Digging the Wolf: a paranormal romance (Werewolves of Crookshollow Book 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Misty stared hard at my face. “I recognise you…” she frowned. “Yes, that’s it. You were the girl whose boyfriend died in the forest a few months ago. He fell on some rocks and got busted up real bad. I wrote a piece about it.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I remembered where I’d heard Misty’s voice. She’d hounded me over the phone for three days after Ben’s accident, until I relented and gave her a two-sentence statement. She’d spun that into a full article about my fragile emotional state. I didn’t want to talk to any more reporters about Ben, especially not now. “Yeah. That’s me. So, anyway, the site is dated to the neolithic period, which is—”

  “Why are you here? I mean, surely the forest is full of bad memories for you?”

  I shrugged. “Of course. But I can’t let Ben’s death stop me living my life and doing what I want to do. He would’ve loved knowing I was out here, digging up the past. But can we please not talk about him anymore?”

  “Oh, of course. I’m so sorry.” Misty didn’t look that sorry. She suddenly seemed keenly interested in the site and all the minutiae of dig life. She asked me a lot of questions about living in tents and what I ate and how much dirt I had to shift each day. “Is conducting a dig in an ancient cave dangerous?” Misty asked.

  “It could be. Caves carry inherent dangers like slips or falling hazards, but these caves are pretty solid. We have a strict site safe protocol, and a local forest ranger oversees us to make sure we’re adhering to guidelines. There haven’t been any accidents so far.”

  I knew her paper was famous for tabloid-style stories, so I expected this article would be more about “The Real Indiana Jones” than any kind of actual reporting about the discovery. My stomach twisted in knots when I caught the photographer snapping a picture of me. “I don’t want you to use that,” I told him.

  “Oh, he won’t.” Misty smiled. “I promise. Shall we go see the site now?”

  “Sure.” I brightened at the thought of handing them off to Ruth. “Right this way.”

  At the caves I left them in Ruth’s hands and went back to the camp. Inside the caravan, I poured myself another cup of tea and shoved two slices of bread into the toaster, willing my nerves to unwind. The memory stick Frances had given me yesterday lay on top of the counter.

  I’d barely glanced at the photographs yesterday, as I’d been preoccupied with Mum. Now, they started to play on my mind. I had a mission to complete. I hadn’t been able to even look at the paintings since I’d discovered them, so keen was Frances to keep me away from her prized discovery. But thanks to Luke, I knew a lot more about the paintings than they did.

  As I reached for the stick, I felt eyes boring into my back. I whirled around, expecting to see Misty at the doorway, her silk blouse clinging provocatively to her chest. But there was no one there.

  Odd. The gnawing sensation of being watched didn’t leave me. Was it Luke? I pushed open the door of the caravan and scanned the treeline for a beautiful grey wolf, but couldn’t see Luke anywhere. But then, he wasn’t supposed to be seen, especially not while the place was crawling with press. Was he nearby, watching me, protecting me? The thought was reassuring.

  I sat back down again, feeling much better. From the table, the USB stick stared back at me. It was the key to bringing down Frances and Ruth. And I had made a promise to myself I wasn’t going to be sidelined any longer. But still, I didn’t reach for it. Was I being vindictive because I was jealous of Ruth’s attention? Was this really the archaeologist I wanted to be, ready to publicly take down my colleagues at any cost?

  I thought about Luke’s connection to the paintings. To him, they were more than pictures on a wall – they told his family history. It occurred to me that if Luke’s grandmother had painted the murder of her family, she might have hidden other messages into the paintings – things relating to Luke’s family. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could give him some details about his history?

  That was a much more noble goal. I grinned. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look…for Luke’s sake, of course.

  I pulled Frances’s laptop towards myself, and booted it up. Gingerly I slid the USB drive into its slot, and navigated to the album. As the bright images filled the frame on the screen, my admiration for Luke’s grandmother soared. They were remarkable in their accuracy and their mimicking of ancient art. Even with four years of archaeological training and the knowledge they were fake, I was almost fooled. Only when the carbon dating samples came back from the lab would Frances get any clue the site was only a few decades old. And I had to find a clue before then, otherwise my work would count for naught.

