Wolf at the Door

by TA Moore

  “What?” the soldier shuffled forward warily. He poked the prophet with his gun, which made the slumped man moan and drop his gun from weak fingers.

  Nick cursed through his fingers but obeyed Gregor’s glare to stay where he was.

  The soldier kicked the gun out of the way and reached out to grab the prophet’s shoulder to push him upright. His fingers dug into the mottled gray fabric, and the prophet came up with a thin, over-sharpened knife in his hand.

  From where Nick crouched, he couldn’t see him cut the soldier’s throat, just the flash of the knife at as it started the stroke under one ear and then ended it at the other, but he could imagine the damage. A short, oblique cut that sliced neatly through the carotid artery, split the windpipe and larynx open, and maybe nicked the jugular on the way out.

  Neat. Professional. Unusual in presentation, since a forward slice to the throat was usually in a fight and the victim would have more hesitation marks and defensive injuries. Most killers couldn’t open a throat as deftly as the prophet had.

  Gran had always been good at getting the meat off the bone too, Nick remembered queasily.

  The prophet pulled the soldier close for a second and then pushed him roughly away. The man staggered back a couple of steps and turned, one hand clutched to his throat as though that would be enough to pinch it closed. He stumbled toward the other quad bike and almost reached it, but his legs gave way in time to leave him draped over the black plastic seat. Blood dripped down the side and puddled on the dredged-up snow beneath the tires.

  “You could have helped,” the prophet said, voice pitched to carry. He wiped the knife on his sleeve and made it disappear again. “I don’t relish murdering my own.”

  Gregor finally stood up. He shook his head to shed the snow and brushed it off his sleeves. The branches of the stunted trees cracked and rattled as he stepped through them. Nick hesitated but then scrambled to his feet to follow. He crunched uncertainly through the snow.

  “So, you’d rather watch someone else do it for you, Ewan?” Gregor asked as he stepped over the dead man. His lip curled up in a sneer. “No wonder you were sent for a prophet.”

  Ewan—Grandfather. Nick tried the word out for size in his head and flinched away from it. Ewan pushed his hood back. His face underneath was spare and bony, freckles stark against pale skin. A thick woolen hat covered his head, and his eyebrows were thin and gingery over deep-set eyes.

  “You make it sound like I had no choice. I choose to be a prophet rather than an animal, a man and not the Old Man’s beast.” His attention shifted to Nick and his face… tried to soften, but it couldn’t quite find the lines. “Nicholas. Are you okay?”

  It was Nick’s cue to answer, but he didn’t. His tongue just refused to move. He felt like he had the first time he drove up to a foster home in a social worker’s Ford Fiesta, the crisp-bag-and-old-receipt detritus of a nonstop day under his feet, and hadn’t wanted to move. As though life might miss him if he just stayed still enough.

  No encounter with Nick’s family had ever left him better off than before.

  Gregor stepped closer to him—not quite in front of him, but near enough that Nick could feel the comforting threat that coiled under Gregor’s skin. Despite the situation, he felt warmth slip down his spine as he remembered that lean, dangerous body bent over his.

  It was hardly the time, but he stole courage from the heat as he lifted his chin and swallowed.

  “Who?” he asked. “Me or the bird?”

  The prophet stared intently at him. His eyes, intent behind a sandy fringe of lashes, flickered over Nick’s face—lingered on his eyes, flicked away from the beak of a nose—as though he thought he might recognize him.

  “I couldn’t see it when you were asleep,” Ewan said. “I can now. You look like your mother.”

  The unexpectedness of that made Nick flinch. It made sense, he supposed. To have grandparents, they had to have had something to do with his parents. At least one of them.

  “Don’t. I—” He stopped and took a deep breath. The lungful of cold air steadied him, even as the ice-cream headache jabbed deeper between his eyes. “We’re not here for a family reunion. That’s the last thing I need.”

  “Whatever they’ve told you,” Ewan said, his voice low and earnest. Something in the rhythms of it tried to lull Nick into trust while, at the same time, it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up in unease. “You can’t trust it. You can’t trust any of them.”

  “I trust Gregor,” Nick said.

  Ewan’s lip curled, and he lifted his hand from his side to show the blood that coated his palm and fingers.

