“We will have plenty of time for all that,” Holle promised.
Fenris
“Leave them,” Fenris ordered. He brushed wolf hair off his neck, then wiped blood from his chin. Anger surged through him again and he gave Don Wellington one final shove, knocking his chair over. The chair made a soft, wet slapping sound when it hit the blood-soaked carpet. The dead man came to rest with the appearance of cradling his head in his lap. “Get the equipment and let’s go.”
While Walter Hess and the others disconnected wires and stowed camera and microphone, Fenris turned to face the pictures over the mantle. He recognized Shara in a dress with thin pink and light blue straps, her hair feathered in a style that had died long ago. Next to that was another picture, a snapshot, in which she didn’t look much older. In the smaller picture she stood next to a shiny convertible car.
She’d surprised him. He’d expected Shara to crack before he even killed her mother. He knew she’d killed the connection before he’d finished killing her father. Fenris reached up and touched the bigger picture of Shara. “We’re not finished,” he promised. For a moment he felt his age, the heavy burden of his deeds, coupled with memories of his own parents. He thought of little Jenny, left in the care of Kelley Stone back in California. He knew he was becoming too attached to the sad little girl, but she reminded him too much of himself.
“Fenris?” Walter Hess’s voice was hesitant, wary. “We should go. We’re ready.”
Fenris turned to face him. The equipment was gone. Only the two bodies remained to show they’d been here. And some hair on the floor. Wolf hair.
“You need to clean up,” Hess said, making motions toward his chin and chest.
“No. Let’s go.”
“It’s a neighborhood, Fenris,” Hess dared argue. “It’ll be suspicious enough when strangers walk out of the house. You can’t go out there covered in blood. We don’t need cops. Clean up. Please.”
Fenris glared at him, started to argue, then went to the kitchen. He wet a towel and wiped angrily at the blood on his face. He tore off his shirt and put on another that Hess handed to him.
“Her father’s?” he asked. Hess nodded. Fenris grunted, then pulled on the bright red T-shirt. “Let’s go.”
The men piled into a rented black Suburban and left the house in Enid, Oklahoma. Hess drove. Fenris sat in the front passenger seat.
“How’re we going to find the kid?” Hess asked.
Fenris shot him a look that said there would be no conversation. They drove. Fenris inhaled deeply. They would find Shara and her whelp. Somebody would talk, would sell her out, or they’d make a mistake and give themselves away. It would happen. Today’s failure was an annoyance, but not the reason for his current mood.
Killing her parents should have meant nothing. They were just people. He’d killed dozens. Hundreds, maybe. But something hadn’t been right. The whole thing had been too familiar, ringing an old chord he didn’t like to think about.
“I saw my mother and father killed,” he said.
“You told me,” Hess said. “A war between Russia and Switzerland.”
“Sweden,” Fenris corrected. “I am Swedish.”
“Sorry.”
He ignored Hess’s worried glance at him. “I thought the mere threat would crack that little girl. She is stronger than I expected. I expected her to cry and beg for mercy.”
He had. Hidden in the brush and fallen leaves of many autumns he’d watched his father fall to the stabbing, hacking swords of half a dozen men while a score of others dragged his mother to the ground, tearing at her coarse, simple dress. Her screams ripped the late morning air, digging into his young ears, throbbing and scarring him forever. Yes, he had cried. He would have given up anything to save his mother and father, but he’d known, even then, that there was nothing he could have offered and, even if there had been, it would not have changed the fates of his parents.
Perhaps Shara knew that, too.
Shara
“I’m not thrilled with the situation,” Thomas announced. “I would rather be on the move, not tied to one place, trying to defend it.”
“I know,” Shara said. She sat on the edge of their bed, brushing her black hair, but watching Thomas, who sat behind her, watching her in the mirror. He slid closer and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. She smiled. “We can’t go running all over the world, though. Not now. Holle was right about that.”
