by Laura Bickle
“Figuring that he might as well put the body to use, Lascaris used a separation process to pull Jack’s body to pieces, then re-formed him. This was not a satisfactory experiment, as Lascaris had been hoping to create a unicorn by embedding a piece of horn in Jack’s flesh. Lascaris was a little optimistic about his abilities, and his imagination frequently outstripped his reach.
“Unfortunately, a piece of stag antler from the altercation remained in Jack’s neck, contaminating the experiment. It became the touchstone for the creature he became: the Jack of Harts. He broke free of Lascaris’s basement and vanished into the night.
“The Jack of Harts remembers only gold and revenge. Since he is more spirit than flesh, he has lived a long time, haunting his old land. Once a decade or so, some huntsman or wanderer will describe seeing him, a man with antlers, wearing the skull of a stag, in the forest at night. These stories are usually chalked up to too much drink and imagination.
“The ones who have seen him from a distance are lucky. The ones who get close are not heard of again. Their bodies are left behind. If there is any gold or precious metal on them, it’s stripped. There was a hunter found thirty years ago, dead, with his ring finger removed. I guessed that it might be Jack’s work, for that reason.
“There’s a story that went around about fifty years ago about a pond south of Fawn Creek. The myth is that if one throws a piece of gold into the pond, Jack will appear and either grant a wish or kill the querant.” Gabe leaned back, seeming lost in thought. Petra wondered if he was trying to recall exactly how many years it had been.
“So . . . the Jack of Harts has been killing wolves and granting wishes like a demented tooth fairy, all this time?” Petra’s brow wrinkled, digesting the tale.
“In the beginning, he was quite prolific. With the wolves, anyway. Carcasses would be found stretched over skeletons of twigs, as you describe. But there have been many years in which the park had few or no wolves, and I assumed that he slept. He seems to be awake now . . . and I wonder if that has something to do with wolves crossing into his territory. For a long time there were none there, as men hunted them nearly to extinction in this area.”
“Not just any wolves.” Maria stirred her coffee. “Mike said that this is the Nine Stars pack.”
Petra planted her chin in her hand. “These wolves . . . Mike said they were shy, that the scientists had a hard time tagging them.”
“More than shy. The Nine Stars pack were in the area long before Temperance was a town. Tribal legend says that they used to be men and women—a lost tribe of Navajo Skinwalkers from down south, who were just passing through. They changed into wolves to survive a harsh winter, and forgot how to change back.”
“They changed into wolves?”
“There’s a whole Navajo mythology about Skinwalkers. The Arapaho don’t have an analogous legend. But they are supposed to be terrifying creatures—able to change into any shape they choose and steal power from their victims. Needless to say, I told Mike to stay away.”
“Did he listen to you?”
“Of course not.”
“They don’t seem to be doing well up against the Jack of Harts,” Petra said, sipping her coffee. It still disturbed her that Skinflint Jack was hunting these creatures, even if they were remnants of a terrible legend.
Maria spread her hands out on the table. “If they believe that they’re wolves, maybe they can’t fight back. Or maybe they’re just ordinary wolves. I don’t know for certain.”
“Hard to know whether the Locus thinks the wolf is magical itself . . . or whether something magical killed it, and the residue remains on it,” Gabe said.
“I told my dad about the wolf,” Petra said. “He suggested it might be some kind of separation operation.”
Gabe seemed to mull it over. “Could be, but it’s crude as hell. And if they are Skinwalkers, then Jack may have signed on for more than he bargained for.”
Maria poured more cream in her coffee. “So, are you two off to chase Skinflint Jack into the wilderness?”
“Actually . . .” Petra grimaced. “It’s more of an issue of being chased by the law at the moment.”
“Oh, no.” Maria’s spoon stilled in her coffee, ringing against the porcelain rim. “What happened?”
Petra took a deep breath, her heart hammering. “I’m afraid that I have to ask you for a favor.”
Maria took a sip of her coffee. “This is gonna be good.”
The Stag was hunting them.
Nine knew it; so did the others. The pack had fled to a valley shielded from the west wind, in an effort to protect the pups and retreat to safer ground. The pups were slowing, and many of the adults were injured. Nine limped on her front left leg, hopping through the snow. In ideal circumstances, she’d fold herself into a warm den to recover. They all would. Out here in the snowfield, however, they were too open, too easy to stalk. The afternoon was bright with sun reflecting off the snow, creating a glare with margins that danced at the edge of her vision. It played tricks on her, she knew.
Ghost had set about finding shelter, someplace to hide from the Stag. Ghost and Falling Stone had cleared the snow from the entrance at a shallow cave at the foot of the mountain. Once they’d opened the cave, it smelled like bear, and the pack recoiled. There was no way to tell how deeply a bear was hibernating, and such a thing was not worth the risk.
They continued onward down the valley. Nine glanced back, thinking she spied antlers in the trees, and whimpered an alarm. The ragtag pack picked up the pace, moving to find a more easily defensible area. There was no digging a new hiding place in this frozen soil.