  My toast popped. Ignoring it, I opened up the archaeological graphics software, and used the tools to import all the photographs. Next, I used the software’s “paste and stitch” tool to line up the images next to each other to create one panoramic view of both walls of the cave. I then bent the image around a convex shape to simulate the walls of the cave. This gave me a three-dimensional mockup of the site.

  I grinned as I used the mouse to navigate through my handiwork, zooming in on certain sections. Frances would be impressed. She didn’t even know how to attach images to emails, let alone make something like this.

  Looking at them in context filled me with awe. The painted section stretched for at least fifteen feet. The drawings covered every inch of the walls and unfurled across the ceiling, and a large section of wall at the end of the frieze had been smoothed clean – a future canvas, waiting to be filled, perhaps?

  I used an overlay lens to draw white dotted lines across the images, dividing the paintings into “panels” depicting separate scenes. The scenes were easy to discern, as the same pack of wolves – one adult and three cubs – appeared in most of them. The early scenes were elaborate paintings of life in the forest – the cubs playing with each other, the father wolf chasing down a hare, birds in the trees serenading a sunbathing cub. Then came the scene where the wolves transformed into humans, standing on their hind legs, their human features in various stages of appearance. A woman stood beside them, greeting them with raised hands. Luke’s grandmother. A moon rose in the distance. In another, they were among the houses of the village, at a market, perhaps haggling over the bill.

  I had to give Luke’s grandmother credit, she had done a remarkable job. The paintings were drawn in a style so close to early drawings it would be impossible to tell these from an authentic neolithic frieze. And from what I could see of the pigments used, these appeared authentic, too. The wall would certainly prove a convincing fake to anyone stumbling upon it, which may have been exactly what she’d intended.

  The last two scenes drew my attention. They were drawn with haste – the lines crooked – and were clearly unfinished. They used one colour only, the black ochre that came from soot. The wolves were drawn in outline, no colour or details added, as opposed to the other scenes, where they are drawn in hues of grey and brown and red.

  Hang on … what’s that?

  I leaned closer, examining the image in detail. In it, a crowd of humans waved flaming sticks and long spears. Their mouths were open, as though they were shouting. The one at the front wore a long garment that had been coloured in with a black scrawl. A cross hung around his neck. Robert Peyton, leading his mob of angry villagers into the forest to destroy the wolves.

  They didn’t have priests in neolithic England, but I needed something more. His outfit could be argued to be some kind of tribal costume. I continued to squint at the paintings.

  Behind the mob – drawn small and squeezed between two of the figures so it was difficult to spot – there was another robed man with a cross at his throat. In his arm he cradled a child, and in his other hand, he tore off the child’s arm, while the babe’s mouth hung open in a silent O of shock.

  Holy shit.

  Luke’s grandmother hadn’t just drawn a message to try to warn her husband and sons, she’d tried to tell the truth. The baby wasn’t killed by a wolf. It was killed by someone in the villag
e, someone wearing a cross.

  The baby was murdered by a Peyton.

  14

  Luke

  I chased the dual scent trail deep into the forest, where it crossed with those of a herd of deer and a hunting dog, and then I lost it completely. By then the scent was hours old, and it had been muddied by other animals and a hunting party and the onslaught of rain.

  Damnit. I collapsed under a tree, tucking my paws beneath me and furiously licking the mud from my coat in a vain attempt to hide my frustration. The chase had taken most of the day – the sunlight had all but faded away, blanketing the forest in a grey dusk.