“I know, lass, I know,” Thomas whispered into her scalp as one hand slid around and cupped the slight curve of her belly. “You’re denning up.”
“Nesting sounds better. But yes,” she said. “Even if that wasn’t the case, though, I think we’re better staying put and being prepared. We can’t ever really be ready to make a stand if we’re always running.”
“Probably,” Thomas conceded, again. “The wolf in me just gets restless.”
“It’s almost your time.”
“True. But there’s more. We don’t know everyone here. I was always an outsider and so were you. Did Ulrik know everyone who is here now? We cannot know. That makes me nervous.”
She’d let the hairbrush drop to her lap in a limp hand as Thomas nuzzled her neck. Now she patted her thigh with impatiently with the brush. “I know,” she agreed. “How are they finding us? If they can find us, why can’t Fenris? Or does he know where we are?”
Thomas took the brush away from her and sat on his heels behind her. With long, gentle strokes, he brushed her hair. “It is a calling, I suppose,” he said. “Only some are receptive to it. Those who are pure in heart?”
Shara snorted. “Even they may become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms and the moon is clear and bright,” she said. “What if someone is drawn here, then lets Fenris know where we are? Or that Ulrik is dead? Are we ready?”
“We have done everything we can do,” Thomas assured her. “The woods are so filled with traps even I fear to prowl them when my cycle comes upon me. We have stations on the mountain behind us, on both sides, watching through rifle scopes. We have weapons your United States government would arrest us for owning.”
“But is it enough?”
Thomas sighed and stopped brushing. He lay the brush aside and wrapped both arms around her, letting his hands rest on her abdomen, hoping to feel some movement within. “Shara, are you familiar with the word wyrd?” He spelled it for her. She shook her head. “It is an old word that means fate.”
“The Weird Sisters, like in Shakespeare?”
“Yes. The witches in Macbeth,” Thomas said. “Before Christians brought the idea of free will to England most people there and in Wales, Ireland, and other countries believed in wyrd. The gods had a plan for you and you could not escape your destiny.”
She leaned her head back against his shoulder. Thomas felt her breathing and, he thought, he felt some of the tension draining out of her. “What you’re saying is that if Fenris is meant to find us, he will. If not, he won’t. And I should stop worrying about it.”
“Essentially, yes,” he agreed. “You have other things to worry about.” He rubbed her stomach and she placed one of her hands over his. Her touch was soft and cool. “Let us worry about the defenses. Let us do the spying. Everyone reports to you now. You are the Mother. Think of yourself as the queen of an anthill. She doesn’t have to work or worry. Everyone waits on her.”
Shara laughed just a little and it was the sweetest sound Thomas had heard in many days. “Yeah, she just lies in a hole and breeds.”
“It sounds like a good life to me,” he said.
“Because you’re a male chauvinist pig,” Shara teased. She twisted her head around to look at him and she was smiling. He kissed her. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “And I appreciate it. I’ll try to relax.”
“Good. Now, about that breeding …” He kissed her again. She responded, but he sensed her hesitation. He broke the kiss, pressed his forehead against hers so that their eyes were filled with one another. “What is it, lo
ve?”
“Joey,” she said. “Any word? It was days ago they changed vehicles.”
“No. Nothing.” He filled his hands with her hair. “I swear to you that you’ll know as soon as anything is learned.”
“It isn’t … because of Chris,” she said nervously. “I don’t mean …”
“I am not jealous,” Thomas promised. “You are the Mother, and you will choose as you choose.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I would choose you. After what I saw in Chris … I don’t know. It was something I’d never seen. He hated me. Chris, now, well, he’s a strategic threat that has to be dealt with because he knows where we are. I’m worried about Joey, though. I miss him.”
“I know, love. I know.” Thomas whispered. “Kiona is a wicked bitch, but she will protect Joey. Whatever she agreed to with Fenris, it would seem she has broken her promise.”
