“So much like the old days,” Ulrik whispered. “Before industry. Before neon lights held the starlight at bay over the cities. When the forests were virgins and wolves roamed freely.”
When Gar was alive.
“Gar.”
The name of his father still brought tears to his eyes. Gar had not borne the Othala rune. By the law of the Pack he was an outcast. A rogue.
A cull.
“The Pack is gathering. There can be no culls among us.”
* * *
The boy called Magwa sat in his home with his father. Orange firelight played over his features, making his dark eyes look like pits burned into his face. He watched his father as the older man fidgeted with a European knife. The steel blade glittered in the firelight.
“Take off your shirt, son,” Gar said. Magwa obeyed.“I am going to do something to you that will hurt.”
Magwa sensed that it was something his father did not look forward to. He was a kind man, disciplining his son less than most men in the village. The boy nodded.
“You are a brave boy. No, you are a brave man, my son. A brave man. I have taught you all I know about this Gift we possess. But there is one thing more I must do. In the Old World there are others of our kind.”
“Others?” Magwa asked. “Other skin-changers?”
“Yes.” Gar nodded slowly. “Some will come here one day, to the New World, as I did. They will know you for your Gift. They will sense it. They will look for something when they know you are like them.”
The boy gave his father a questioning look.
“A mark,” Gar answered. “It is a rune. They call it Othala. It means you are kin to them. You have inherited your Gift and been trained properly. If you do not have it, they may kill you.”
“Do you have this mark, Father?”
“No.” Gar shook his head slowly. “I do not. I have told you how I came to receive the Gift we share. How the wolf attacked me and bit me, then returned to the forest, never to be seen again. Remember?”
Magwa nodded.
“I never had a teacher to show me the ways of the werewolf,” Gar said. “What I know, I have learned on my own. I have never spoken to another of our kind.”
“Are there others?” Magwa asked. “Besides us and the one who bit you?”
“Oh yes. There are many, I think, though I do not know the number. After my first time as the wolf, after my first cycle, when it hurt so badly to change my shape, I went seeking the one who had made me, but he was nowhere to be found.
“Soon, I had to leave. I came to fear my neighbors. They would have killed me had they known what I became. The gypsy I told you about before. She understood the beast. It was she who explained to me about the Othala rune.
“Because the one who made me did not teach me how to be a wolf, I am an outcast among our kind,” Gar said, his voice hushed, as if the fire or the looming night would carry his secret to his enemies. “Others of our kind might kill me simply because I do not bear the rune. The rune is a mark of inheritance. Of family. It signifies kinship with the Pack.”
“The Pack?” Magwa asked.
“Yes. The Pack. The others of our kind. The gypsy told me the Pack is not organized. They do not know their own strength. But she said there is an old prophecy that says someday the Pack will be united. When that happens, the skin-changers who do not have the rune will be destroyed.”
“Will they kill you?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“But you will give me this mark?”
“Yes. It will protect you.”
“And then I can give it to you?”
“No,” Gar said, smiling but shaking his head. “No. I was not given the mark by the one who gave me the Gift and so I will never wear it.”
“But they will kill you.”
Gar was quiet for a long moment, refusing to look at the young man across from him. At last he said, “No. I do not think that will be my destiny.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Gar asked, “Are you ready, my son?”
Magwa nodded. “Yes, Father.”
Gar put the blade of the knife into the fire. He then rose and went to the wash bowl in another corner of the hut, returning with a cloth soaked in water. He took the knife from the fire and stepped behind his son. “This will hurt, but I know you will be a brave man and not flinch away. I will work quickly.”
The boy gasped when the burning steel touched his flesh. He smelled the cooked meat of his left shoulder, felt the burn, but not the cut of the blade. In less than a minute his father was finished and pressing the cool wet cloth against the wound. After a moment, that was taken away. The pain remained, but it had lessened.
“This is the shape I have drawn on your flesh,” Gar said. With the point of the knife he marked the packed dirt floor of the hut with the shape of two diagonal lines that crossed at the center, capped by a pointed roof. “This is the Othala rune,” he said.
“Othala rune,” Magwa repeated.
* * *
“Othala rune,” Ulrik said. “The mark of kinship with the Pack. Yes, I must first give young Joey our mark. I must make him understand that the Pack is his family. We can protect him and teach him in the ways of the wolf. The way his mother would not do.”
If only Shara would join us …
“She will not,” Ulrik argued with himself. “Especially not now. She will never forgive us for taking her son from her like this.”
She is the Mother of the Pack. She must join us.
Ulrik sighed, looked at the half-moon in his rear-view mirror and continued driving south, letting his thoughts soar with Wagner’s strings.
Chris
It took several seconds for the buzzing noise to register in Chris Woodman’s mind. He sat in a recliner in his living room, a single sheet of notebook paper in his lap, two day’s stubble on his cheeks. He had scarcely moved from the chair since returning home to find his wife and son gone yesterday afternoon. Only a cryptic note explained their absence.
