Silver Collar

by Gill McKnight

  Emily hesitated. Luc had also slept here with her. Shouldn’t she pick through the blankets for stray werewolf hairs? The nest would be littered with forensic evidence. Instead, Emily crawled into the heart of it and curled up. The fluttering anxieties that had unsteadied her immediately lessened. The churning in her gut ceased, and the muscles along her back relaxed. It was better than any pills. Emily lay there considering the past few days. She had set out with such determination, most of it bedded in the hard rock of revenge. And nothing had gone to plan. Absolutely nothing.

  Emily wormed down deeper and drew a blanket over her head to create a sort of cocoon. The blankets were stiflingly hot and smelled of a musk that reminded her of rich loam and fall leaves…and ink black pelt.

  She had set out on her mission with such anger against the creatures she just knew had killed her father. Except the beast she had captured turned out to be a woman, a woman called Luc. A smart-mouthed, totally annoying, ass of a woman, who had unfortunately managed to capture Emily right back, but then everything had seesawed haphazardly over the last few days. Like Emily rescuing Luc from the mudslide, only to be rescued in return from the Silverthread. They had even abetted each other’s escape from the Garoul ambush. Strange powers were at work. Nothing moved in a straight line anymore. Everything was twisted and convoluted, and Emily had no idea if she was coming or going. She wondered if Luc had escaped. Had she managed to shuck off the collar? More questions she’d never get an answer to. She secretly hoped Luc was on her way north, but part of her wanted her to be still in the valley.

  Emily sat up and pushed the blankets from her. It was too hot in the camper. It was cooking her head until she thought stupid things. She climbed out and walked into the woods behind Norm’s house. The air was cooler under the trees, and Emily leaned back against an old oak and let the breeze wash over her sticky skin. Above her head, the blue of the sky peeked through the leaves and sunlight dappled the trees in splashes of gold. Sometimes the forest is so beautiful. Emily rubbed her back against the tree as if she had an itch. It changes its face and its mood like any living thing. She moved to another tree and smoothed her cheek and neck against the bark, smiling at the prickling sensation and breathing in the rich sap scent.

  “Em?” Norm called. “Where are you, Em?”

  She started. Pulling her face from the tree was like awakening from a dream. She frowned. It was not like her to space out like that. Norm called again and she turned back the way she had come. In a few yards, she was by the picket fence that marked out Norm’s yard from the woods beyond.

  “I’m here. What’s up?” she called back.

  “Come lock up this gun cabinet. That’s what’s up. You know I don’t allow it to lie open.” His crankiness was apparent; she dug in her pocket and found the cabinet key.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Norm.” She appeared beside him. “Guess I was tired and forgot.”

  He took the key from her. “Leave the washing,” he said. “I’ll do it for you. Go get some sleep.” His bad mood was gone in a blink, melted away at the thought of being able to do something for her. Of being useful.

  She kissed his stubbled cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Norm,” she said as exhaustion washed through her. He was right. She wasn’t even thinking straight. She turned to the house and to bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Luc let the current wash her downstream until she was sure she was out of sight of her pursuers. One Were had launched itself into the river, splashing and blustering too high in the water to make any true progress through it. The rest loped along the banks, hoping to track her by sight alone. She shed her clothes and let them tumble away with the water, surfacing and then submerging like the red herrings she intended them to be.

  As slick as an otter, she reversed direction and cut the current back upstream. Luc was an excellent swimmer no matter what form she took, werewolf or human. She lived by a lake and swam in it every day come hell or sunshine. Now she carved her way through the murky under waters, weaving through the weed, blending with the pebble-strewn shadows of the riverbed, making it almost impossible to spy her from above. The sun was high and blazed across the tumbling waters. On the riverbed below, it danced with splashes of silver and dappled light. Even this worked for her, melding the metal of her collar with the fanciful patterns.

