steady. Breathe. Don’t let it beat you. Her hand strayed to her pocket and the pack of Lexotanil. Not yet. If she managed her breathing exercises and just took her time, she’d be okay. She could keep the panic under control. She dropped her hand into a large inner pocket and her fingertips touched the silk cloth with its hard metal contents. At least she still had the collar. Her shoulders relaxed. She was in control. All she needed was a little luck, just a little. She quickly reassessed the situation. Even with her ammo belt gone, she still had a full chamber, though that was all. The Winchester was her father’s rifle; she brought it along as a kind of talisman. What was more important was her missing backpack. Its contents were invaluable to her success, and she needed it back.

  Chapter Five

  Jolie watched as Hope fluffed up the snow-white pillow. With a final plump, she placed it back on the narrow bed and turned her attention to the duvet.

  “Grab an end,” she said, and Jolie obliged, helping to squeeze the quilt into the duvet cover. A new one, she noted, pastel blue with puppies gam
boling all over it. She also noticed the new pink pajamas and furry slippers sitting on the dresser. Hope seemed very caught up with Mouse moving in.

  “Has she no PJs of her own?” Jolie asked, struggling not to sound peevish. “I mean she’s only going to be here for a night. Two at the most.”

  “But they’re adorable.” Hope held up the pink pajama top, more puppies. Jolie was not impressed. She had spent all afternoon helping Hope clean the small back bedroom in their already tiny cabin. Jolie’s own log house was in its final building stage but still not ready to be lived in so she and Hope were staying in one of the holiday cabins. They were cramped enough as it was, and the last thing they needed was another body wedged in, even Mouse’s scrawny little one. What was Marie thinking?

  “Yeah. Cute,” she gave Hope the expected response.

  The front door slammed.

  “I got my bag,” Mouse yelled, her footsteps thumping along the hall. She appeared at the bedroom door with a small backpack slung over her shoulder. Tadpole slunk in around her ankles.

  “This is cool,” she said and viewed the room with interest.

  “Hi, honey. I’m glad you like it. We got you some new stuff.” Hope held up the pajamas.

  “Puppies!” Mouse was delighted. She ran a grubby hand over the new bedspread. “Puppies everywhere. I love it.”

  “And look, comics.” Hope pointed to a pile on the bedside table. “Now come help me fix dinner. But first you have to wash those hands.” She looped an arm around Mouse’s skinny shoulders. “Jolie will unpack your things,” she said, as she led the girl away.

  Tadpole skittered after them leaving Jolie alone with Mouse’s backpack. So now she was the maid! She opened the dresser drawer and poured the bag’s contents straight in and slammed it shut. Mouse wouldn’t have done it any different, she reckoned. Then she threw the empty bag on top of the wardrobe. Job done, she slouched up the passageway after the others.

  *

  “Okay, so there’s one pork chop left.” Hope came in from the kitchen, skillet in hand. Jolie gripped her plate, ready to raise it in offering.

  “Here you go.” Without even a glance in her direction, Hope tipped the chop onto Mouse’s plate. “A growing girl needs a little extra,” she said.

  Jolie was outraged. She got all the extras in this house. She was the growing girl!

  “But I’m not hungry,” Mouse whined. Jolie’s grip on her plate tightened. There was still hope.

  “You mean you have no room for pie?” Hope asked. Jolie’s heart sank. She knew this trick. And of course, the whelp fell for it.

  “Pie?” Mouse said far too eagerly.

  Amateur, Jolie groused to herself. Just slip me the damned chop when Hope’s not looking. She tried to blink the message across the table, but Mouse was incredibly dense.

  “Apple cinnamon.” Hope continued to bribe. “With ice cream.”

  Jolie groaned. Kid’s a goner.

  “So you’re too full for pie?” Hope played her trump.

  “No. I love pie,” Mouse said.

  “Then finish your dinner and I’ll get you a slice.” Hope swept back into the kitchen. Mouse poked at the chop with disinterest. She took a quick peek toward the kitchen to make sure Hope wasn’t looking. Jolie’s grip tightened until she thought her plate would snap in two. This was it! Now or never. The kid was never gonna eat that chop. She was already stuffed to the gills. Over here, kiddo.

  Mouse’s fingers closed around the chop bone and Jolie lifted her plate. In a lightning move, Mouse slipped the chop under the table into Tadpole’s waiting mouth. He was out of the room in a flash, his tail waving in delight. Jolie’s plate, and jaw, fell to the table. The dog! She gave my chop to that shifty, useless, short-assed mongrel!

  “Good girl.” Hope was back with a dish piled high with dessert. She set it before Mouse and gathered up the dinner things. Jolie glared balefully at Mouse’s heaped dish.

  “Where’s mine?” she asked.

  “You’ll get yours after you wash up.” And Hope handed her the stack of dirty dishes.