Slowly, the buzzing sound got his attention. He blinked once, twice, then let his eyes move to the note again.
Chris,
I made a mistake in measuring Joey’s serum. It was not effective. I have gone into the forest to look for him.
Love,
Shara
Chris blinked twice more. She used our real names. She left a document with our real names.
Something was buzzing in his head. He raised a hand and pressed at his forehead, but that did not stop the sound. Finally, something deep within recognized the buzzing.
The gate. Somebody is at the gate.
Chris looked up, his eyes moving to the front door of the ranch home. He pushed himself from the chair and went to the control room off the entrance hall. Black-and-white television monitors showed the fence line all around his secured home. At the gate he found a very angry looking sheriff’s deputy pressing the “Call” button as he stood beside his cruiser. Another deputy sat inside the car. Chris pressed a button and spoke into a microphone.
“Yes?”
The sound of his voice seemed to make the cop even angrier. “David Stewart?” he barked.
“Yes. That’s me,” Chris answered, the false name still grating on his nerves. “Can I help you, officer?”
The deputy hesitated and Chris guessed the cop hadn’t realized he was being watched by surveillance cameras. He looked around quickly, then said, “I need to speak to you, sir. It’s about your son.”
Chris almost blurted out, “Did you find him,” but stopped himself. Instead he asked, “What about him?”
“I would like to speak to you face-to-face,” the cop answered.
Chris took a deep breath, then pushed another button. He watched on the monitor as the heavy steel gates parted to admit the law. The policeman got into his car and drove through the opening. Chris blinked a couple of times, then closed the gate behind the cruiser.
“Shit. This can’t be good,” he muttered.
He went out the front door and stood on the porch to wait for the deputies to arrive.
The cruiser drove slowly up the gravel drive and stopped in front of the porch. Chris watched as the two uniformed men got out of the car, adjusting their hats as they stood and surveyed him from behind their mirrored sunglasses. They were both tall men, white, the driver more muscular than the passenger, with a square jaw. They approached the porch, their boots crunching the snow and gravel.
“Mr. Stewart?” the driver asked.
“Yes.” Chris nodded.
“I’m Deputy Moore. This is Deputy Lamberson.”
Chris nodded again. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you aware that your son bit a classmate at school a couple of days ago?” Moore asked.
“I understood there was some kind of argument, or something. Kid stuff.”
“Jennifer Brown is in the hospital, Mr. Stewart. The wound inflicted by your son is infected. She’s very ill.”
“In … fected?” Chris asked. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“The district attorney is contemplating pressing charges, Mr. Stewart,” Lamberson said. “Assault charges.”
“Assault … ? But, he’s only eight years old,” Chris said.
“Is your son sick, Mr. Stewart?” Moore asked.
Chris slowly shook his head, the vision of Shara’s hasty note high in his mind. “No. He isn’t sick.”
“Could we see the boy?” Lamberson asked.
Chris continued shaking his head. “No. He’s not here. He’s … he’s with his mother.”
“When do you expect them back?”
“I’m not sure. Soon, I hope.”
“Mr. Stewart, this could be a very serious matter,” Moore said, stepping onto the porch and removing his hat. He was a good six inches taller than Chris. “The DA may not press charges if you bring your son to the hospital for testing. The doctors are having a hard time determining the type of infection, but they have no doubt it was caused by the bite of your son.
“I have kids of my own, Mr. Stewart.” The deputy paused, rotated his hat in his hands for a moment, then continued. “I know they get a little rough sometimes. I have no doubt your son meant no serious harm. But I have to remind you that if charges are brought, it won’t be your son who is ultimately held responsible.”
“I understand,” Chris said. “As soon as they get back. As soon as they get back, we’ll come into town and go to the hospital. He isn’t sick, though.”
The massive cop nodded his head and reached into his shirt pocket. He withdrew a silver case and took a business card from it. He extended the card toward Chris. “Please give me a call at that number when you’re ready to leave here and come into town. Me or another officer will meet you at the hospital.”
“Okay.” Chris took the card but didn’t look at it yet. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Stewart?”
“What?”
“You haven’t lived in Montana very long.”
“Oh. No. Well, a little over eight years now.”
“You still talk like a Southerner. Where are you from?”
“North Texas,” Chris lied. “Wichita Falls.”
Deputy Moore nodded. “Please don’t make me come back out here for you, Mr. Stewart. If I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours, we’ll have to come back with a warrant. A judge has already said she’ll issue it.”
“I understand,” Chris said.
“Thank you.” The deputy nodded farewell, replaced his hat, and walked back to the car. He and his partner got in and drove back toward the gate.
Chris went inside and watched the cruiser pull up to the closed gate on his monitor screens. He opened the gate for them and watched them leave his property, sure they were wondering why he’d closed the gate after they entered. He pushed the button that closed the gate again once the cruiser was through, then sat heavily in a nearby chair, staring blankly at the business card he held in his hand.
“Shara … where the hell are you?”
The phone rang shrilly in answer, startling Chris. He jerked in his chair, then scrambled to grab the phone on the desk beside him. “Hello?”