  The Garouls would expect her to use the river to get as far away as she could. So she didn’t. With great effort, she hung on to a submerged branch and held steady in the buffeting undercurrent. She clung tight as the waters billowed over and around her until she felt her lungs shrivel from lack of oxygen. It was now or never. Either her pursuers had traveled on ahead, or they were waiting above for her to surface. Had she fooled them? Her head cleaved the surface of the water. Blinking rapidly, she glanced all around, swirling a full three hundred and sixty degrees to be sure. She was alone.

  Luc swam to the bank and crawled free. In a crouching run, she doubled back the quarter mile to the logging camp, where her scent was laden over everything. She would hide in her own scent. In a half-collapsed cabin, she hunkered down and willed the change. She forced it out of her. She wrenched her body apart until she fell weak but fully transformed to the muddy floor and lay there panting, ears alert for any sound of the hunting party returning. And they would return after they realized she had eluded them. They would come back to the last place they had seen her. They would return, regroup, refresh on her scent, and start all over again, and they would never stop because she had humiliated them. Luc’s ears perked in pleasure at this thought. Only to immediately twitch with anxiety.

  Where could she go? She was too weak to outrun them. Her exploits in the river, and the harsh rapidity of her change had seriously depleted her. Thankfully, the virus no longer ran rampant through her. That was at least one thing in her favor; she wouldn’t sneeze and give herself away. Her only real option was to remain here where the camp reeked of her. Could she camouflage herself with herself? It was ingenious, she decided, a dangerous gamble, but oh so sweet if it worked.

  A distant howl startled her. Several more followed. They were regrouping. Were they coming this way? She listened. More cries and howls. Closer this time, very close. They were returning, and fast if the forest acoustics were to be believed. Luc bounded over to the dynamite store, a complete mess after the mudslide. She climbed over the debris to the rear of the cabin and slid in under the twisted tin roof. There she dug frantically until she had made a hole deep enough to slip inside. She scooped the mud back in around her, drawing in big pawfuls to smother her head and muzzle. She sank down as far as her breathing would allow her and sat chin deep in mud, perfectly still.

  They broke into the clearing in an agitated squabble. Circling and snapping at all and anything that held her scent and might give a clue. Then the silver streaked female bounded in. Marie Garoul. Luc remembered her, though she had been much younger then. And the other one, the huge male. That was Claude. She was almost certain of it. It was strange to see them after all this time, and again under thoroughly miserable circumstances. Her only relief was that Ren was not with them. She knew Ren was in Little Dip and sort of hoped she’d stick around at least until Mouse was settled. She was glad her twin had not been part of the Garoul hunting party; that would have cut deep. Though it would have made no difference to the outcome, she’d still have run rings around these hounds, for that was all they were to her. Part of her was enjoying this chase, as long as she stayed one jump ahead.

  Luc sank even lower until her snout barely cleared the mud. From her vantage point, she could see but not be seen. Or so she hoped. Marie snapped her Weres into order, and in seconds, they left the clearing heading north.

  Luc sat in her mud bath for an hour or more until she was certain Marie had left no one lurking behind. Then she surged from the mud hole and ambled down to the river for a good rinse. She missed the little RV with its hot water shower.

  She found a sheltered spot under the bank where the curre
nt was peaceable, and floated on her back, cloud watching and making plans. So the Garouls had decided to head north and block off her route home. What a lousy plan. She’d have expected better of them. So what were her options?

  Option one: she could make her way north to the border and try to avoid any Garoul ambushes along the way.

  Pros: she was aware they were out there waiting for her.

  Cons: it was hard to preempt an ambush no matter how prepared you were for one.

  Option two: she could head in any direction other than north and loop around to the border.

  Pros: she’d be making a very circuitous way home.

  Cons: she’d be making a very circuitous way home.