  “Never trust a wolf.”

  The sight of blood made Nick grimace and look away. It wasn’t as bad as if he had to touch it, but fresh blood always made him dizzy. His training tugged at his fingers—muscle memory of sliced-open flesh and neatly lined stitches—but he curled them into his palms.

  “You’ll heal,” he said.

  “Of this, yes,” Ewan said. “But some hurts wolves do never knit back together.”

  “Enough,” Gregor said. This time he stepped in front of Nick, as if muscle and shoulders could stop words. “I didn’t shoot you. The humans did, after you dosed them with your sacrificial wine. What do you want with them, Prophet? What does Rose have planned?”

  Ewan pushed himself up off the quad. Blood stained the metal, frost roses of pink around the edges as it froze.

  “What we should have all planned for,” he said grimly as he stepped forward. Blood ran down his leg and stained the snow behind him. The wind staggered him as he walked, his legs unsteady under him. He might heal, but it wouldn’t be quick. “What we were made to do—save the world from the teeth of wolves.”

  Nick laughed, the ghost of the god harsh around the edges of the sound. The reaction made Ewan rock back on his heels in surprise. He had the gall to look affronted, and then his face settled into grim lines.

  “Save the world,” he repeated, “and finally get justice against the people who killed my daughter. Your mother. This is the winter of the wolves, and they will not see spring again. You have my word on it.”

  Out in the storm, something tried to howl. It sounded wet, like it tore at the throat as it got out. Gregor turned his head toward it, and something answered, the garbled shriek more distant but close enough to make Nick’s shoulders twitch with the instinct to fly.

  This time he felt something under his brain push at a shape that wasn’t him. Feathers and scaled toes, the weight of a carved, bone beak where his nose was. The shadow of the crow fluttered over his vision and then was gone again.

  “That’s why you killed the humans,” Gregor said. “No witnesses.”

  Ewan glanced at the dead men and looked regretful. Maybe even guilty. “They aren’t far gone enough yet. We thought military men would be more susceptible to Loki’s brew, but it takes longer. The venom eats away their inhibitions, but duty is harder to erode. Maybe we should have let the politicians in, after all, but too late to change plans now.”

  “Why?” Nick demanded. He shoved Gregor out of the way and stepped forward. Decades of frustration cracked his voice as he confronted his grandfather. “What is Gran doing to do?”

  “I told you,” Ewan said. He reached up and grabbed the back of Nick’s neck, his fingers slippery and warm. There was something desperately hungry in his eyes. “Save the world. Save you.”

  “Fuck off,” Nick spat out the coarse Glasgow retort of his childhood as he pushed Ewan away. “Whatever Gran’s done, it was never for me. To me, sure. Next time you want to lie to me, run it past her first. She’ll tell you what ones she’s worn out.”

  Ewan frowned. “What do you mean? She loves you.”

  “Yeah,” Nick admitted. It would have been easier if she hadn’t. “That’s never stopped her.”

  Gregor took his arm and pulled him away.

  “We need to go,” he said. “Can you drive the bike?”

 
Nick hesitated, all that pent-up anger and pain caught in his throat like a knot. He couldn’t get past it.

  “He hasn’t told us anything,” he protested. “Nothing true, anyhow.”

  Gregor gave him a shove toward one of the quad bikes. “Not yet,” he said as he grabbed the shoulder of Ewan’s coat. “Don’t worry. This isn’t over. The prophet’s coming with us.”

  He dragged Ewan with him back to the bloodstained quad and shoved him into the saddle. Of course, Nick remembered as he grabbed the dead soldier by the shoulders, Gregor couldn’t drive. The dead weight was a familiar strain against Nick’s shoulders as he lifted the corpse off the saddle and dragged him out of the way. The dead didn’t usually bother him—he’d have picked the wrong job if they did—but the slack red slit in the man’s throat made Nick’s skin crawl.

  He thought that maybe it was some sense of guilt, that his family had done this. Then he realized that, while he couldn’t see them, he could feel the thread snakes of the potion slither dry and cold between his knuckles and the prickle-bite as they tried to hang on to him.

  The cold, he thought as he pulled away with a shudder. It wasn’t the weather for snakes. He wiped his hands on his coat and scrambled onto the saddle. The wind had already cooled the blood. It was sticky and wet under his backside.