“Which means he’ll be hunting her, too. He doesn’t seem like someone who’ll forgive and forget.”
Thomas grinned. “No. That isn’t his style.”
“You just missed it,” Shara said.
“What?”
“The baby kicked.”
Thomas laughed. “No doubt he waited until my hand wasn’t on your belly. Ornery cuss.”
“Or maybe he’s trying to kick you away so you won’t do what your eyes are telling me you’re going to do,” Shara said.
“Tomorrow night I will be a wolf. Tonight I am a man and you are my woman and I would have something sweet to remember while I hunt jackrabbits in the Mexican wasteland.” He pushed her down on the bed and kissed her hard while she giggled and put her soft little hands on his neck and head, holding him closer.
Chris
Chris opened his eyes but his vision was blurry. He wanted to raise a hand to rub at his face, but his arms felt incredibly heavy. Instead, he blinked his eyes a few times and was finally able to focus on what appeared to be old wooden beams supporting a corrugated tin roof above him. That wasn’t right. The cabin had a wooden roof, with wood shingles.
The air was cold, but he could hear the crackle of a fire and the sounds of metal scraping metal to his left. His head hurt and his shoulder throbbed. The pain in his shoulder reminded him of what had happened. “Bitch,” he said, but his mouth was so dry that only the “b” was audible, and it was only a faint pop of breath.
“I told you he was awake.” The voice belonged to Kiona. A moment later, Joey’s worried face loomed over Chris.
“You’re right,” Joey said, his mouth splitting in a wide grin. “He’s awake. Hi Dad!”
Chris found the strength to pull an arm out of the protective warm cocoon of his blankets and touch his son’s face. “Hi,” he mouthed, again unable to produce sound. “Drink?”
“He wants a drink,” Joey said, turning his head to look toward the sounds Kiona was making.
“Then get him one,” the Indian woman said.
Joey dashed away, then returned holding a red plastic cup of water. It took Chris three tries to sit up high enough to drink from the cup. The water was tepid, but soothed his throat and he was finally able to speak after several swallows.
“Thanks,” he said, then touched Joey’s head again. “You okay?” The boy nodded. Chris looked around him, taking in the one room of the log cabin. Kiona was bent over a fireplace, stirring something in a heavy black pot and for a moment Chris pictured her as a witch tending her cauldron of evil potions.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Kiona didn’t turn to look at him as she answered. “Bear Brake. It’s a swamp southeast of Thebes, Arkansas.”
“Another park cabin?”
“No.” She finally stood up and turned to look at him, the metal spoon held loosely in one hand, dripping some kind of broth onto the wood floor. “It’s just a swamp. This is one of the places I would come to get away. The state owns the land, but this cabin is small and hidden. No one will bother us here.”
“How long?” he asked.
“What?” Her voice and her black eyes were without patience.
“How long was I out?”
“A week. We’ve been here for three days.”
Chris swung his legs off the edge of the cot and sat up. His head swam and for a moment he knew he would vomit. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands until the sense of vertigo left him. He opened his eyes and looked up slowly. Kiona had returned to her pot. Joey stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay, Dad?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” Chris answered. He reached for Joey and helped his son slide onto his lap. He pressed his face against Joey’s neck and shoulder and held him tightly for a moment, knowing Joey was all he really had in the world now, and that Kiona would turn the boy against him if it suited her needs. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too, Dad,” Joey answered.
Outside, frogs croaked, bears scavenged for bugs and roots while small birds zipped from tree to tree and large. Long-legged birds fed from the murky water and called to one another. Night came and Chris ate his first meal in seven days, then vomited and tried to eat again. He ate less, held it down, then returned to his cot, exhausted.
What have I done? He asked himself. What deal have I made with the devil woman?
In three weeks, he noted, he would become a wolf. Like Kiona. Like Joey. Like Shara. He closed his eyes. At the table in the center of the room, Kiona and Joey read from a collection of Grimm’s fairy tales lit by a kerosene lantern.