  Her choices were shit. With a snort of dissatisfaction, Luc burst from the river and angrily shook the excess water from her body. It streamed from her thick pelt and puddled around her feet. Leaving a trail of great wet paw prints, she stomped over to the dynamite store and hunkered down to dry off in the sun. Beside her, her pile of treasures lay undisturbed. The Garouls had not been interested in the mud-caked rubbish she had unearthed. Idly, she reached over and shuffled through them. A boot. A button. A silver arrow. She sniffed the silver point. She was going to skewer me with this, and I let the little bitch get away. She’d never have let the Garouls take her, though. Emily was hers.

  Option three: she could stay where she damn well was! Here in the forest, and let the Garouls fart about in the north waiting for a traveler who would never pass by. At least not while they were there.

  Pros: she knew these woods, and for the moment, they were Garoul free. That gave her plenty of time to set up a bolt-hole. And she’d know the minute the Garouls returned. Once they trailed back with their tails between their legs, she could make her own way north unhampered. Excellent! She lifted a filthy scrap of backpack with her fore claw and sniffed at it. Coconut shampoo. She shifted on her haunches and thought about the cons to her plan.

  Cons.

  There were no cons.

  She sniffed the rag again. A mild euphoria spread through her making her lips smack and her toe claws tap on the dirt. It was a great plan. She would take up temporary residence in the forest and wait out any danger. Luc sighed happily at her own cleverness.

  *

  Emily came down from her nap an hour later to find the house empty. The dog’s blanket was heaped under the kitchen radiator, but the dog was no longer on it. She made her way through to the shop to see her uncle and grab a cup of coffee from his food counter. The swing door between the house and the store opened and she heard the grumble of old men’s voices.

  “Says here bichon frise.”

  “He ain’t no bichon frise, you blind old coot. Look at his goddamn tail,” Uncle Norm snapped. “Nothing French about that tail.”

  “Color’s all wrong,” another voice chimed in. “And he ain’t curly. What you have there is a dachshund. A German dog.”

  “He’s an American dog. We found him here in Oregon, didn’t we?” Norm was belligerent as ever. “And he’s too short for a dachshund.”

  “Ah, come on, Norm. He’s the shortest runt I ever seen.”

  “I meant lengthwise. He’s too short lengthwise. Them dachshunds are wiener dogs.” Norm was not going to give an inch.

  Emily came further into the shop to find the newly washed dog standing on top of the coffee counter, tail wagging. Sitting around on stools was an assortment of old boys intently assessing him. One had a copy of Dog’s World magazine lifted from the newspaper stand, and they were flipping through the pages comparing the pictures with the specimen before them.

  “He’s got the body of that French dog and the head of a dachshund—”

  “And the tail of a squirrel.” They all laughed, and the squirrely tail wagged wildly.

  “He’s as ginger as a pine squirrel—”

  “And he’s for the pound.” Emily stepped up to join them. She lifted the dog from the counter. “You’re breaking Lord knows how many health and hygiene laws here,” she told her uncle, tucking the animal under her arm.

  “I was just telling the boys how you found him in the woods and they wanted to see him. None of us knows him. He’s not from these parts.”

  “Perhaps a tourist lost him?” one of Norm’s cronies spoke up.

  “It’s a bit early for tourists. And he’s not the type of dog you’d take hiking. You’d have to carry him most of the way,” she said.

  “Guess he’s from Covington, then,” another crony said.

  “Yeah. I’m taking him down to the pound. I need to go to the bank anyway,” she said.

  “Not today, you won’t. Pound shuts half day on Tuesdays,” Norm said and placed a cup of coffee on the counter for her. “Gimme here.” He took the dog from her. “I’ll take him outside to do his business. You mind none of these boys leaves without paying.”

  *

  Luc found the tree.

  The special tree.