  Something else had been bothering me, particularly about the wolf that had attacked Anna last night. He smelled familiar to me, as though I’d encountered him before. But I didn’t recognise him. Dad and I had met very few other wolves – that was the whole point of hiding in the Black Forest – and he definitely wasn’t one of them; the red streak down his back was distinctive, I’d never have forgotten it. So then where had I smelt him before? Déjà vu tugged at the corners of my mind, but every time I thought I grasped the recognition, it pulled back, out of my reach.

  I needed to start back towards the camp, so I could watch over Anna through the night. That wolf had sensed my mark on her. He knew she was my mate. And that meant he would probably be back to attempt to take her for his own again.

  I started back, picking my path through the trees. After a half mile I came to a small stream. I followed this down the valley, picking up the scent of a path I’d made earlier when I’d been patrolling this area. As I skirted the edge of the stream as it wound its way through the limestone bed, carving out a path through ancient rock, a powerful scent wafted across my nose.

  The red wolf from last night. He was here.

  I scanned the rocks, searching for him. My gaze settled on a tiny crevice between two jagged rocks. Two beady eyes glowed from inside, their gaze locked on mine, filled with menace.

  His scent covered the area, smeared across every rock and branch. I’d found where he’d been hiding. I set my paws wide, flattening my back and raising my tail. I pulled my lips back, revealing my teeth. His head emerged from the gloom, the red streak along his back glowing in the dwindling light. He bared his teeth at me, his jaw muscles bulging with rage.

  Werewolves communicate telepathically in their wolf form, although usually bared teeth and an aggressive stance would get the point across sufficiently. But this wolf and I had some things to discuss.

  “What are you doing here?” I growled.

  The wolf didn’t reply. Its eyes burned into mine. It growled low in its throat.

  “You don’t belong here,” I tried again. “This is my territory. My mark is all over this part of the forest. Fight me for it if you must, but you’ll lose.”

  “I’ve come for what’s mine.” His voice boomed inside my head, the force of his will so strong it almost knocked me backward. I dug my claws into the rock, and stood my ground.

  “What do you mean, what’s yours? You have no claim here.”

  “I want the caves.” He said. “I saw you bring a crowbar into the caves. You intend to destroy what is mine.”

  “You’ve been watching me?” How had I not sensed him? He must’ve been standing downwind. In all the bad weather we’d been having, it could just be possible to disguise a scent. Maybe he’d smeared his coat with mud to hide himself further.

  The wolf didn’t offer an explanation. He inclined his head. “I want the girl, too.”

  “You attacked her. She is my mate. That is an unacceptable insult.”

  “I didn’t intend to hurt her. I was only going to drag her away, but she was fighting me. She has a real wild spirit. She would make fine cubs.”

  “She’s not yours to mate with. She has already been claimed.” My whole body pulsed with anger. Who did this guy think he was?

  The wolf pulled back its lips into a smirk. “I hardly think I have to worry about you. She will choose the strongest of us as father to her cubs, and that will be me.”

  “Hardly.” He wasn’t getting his paws anywhere near Anna, not if I had anything to say about it. “I will challenge you for her if necessary, but you will lose.”

  He jumped down from the ledge, and paced in a wide circle around me, his back flattened and ears pulled back. “You’re getting in my way. This is your only warning. Remember, I know where your mate is, and you cannot be with her all the time.”

  With that, the wolf turned, and darted into the forest. I bounded after him, diving into the stream and swimming to the other side. The current dragged me downstream, and by the time I crawled up on the opposite bank, the wolf was out of sight. I put my nose to the ground, caught his trail, and bounded after him.

  My chest tightened with fear as I realised where he was going. He was heading straight back to the camp.

  Anna. I poured on speed. I had to get to her as soon as possible, before it was too late.

  For hours I pounded through the forest, my limbs screaming in protest as I drove my body to the brink of exhaustion. Three times I crossed the path of the other wolf, but I wasn’t getting any closer to him. He must have some serious speed in order to stay so far ahead of me.