“Are we going to get real lights?” Joey asked.
“Electricity? No. We’ll use the lantern and candles,” Kiona answered. “No one would run wires to us out here. And besides, we’re hiding. Remember?”
“From Mom?”
“And others.”
“Will we be here very long?”
“Yes,” Kiona said. “I think we may be here a long time.”
Chris slept.
Skandar
Three months after regaining his human shape at the urging of Lucas, Skandar had learned enough of the other shapeshifter’s language to communicate with him a little. Most of their conversation, however, had been about immediate needs. They had identified trees and rocks and bodies of water and men and wolves and birds and other mammals. They covered the basic verbs: walk, run, eat, sleep, and change.
Skandar had watched with fascination as Lucas shifted from man to wolf and back again and explained how it was done, though he still did not understand all the words. He did, however, understand Lucas’s insistence that Skandar change shape. At first, it was a scary prospect, considering how hard it had been to do so voluntarily the last time, but at Lucas’s gentle prodding, Skandar finally gave in and tried to change back into a wolf. And failed. He failed several times, then it happened suddenly and he panicked and stopped the change before it was complete. Lucas spoke soothingly to him and eased him through the rest of the transformation, then back again. It became easier with practice.
When Lucas became a wolf for six days at the coming of his first cycle while they were together, Skandar did not understand what had happened. He had changed, too, and they had roamed the forest together as wolves for a night and a day, but when Lucas made a bed for himself and did not return to his human shape, Skandar became agitated. He changed his shape, but Lucas did not. Skandar used his own dead language to try to make Lucas change, but the wolf only nuzzled him apologetically.
Then his own cycle had come upon him two weeks later and he had changed shape without trying and could not change back. Again Lucas comforted him and offered words Skandar still did not understand. After five days, he was able to return to his human form. This happened regularly, like the moon passing across the sky, and Lucas was able to make Skandar understand it was normal for their kind.
Now, they sat across from each other over a small campfire, eating roasted hare. Lucas was several inches taller than Skandar, but leaner, especially in the chest. His cheekbones
were high, his eyes a pale blue, and there was a cleft in his chin. He spoke through his nose in a way that often confused Skandar. Lucas had said he was French, but he now spoke to Skandar in German, as they had learned that Skandar was able to recognize an occasional word here and there.
“You have no mark,” Lucas said. Skandar shook his head to show he did not understand. Lucas twisted his torso and pointed at the Othala rune burned onto his left shoulder blade. Then he pointed at Skandar and shook his head.
Skandar tried to look at his own back. He honestly didn’t know if he had the mark Lucas had pointed out on himself. He lifted empty hands in an effort to show his friend he didn’t know.
“Who made you?” Lucas asked. “How did you become a werewolf?”
Skandar puzzled over the words, putting them together. He understood most of them. Lucas repeated them, and then he understood. Skandar tried to explain, using as many of the words Lucas had taught him as he could, but mixing them with his own language, and often forgetting words for the meaning he wanted to convey. However, one word struck a chord with Lucas.
“Nadia?” he repeated.
Skandar nodded vigorously and began again to explain the raid his village had made on the tribe of the witch and the curse she’d brought down on them because of it. Lucas listened intently, but obviously did not understand much of what he said.
“Are you an Old One?” Lucas asked.
“No understand,” Skandar answered.
Lucas thought it over, then jumped up and grabbed Skandar by the arm and led him to an oak sapling. He pointed at the tree. “Young,” he said, then pointed to himself. “Young.” He nodded, and Skandar nodded, too. He then pointed to a mature oak. “Old,” he said, then pointed to Skandar. “Old?” he asked.
Skandar nodded. “Old,” he agreed. “Me old.”
“You remember Nadia?” Lucas paused, puckered his lips, then asked, “Nadia cursed you? You were not bitten by a werewolf?”
“Nadia curse me. Me and people. Change into wolves and bears.”
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