  A big leaf maple, to be precise, that stood about fifty feet high. It was the branch spread that caught her eye, and that was nearly thirty feet across at its widest. She didn’t care how tall the tree was. It only had to be high enough to afford a view and offer safety from the forest floor. Other than that, she wanted a wide and level spread of branches where she could build a nest and snuggle down for a long wait. She imagined it would be a long one because the Garouls were really stupid and it would take a while before they realized she wasn’t heading north any time soon, and that she had outwitted them yet again.

  She dug her claws into the soft bark and pulled herself upward. Luc prided herself on her climbing skills. She enjoyed climbing as much as she enjoyed swimming. Once she reached the lower canopy, she snapped off some branches and began to construct a crude platform. This she lined with medium sized branches to make the skeletal platform sturdier. Then she padded that out with smaller branches that bore wide, pliable leaves. Finally, she whipped and wove some longer, stronger branches into sidewalls a foot deep to encircle the entire base, plugging any gaps with wads of ripped up leaves.

  Pleased at her efforts, Luc sat in the center of her creation and wriggled her hindquarters into the matting, digging out any sharp, pokey twigs and making a large Luc-sized indentation. Satisfied, she lay back and contemplated the slivers of sky that trailed and twisted through the greenery above her like pale blue ribbons. She was relaxed and almost content. She had made a nest, a temporary home as such, and at last she felt secure and in control. This was the second nest she had made in the last twenty-four hours. The first one had been for Emily, to keep her safe and warm. The thought made her solemn. Where was Emily now? Ah, yes. Lost Creek. She said she came from Lost Creek.

  Luc launched herself from her nest full of frantic activity. Okay, so it was cozy enough. Now all it needed were a few home comforts. She leapt the last fifteen feet or so to the ground and bounded off, weaving through the trees, sometimes bouncing off a tree trunk here and there to maintain her hurtling momentum. It took her no time at all to pinball her way back to the logging camp.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Emily returned from her bank visit a little after dinnertime.

  “Uncle Norm,” she called, closing the front door behind her. “How’d you feel about Mexican tonight? I got stuff for fajitas.”

  There was no answer. She pushed on through to the kitchen, but it was deserted. Where was he? The shop had closed an hour ago. Her eye fell on the dog’s makeshift water bowl, and she frowned. WILBUR was scrawled unevenly along it in black marker pen.

  “Wilbur?” she murmured in disbelief.

  “Here, boy. Fetch.” Norm’s voice came from the back porch. Emily found him in his rocker throwing a ball for the dog, who ran and fetched it every time.

  “Good boy, Wilbur,” Norm crowed as the dog dropped the ball at his feet and waited, tail thumping, for the next throw.

  “Wilbur?” she said again. He looked up, pleased as punch to see her.

  “This is one s
mart pup. Look what I taught him in no time at all,” Norm announced.

  “Maybe he already knows this game.” She might as well speak plainly. “I don’t think he’s a stray. I think he’s got someone out there missing him. And Wilbur, for God’s sake?”

  “It’s as good a name as any. He looks like a Wilbur.” Norm was grumpy now.

  “If he belongs to someone else, you can’t keep him. If you really want a dog, well, why don’t we go down to the pound and you can pick one out?”

  “Seems stupid to go all the way down there just to dump one dog in and take another out.” He was not going to be mollified, so Emily changed tack.

  “Did you hear me ask if you wanted fajitas?” she said. He brightened, and she was thankful for the truce. They could talk about Wilbur another time. Jeez. Wilbur. He’s got me doing it now.

  After dinner, Emily pored through the local newspapers for the region. There was no mention of a swimming fatality on the Silverthread, or an incident in the forest. With a sigh, she set the papers aside. Just another day in the kill or be killed world of the forest werewolves. How disassociated mankind really was from nature. If we realized there was a bigger, better predator out there that didn’t need guns and knives and higher technology to kill, we’d napalm the entire forest. Anything to stay on top of the food chain.

  Disgruntled with the lack of information, she decided to go for an evening stroll.

  “You taking Wilbur with you?” Norm yelled from his La-Z-Boy before the television.