  “Where are we going?” Nick asked as he shook his hands again and fumbled with the ignition.

  “Just follow us,” Gregor said. He took the slim knife from Ewan’s sleeve and pressed it under his ear. “Head home, Prophet. The Numitor wants to speak to you.”

  Ewan laughed. The sound scraped the blade against the side of his throat, and a drop of blood dripped down into his collar.

  “The Numitor is gone,” he said with grim, unapologetic satisfaction as he started the bike. “He’s the god’s dog now. Maybe it will teach him humility.”

  Nick hesitated, his hands clumsy as he struggled with the handle of the bike. He’d never really driven one before this winter, and only had a single, short lesson when they landed on the coast. It hadn’t been enough to make the controls second nature. Something Ewan had just said was important, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Maybe that part of his brain was blacked out along with the bird.

  “Death comes to us all,” Gregor said. “The Old Man knew that as well as anyone.”

  “He wishes,” Ewan said.

  That was it. Before Nick could chase the thread back down into his head, Ewan gunned the engine and headed down the slope toward the lake. Nick started after them and then hesitated when he heard Boyd groan. He cast a glance over to the door and realized Boyd wasn’t dead. Not quite yet. The soldier lifted his head woozily off the door and tried to pull his hands free.

  “What about him?” Nick stood up on the bike to yell after Gregor and Ewan, his hands cupped around his mouth. “He’s alive. We can’t just leave him.”

  Ahead of him Gregor looked around and yelled something back. The wind snatched the words from his lips and spun them away before Nick could catch them. It didn’t matter. He knew what Gregor would have said.

  Leave him.

  Nick exhaled, a ribbon of white steam caught around his lips, and he gave Boyd a guilty look. The prophets’ monsters had no reason to be interested in Boyd, and the prophets wanted him for… for whatever they had planned.

  He couldn’t help Boyd. Doctor or not, he had no supplies, and the monsters were on his heels. The vibration of the engine between his knees underlined the urgency. Nick still didn’t move.

  Leave him.

  That was good advice, but Nick couldn’t do it. He cursed under his breath and reached to turn the quad off.

  Something made of shadows and splinters of ice came together out of the storm and flung itself into Nick’s face. The cold sank into his bones, locked his jaw, and glazed his eyes with frost. He tried to suck in a breath to scream, but his throat was choked up with wet slush. Hard, thorn-sharp fingers dug into his ears, and a wet-mulch tongue licked at his eyes and poked up his nose.

  It smelled of graveyard dirt and death. Some dark part of Nick, lodged in the crack of his breastbone, breathed it in with delight. The dankness of it refreshed him somehow.

  LEAVE HIM.

  This time the thought shook the foundations of Nick’s brain. He cowered from the rage in it, huddled back into the corner of his own skull like a child in front of his gran’s unpredictable temper. When he pulled himself back together again, his fingers were tight around the throttle and the cottage had been left behind in the storm.

  Nick shuddered. He could still taste stale breath on his tongue, and the corners of his brain still felt stiff and unresponsive. His fingers were locked around the handles of the bike, although he couldn’t tell if it was the compulsion or the cold that stiffened his knuckles.

  Ahead, Gregor twisted around to check on him. Even through the snow, Nick could feel the concern as Gregor’s eyes fell on him. He shuddered, took a breath, and forced one hand free to lift his chilled fingers in acknowledgment.

  Whatever had happened, it was done now. Nick couldn’t go back. Alive or dead, Boyd would have to fend for himself.

  Gregor accepted Nick’s reassurance. He gestured with one hand, forward and then a sharp curve to the left. Nick didn’t know what he meant but nodded anyhow. He would follow Gregor’s lead.

  Irritation pecked at the inside of his head, and he heard the dry rustle of mantled feathers. It felt distant, muted, but a thread of tension in Nick’s stomach finally loosened at the promise something was still there.

  He didn’t know if this was the life he would have chosen, but it was what he had. It was what he needed—to survive this, to keep Gregor. Love was one thing, but nobody would trade a partner for a burden.

  Nick blinked as the world ahead blurred. He thought it was the Wild until he felt the pinch as the tear froze on his cheek. He sniffed and wiped his sleeve over his face. His tears stained the fabric with salt and blood, but now wasn’t the time to worry about that.