“Mr. Woodman, I believe?” The voice was deep and rich, accented with a European flavor Chris couldn’t place.
“Yes?”
“It’s good to know you are not going to make me use the false name you gave to the policemen who just left.”
Chris was silent for a moment. “Who the fuck is this?”
“I am most often called Fenris, though I’ve had many names over these past centuries, Mr. Woodman.”
Fenris … the wolf of Ragnorak. Norse mythology. Killer of Odin, chief of the gods. Chris put an elbow on the desk and covered his eyes with his hands. I read too much. “What do you want?” he asked.
“You know what I want.”
Chris didn’t answer.
“Where is your son, Mr. Woodman? Where is Joey?”
“None of your business.”
“We know he was joined by Kiona Brokentooth in the woods not far from your home. We know she remained with your son until his cycle ended. After that, they went to the airport. Where are they going, Mr. Woodman?”
“Airport? What are you saying?” Chris asked, his head snapping up. “He’s with who?”
“Ah. You did not know this. Tell me, Mr. Woodman, where is your wife? Where is the Mother of the Pack? We saw her leave your fortress, but she was not with the boy and the Indian when they boarded the airplane.”
“What airplane? What Indian? Tell me what the hell is going on! Where was the airplane going?”
“That hardly matters, Mr. Woodman. Ulrik would not have them fly directly to him.”
“Ulrik? Is that bastard in on this?”
“You are not friends with Josef Ulrik?”
“I don’t want to give you any more information,” Chris said.
“No?”
“No. Hell no.”
“Do you see me on your camera, Mr. Woodman?”
Chris looked up, scanned the bank of TV monitors and stopped when he saw motion in one. The camera faced north, toward a dense belt of trees about twenty-five yards from the fence surrounding the house. A tall, graceful man in a long black coat stepped from the shadows of the woods and walked slowly but confidently toward the camera, a cellular phone pressed to one ear with a gloved hand. He had long gray hair, almost silver, that flowed over his shoulders. He stopped about ten feet from the camera.
“Do you see me, Mr. Woodman?”
“I see you,” Chris answered.
The man turned at the waist and motioned back toward the woods. Chris watched as two more people – a man and a woman – emerged from the shadows. The man clutched a child in his arms. Chris noted that it was a little girl, blonde hair, about Joey’s age.
“Do you recognize your son’s little friend and first victim, Mr. Woodman?”
“Jenny … ?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing with her?”
“We rescued her from the hospital. I’m afraid the rescue was a messy affair. There was other evidence that had to be destroyed. And there were those who did not want it destroyed. And her parents were adamant we not take the girl. Unfortunately for them.”
“You … you killed them?”
“Your police friends likely will be coming back to see you very soon, Mr. Woodman.”
Chris swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the girl. “What are you going to do with her?”
“Take her with us, of course.”
“You … you’re not on Ulrik’s side in this? You’re … on the side that wants to kill Shara and Joey?”
“I believe the Pack has existed very well for many, many centuries and can continue to do so without benefit of your wife and her offspring.”
“Go away. Get away from here,” Chris said. His eyes flicked quickly from monitor to monitor, looking for more intruders.
“I have learned that you know nothing, Mr. Woodman,” Fenris said. “I believe that. It is a pity your wife did not trust you with her plans. But, perhaps not. If I did not believe you – if I believed you were refusing my courteous request – this high electric fence of yours would not protect you.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Chris hissed.
“Yes. I think it is time to go.” The three werewolves outside the wall looked to the west, then the two younger ones turned and hurried back toward the woods. “The sirens are approaching, Mr. Woodman. I suspect the law will not be as kind as they were only moments ago.”
Chris watched the man move the phone from his ear and press a button to end the call. Fenris turned and followed his companions back to the shadows of the trees.
“Shit!” Chris dropped the phone, hit the button to open the gate and ran to the front door. He grabbed his coat and a 9mm pistol from the closet of the foyer, then ran to his pickup, leaving the door open behind him. He was around a bend in the road less than a half-mile from his driveway when he heard the sirens behind him. It would only take a few minutes for the cops to ascertain he’d left in a big hurry, then they would be after him.
Chris pressed the accelerator harder and glanced at the gun in the seat beside him.
They’ll hang my ass if they catch me with that.
“Shara, where are you?” he whispered. “Why did you make plans without me? What’s going on?”
Ulrik
Ulrik lay awake on the lumpy bed of a cheap Mexican motel. He stared at the ceiling, the room dimly lit by the glare of a single street light and the passing headlights of trucks on the highway. The sound of Mexican blues came from a crowded bar next to the motel; the guitar sounded rich and melodic while the singer sounded as though he scoured his throat with sandpaper before taking up the microphone. Ulrik ignored it, though, his mind in another country, in another era.
* * *
“You are healed?” Gar asked. He was sitting cross-legged outside the door of their hut. He peered up at his tall son, shielding his eyes from the morning sun with a hand to his brow.
Ulrik Page 5