They paused only to snipe at a den of voles and to find water. Most of the water in this area was frozen solid, as the creeks were shallow. The pack needed water more than it needed food or shelter or sleep; Nine felt her muscles aching and the headache of a bone-deep dehydration stealing through her. She tried to take mouthfuls of snow, but it was very little, and very cold.
At last: a possibility. A small pond appeared in a soft valley, reflecting the late afternoon sun in the sky. It was slushy, not completely frozen over yet. It must be deep, with roots far enough into the earth to be able to hold the warmth of the sun overnight. Or it might have some of the disgusting metallic tang of the brightly colored springwater, and be terrible to drink. Nine could smell nothing human about it, and none of the stink of sulfur, from this distance. Four large stones ringed the perimeter of the pond, each one as large as a wolf.
Ghost trotted down the slope to investigate, barking at the rest of the pack to stay behind in a stand of trees. Nine followed, close on his heels, eager to steal a taste before the pack nosed her out of the way. Her paws crunched in the frozen-over slush, and she peered into the water. She dipped her head to take a drink.
But it smelled wrong. All wrong. Her lips drew back immediately, and a growl shook through her chest. She peered down at her reflection in the pond. There was a curious yellow bloom below the ice that churned like smoke. She thought she saw the outline of an antler below, and she whined.
This place. It had to belong to the Stag.
Nine whimpered and backed away. Ghost followed, and they trotted back to the pack. His eyes were narrowed. She was certain he’d seen what she had seen.
Ghost shuffled forward. Nine could see that he was exhausted, but they had to get away . . . get away from that. They were deep in the Stag’s territory and they had to escape before he returned.
A sound echoed across the snow plain. An engine, a machine belonging to humans. This could be good for the wolves, or it could be very bad.
A snow machine roared across the landscape. There was a man riding it, a gun strapped to the back. Nine’s nose twitched. She wanted nothing to do with men and their guns and machines. She followed Ghost along the path they’d made in the snow to investigate the pond, slinking low to avoid the interloper. Cold snow scraped her belly, clinging to her fur in clumps.
Ghost turned around the
corner of a drift. Nine ran into his backside and nearly fell down.
It was the Stag. He rose up from the snow, shedding white in a sheet from his antlers. He’d been waiting for them just under the crust of snow.
Ghost growled, backing away, his tail lashing. Nine howled for the rest of the pack, panicked.
But the rest of the pack didn’t come.
Instead, the engine roared closer. Nine looked right and left, not sure which direction to turn. The man on the snow machine roared toward them in the glare of snow, skimming over the snow faster than any wolf.
“Leave them alone!”
There was the crack of a rifle, a warning shot. Nine jerked in panic. Flattening her ears, she turned tail and ran for the safety of the rest of the pack beyond the tree line, Ghost behind her. Adrenaline overcame exhaustion, and she raced as fast as she could with pain lancing through her wounded leg.
She’d made it nearly to the tree line of pine and stripped aspen when she dared look back. The man on the snow machine had dismounted, was aiming a gun at the Stag. He was shouting something she didn’t understand. Another shot rang out.
Then the Stag took two steps toward him and engulfed him in darkness.
“You guys weren’t shitting me.”
Maria stuffed her hands in her coat pockets, chortling at Gabe and Petra. The three of them stood on the steps of a courthouse four counties distant from Temperance, but still within the state of Wyoming. Petra figured it would be less likely that Gabe’s wanted poster would be plastered all over the place a hundred miles away from Temperance.
“I don’t think so?” Petra was still feeling oddly weird about the whole thing. She opened the glass door and shuffled down the marble-tiled hallway stained with dried slush. There was a sign perched in a window that said licensing, and Petra stepped uneasily up to the clerk at the long counter.
“Um, hi. Is this the place where one would get a marriage license?”
The young woman behind the counter nodded, her ponytail bobbing. “I can also set you up with a car title, hunting or fishing license.”
“Just the marriage license, I think.”
“Okay. Please fill out these forms, sign here and here. Your witness signs here. And I’ll need drivers’ licenses and birth certificates for the two of you.”
Now, that part would be interesting. Petra dug her license and certificate out of her wallet, and snuck a peek at Gabe. He said that he had papers, but she was curious to see what they’d say. They clearly wouldn’t be the originals—there had to be some degree of forgery involved, somewhere along the way.
But these looked really good. He had a birth certificate from Massachusetts and a well-worn Wyoming driver’s license. Maybe when he’d been in good with the Rutherfords, Sal had seen to it that they all looked like legal workers.
It was then that Petra realized she didn’t know Gabe’s last name. Not for certain. She’d scanned his wanted poster but had no idea if any of that info was correct. She glanced surreptitiously at the license as he handed it over to the clerk.
Gabriel Manget.
She’d have to ask him later if that was really his birth name. And if he was really born in Massachusetts. Later. That was a topic for a time when she wasn’t vaguely freaked about getting a marriage license with a guy whose last name she didn’t know.
Gabe pulled thirty dollars from his wallet and folded the birth certificate and license back into it. Petra signed the forms with a pen chained to the desk and passed them back to Gabriel to sign.