  Ahead of him Gregor took a sharp left up an unevenly steep hill and into a copse of trees. Nick spluttered out a curse under his breath and followed suit. The quad slid under him, tipped, and then steadied. The engine complained and spluttered as it bounced over rocks and potholes hidden under the snow.

  He caught up with Gregor and Ewan just past the tree line. They’d stopped next to an old yew tree, the bike tilted up almost sideways on the scored roots. Nick made a messy, precarious stop a few feet away but didn’t turn the ignition off. The thought of the silence that would fall once he killed the low growl of metal and petrol was daunting.

  Gregor dragged Ewan out of the saddle and over to Nick. He ignored Nick’s instinctive protest and kicked Ewan’s feet from under him to put him on his knees in the snow.

  “Keep him here,” Gregor said. He flipped the knife in his hand and held it out, blade first, to Nick. “I need to see how close they are.”

  Nick reluctantly took the knife. He supposed that technically he could use one, but it sat in his hand differently than a scalpel or a bread knife.

  “If anything happens, kill him and run,” Gregor said. He cupped his hand around the back of Nick’s neck and pulled him into a quick, rough kiss. “I’ll find you.”

  Nick smiled against Gregor’s lips. “I know.”

  Gregor rested his forehead against Nick’s and then pulled away and jogged back out of the trees. Ewan watched him go.

  “Was that a promise or a threat?” Ewan asked. He spat in the snow, phlegm streaked with red, to make his opinion clear.

  “He finds me, or I find him,” Nick said. He finally turned off the bike. The sudden silence was as oppressive as he’d imagined. “That’s how it works.”

  “Not this time,” Ewan said. “You can’t outrun them. Once Rose sets them on your trail, they won’t eat or drink or stop until she’s satisfied. They are tenacious things, her new breed.”

  “And that’s what you call salvation?” Nick absently
worked his shoulder, the memory of his gran’s wolf-mawed bite still locked into the tendons and marrow long after the bird had healed him. “I’d rather freeze.”

  Ewan gave him a hard look. “Easy to say, boy,” he said. “You don’t know what you’d pick until the choice is put to you. Death is a cold place, and you’re there a long time.”

  “I know,” Nick said. His voice was empty, the trauma stripped out of it. “Better than you. Better than those soldiers you’re marinating for her, softening up the meat. Even if she gives them a choice, they don’t know what it’s going to do to them.”

  “You misjudge her gift,” Ewan argued. “The ugliness of it now will pass, like a fever, and they’ll—”

  “They’ll still be monsters,” Nick said. “And that’s what she wants. Trust me, I don’t misjudge my gran.”

  “Rose is a visionary,” Ewan said. “She’s made hard choices, but only the ones she had to make.”

  “Like killing me?” Nick asked. “Or killing my mother, your daughter—”

  “Don’t believe the wolves,” Ewan insisted. “She’d never do that. Whatever the Numitor’s boy told you your whole life, Rose was looking for you. She’d never hurt you.”

  Nick snorted and yanked down the zipper of his coat. The cold nipped at him, but he ignored it as he dragged the sweat-stained T-shirt up. His shoulder had healed when he died and came back, but the older scars lingered—the one across his stomach, stretched tight and rucked where it had stretched with his growth. Ewan glanced at it and then flinched away, but he couldn’t stop his gaze being drawn back to the betraying scar.

  “She hurt me plenty,” Nick said. “Gran tortured me as kid, terrorized me, and then, when she found me again… she killed me.”

  Ewan shook his head. “You’re wrong. You… she didn’t have time to explain. You never knew her.”

  “Or maybe you didn’t, or didn’t want to,” Nick said. He swung his leg off the saddle, his hips sore from the long, cold ride. Even if he didn’t remember half of it. He let his shirt drop and zipped up his jacket again. Whatever warmth had been in it was gone, and he shivered. “Rose Blake raised me until social services had to step in and stop her. I know how she likes her whiskey, and she never slept more than three hours a night. I know she whipped me for pissing the bed even though she terrified me with the monsters that were under it. I love her, even though I know there’s nothing there to hang it on, and I know when she’s lying, Ewan. And when she’s not.”