  I emerged on the edge of the camp just as the moon rose above the tops of the trees. Lights were on in the caravan, but a quick peek in the window revealed only Frances was still up, poring over images of the cave paintings. I did a circuit of the camp, my nose twitching every time I caught a whiff of the wolf on the breeze. But the wolf himself stayed out of sight.

  Anna’s tent lay intact, the flap open just enough for me to crawl through. I got down on my front paws and wriggled through the gap, wiping my paws on the fly as best I could.

  “...is that you, Luke?” Anna murmured from beneath the layers of blankets. My heart soared to see her there, alive and intact, her brown hair falling over her gorgeous eyes.

  In reply, I nuzzled her face with my snout. My legs were shaking from the effort of standing. I gave up trying, and collapsed beside her on the bed.

  “You’re all wet,” she protested, but she made no move to push me away. Instead she wrapped her arms around me. Even though I was cold and exhausted, her touch gave me a new kind of strength. I nuzzled into her shoulder, breathing the scent of her deep. Anna was alive, and she was mine. That was all that mattered. No giant red-tinted wolves would change that.

  15

  Anna

  He’s here.

  Relief washed over me. I’d gone to bed early, my mind still reeling with what I’d seen in the paintings. But ever since then I’d been lying in my sleeping bag staring at the ceiling, floating between sleep and waking, my mind wandering to Luke out in the forest all alone, with that other wolf on his tail. I’d imagined him dead, fallen off a rocky ledge like Ben, dashed to pieces upon the jagged rocks below. I’d imagined having to go to the morgue to identify his body, running my fingers over his cold skin, trying to explain to the coroner why my boyfriend had a tail.

  And now here he was, soaking wet and panting hard. He looked as though he’d run a marathon to get here. He came back to me.

  “I’m so glad to see you.” I buried my face in his fur, breathing in the rich, earthy scent of him, the pure masculine power of his body. He made no move to shy away, instead placing one of his huge, powerful paws on my back. I pressed my cheek against his ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of his ragged breath.

  “Luke…I discovered something today. I can’t believe the others haven’t seen it yet – it so clearly dates the paintings to a more modern era. But I guess when you have BBC documentaries and tenure in your sight you only see what you want to see.”

  Up and down, in and out. He rested his snout against my shoulder, letting out a deep, rumbling sigh. I stroked his fur, enjoying the softness drawing through my fingers.

  “Your grandmother must have known who really killed that baby. She painted it into the images. It was a priest. He was tearing
the child to pieces, making it look as though it had been attacked by a wild animal. It was one of the Peytons. They killed the baby in order to incite the town against your family. It’s right there in the painting. Your family was completely innocent.”

  Luke’s weight pressed against me. He made no noise of movement to acknowledge what I’d just told him. I jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Luke, did you hear me? Your family is innocent. All the shame your father carried around, all the dishonour the Lowe pack suffered, it was for nothing. And one way or another, I’m going to help you prove it.”

  Luke’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell. From his snout came a loud snore.

  I sighed, cradling his huge head in my arm. “Fine. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Goodnight, my handsome wolf.”

  As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard a faint voice inside my head, a voice that was not my own. It whispered. “Goodnight, Anna. I love you.”

  16

  Luke

  Dreams assailed me in technicolour, the frenzied images of past hunts, of running with my dad from park rangers and hunters, of hiding in caves and hollowed-out trees. Always moving, always on the run from something, my father’s face always long and sad.

  Beep-beep beep-beep.

  Something shrill roused me from my dreams. I shook myself awake, glancing around for the source of the noise. Anna’s mobile phone. I batted it with my snout in a vain attempt to shut it up. One of the disadvantages of being stuck in my wolf form – no opposable thumbs.

  “Urrrgh.” Anna rolled over, throwing one arm out and clicking off her phone without even opening her eyes. I felt a flicker of shame at myself. I’d fallen asleep. I was supposed to be guarding Anna, but I’d been so exhausted from the previous night, and all the running…but Anna was OK. She was still alive. That’s all that mattered. I vowed to never let my guard down again.