  Later, they sat before the fire, Jolie as relaxed and dreamy as the smoke she watched drifting up the chimney. Outside, the rain drummed against the windows and a rising wind whipped the trees into a fretful dance. It was cozy inside, and Jolie watched Hope’s knitting needles flash in the lamplight. She had taken up knitting and had begun a pair of mittens for Mouse. Jolie wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she had been promised a scarf in colors of her own choosing so she felt less jealous. Hope was changing. Maybe the valley was having an effect on her? They had been staying at Little Dip a lot longer as they built their own cabin, managing to work remotely with the Ambereye office. Soon, their cabin would be ready to move into, and Jolie wondered if Hope would want a more permanent move to the valley.

  Across from her, in the big armchair Jolie usually favored, Mouse was flung out with one of her comics. She was squinting at the print, her lips moving as she read. Tadpole lay across her stomach, rising and falling with each breath. He was the picture of heavy lidded contentment, occasionally licking his muzzle in memory of his pork chop.

  As far as Jolie was concerned, his betrayal was complete and final. His frequent fond glances toward her were ignored. He was a turncoat. Jolie was Alpha here. She ruled this den, and if he was any sort of guard dog at all, he should be lying at her feet, not snoozing on Mouse’s soft belly.

  Den. Jolie mused over the word as she glanced at her companions, each engaged in their relaxation after a busy day. She supposed they did make a comfy little domestic pack. And Hope was seriously nesty these days. Jolie eyed those flashing needles again. When they moved into their own home, would Hope channel all this unusual activity into the soft furnishings? As long as Jolie had a space for her fishing gear, she’d be happy enough. Satisfied, she stretched out her long legs and warmed her toes at the hearth.

  *

  Luc sat back on her heels and regarded the bounty spread before her. She’d found a nice dry spot under a spreading cedar to rip apart the bag. Already, she’d eaten the Trekker Bars, wrappers and all, as her claws couldn’t tear the foil off, and now she was buzzing with a caffeine and sugar hit, two substances her werewolf physiology rarely had to deal with. Beside her, the ground was littered with Glad Wrap from the hunter’s lunch. She’d gorged down the ham sandwiches first, having a taste for them after the one she’d found in the cabin. Her ears twitched, and she constantly smacked her lips and licked at her snout. She felt hyper with excitement.

  She’d buried the ammo belt ages ago, as it felt like a good thing to do, except she couldn’t remember where she’d put it. She didn’t care. The backpack was now her favorite thing. It was a huge fun-filled Christmas stocking. She loved examining all the new stuff she pulled out. There were lots of empty little glass vials. These were somehow important judging by the way the hunter fussed over them and put weird stuff in them like fox poop and fur and dirt. It was fun to pop them between her claws and watch the broken glass sparkle in the dirt.

  A tube of lip balm spilled at her feet. She knew it wasn’t edible, but she bit some off anyway. Nah, she spat it out. Her attention turned to the insect repellant. The can dented in her clumsy claws. She managed to whack the nozzle. Spray shot into her left ear and made her jump. She hurled the can at a nearby maple.

  The smell of the backpack intrigued her. Everything in it had an underlying scent of creamy, feminine perfume. She found the hunter’s cap in a side pocket and chewed on it thoughtfully. It tasted of coconut shampoo and sweaty scalp. She liked the way her spittle merged with the human hair smell. It took the edge off the sickly cosmetics humans used to disguise their scent. Why did humans do that? Wash away what they were, what their bodies said about them? The cap was chewed to mush, and sadly, she spat it out.

  Next came an overshirt. It had been worn recently. Luc spent time sniffing the underarms. Underneath the ugly deodorant, she could detect the woman’s sweat glands. It would be a nic
e place to bite when she caught her. The smell was complex. Luc sucked the cloth into her mouth and let the odor dissolve on her tongue. She closed her eyes and concentrated. An image of dark, warm places where sleep was thick and dreamless came to her. But it was unnatural, this dreamless space, dull and heavy, loaded with isolation and emptiness. It felt drugged and artificial. She didn’t like the image, but she was intrigued. She went deeper into the taste to see what else it could tell her. The faint taint of foods that were too spicy for her Were palate came next, and then an unexpected blast of sour emotion. This unfolded on her tongue as a terse, controlled anger, followed by an underlying nervous distress. Luc let the fabric drop away and sat in moody silence. The taste unsettled her. She scratched her belly then licked her lips, transferring the taste of the shirt onto her muzzle. She didn’t understand the flavor; it was impossible for her to untangle its complexities. It should be easy to break this scent down into components she could understand and ultimately use. These were skills she employed for hunting, except now they weren’t working. Luc was unsettled. Perhaps the virus was destroying her diagnostic abilities? Or was this scent somehow unique, holding a message she had yet to understand? She wondered at that. The scent snaked through her sinuses and filled her head with questions. Then she sneezed, and the smell, along with her thoughtful reflection, was lost forever.

  Time for payback! Luc lumbered awkwardly onto her feet. She felt dizzy and her joints were stiff. She shook her head violently to ease the buzzing in her ears. She rambled forward in a drunken, unsteady gait; the empty backpack still hooked on a fore claw. She was reluctant to let it go. She dragged it behind her through the brush. It caught and tattered on the thick, prickly undergrowth, leaving a trail a mile wide. She wanted that. It was time for the hunter to see how Luc laid traps.