The clerk got out her notary stamp, stamped the paperwork, and slid the license across the counter to Gabe. “You have one year to get hitched in the state of Wyoming. Your marriage must be solemnized by a registered member of the clergy, a judge, justice of the peace, or court commissioner, who will file the paperwork with us.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup.” The clerk smiled. “Congrats, you guys.”
It felt pretty surreal. They headed out of the empty hallway to the lobby and the Bronco parked at a meter out front.
“So,” Maria said. “You guys got an officiant? I could ask one of the tribal elders, but I’m not sure if they can marry people who aren’t of the tribe.”
“I think we have that covered,” Petra said, popping open the door. “I think.”
If this was the right thing, then why was her heart hammering a thousand miles an hour? She climbed in and closed the door. Sig wormed out of the blanket he’d been napping in while they took care of business. He wriggled into the backseat to cuddle with Maria.
“So . . . is there something you guys aren’t telling me?”
Petra swapped glances with Gabe. She hadn’t told Maria exactly why he was wanted by the law. Or about her illness. She didn’t want to draw any more people in to get hurt. Eventually, Petra would tell her everything. Eventually. But not today.
“Yes. A lot.”
“I figured. Do I want to know?”
“Noooo. Trust me.”
She cranked the ignition and put the Bronco into gear. They saw a McDonald’s on the way out of town and she ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes all around. Sig dearly loved cheeseburgers, and dismantled his on the floorboards to eat the meat first, like a kid with an Oreo cookie. Maria slurped her Coke noisily in the back as they tooled down the road.
“You know,” Maria said, “you guys have a whole year to pull the trigger on that thing. You both have been through a lot. Maybe a cooling off period—Oh my God.” She stopped slurping on her straw and swallowed some pop down the wrong pipe, coughing so hard that Petra nearly pulled over.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Maria croaked.
“No!” Petra and Gabe said it in unison.
“Okay, then. Far be it from me to stand in the way of true love. Or insurance benefits.”
Or something like that. Petra glanced at Gabe’s profile. She loved him. She really did. Not the way that she had loved anyone else. She loved him in a very strange way. It wasn’t the roar of lust, though he sure damn well curled her toes in bed. This was something else. Something quieter. She trusted him entirely, in a kind of still and placid way that she couldn’t see changing.
It was more than most people had. Maybe that was enough.
Hours later, when the sun had dipped below the horizon, the Bronco pulled into the parking lot of the Phoenix Village Nursing Home. Visiting hours were still on—her dad should have finished his dinner of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, canned peas, and yellow gravy. The stars had begun to prickle through the violet canopy of night, and everything seemed muffled, still, and perfectly quiet. White Christmas lights were wound around the trees at the entrance, shining amid icicles clinging to the gutters. She’d come to Temperance to find her missing father, and he’d wound up here, in this tucked-away place of artificial cheer. Early onset Alzheimer’s, they’d said. Took some of the sting about the how and why he’d left Petra and her mother. But not all of it.
She hopped out of the Bronco and clipped a leash on Sig. He muttered his complaints, but didn’t struggle too much. She was hoping she could pass him off as a dog, that he would behave that well.
Gabe came around to the driver’s side of the Bronco and offered her his arm. “Ready?”
She looked up at the stars, at Orion overhead.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
They turned toward the freshly shoveled nursing home walk and went inside.
The nurse at the front desk smiled at Petra and nodded as they came in, averting her eyes to Sig. His toenails clicked on the recently waxed floor tiles, and Petra could see him turning his nose up at the lingering meat-loaf smell. Maria slipped by an arrangement of white amaryllises that someone had put in a wall niche and snagged one. She handed it to Petra.
“Humor me,” she said.
Petra took it. She paused before her dad’s door and knocked. “Dad?”
“Come in.”
Her dad was sitting in his wheelchair by the dark wind
ow, looking a little befuddled. A splash of gravy stained his sweatshirt. A man in a black suit stood beside him. The man looked barely over twenty-one. Maybe a priest in training somewhere?
“I’m Pastor Cowan,” the man said, extending his hand.
“I’m Petra Dee. This is Gabriel Manget, and my friend Maria Yellowrose.” She made all the introductions. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“You had good timing. I just finished up on last rites for Mrs. Moore in Room 242.” The young man grinned. “I haven’t done a wedding before.”
“That’s . . . um . . . great.”
“But I know how to do it,” he said, recovering quickly. “There are instruction sheets on where to mail the stuff and all.”
“Great.” Her heart was still pounding. She glanced at her father, who was in the middle of a stare-down with Gabe. Petra reminded herself that her dad had left her and her mother before she’d started dating, and that he’d never had the opportunity to participate in the ridiculous paternal rite of boyfriend hazing.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dee.” Gabe extended his hand.
Her father took it and shook it. “Good evening. And this must be . . . Sig.”
Sig was snooting all over the floor and had paused beside her father’s wheelchair. He got up on his hind legs and slurped at her father’s face, which sent the old man into paroxysms of giggles. So much for the paternal rite of sternness.
“You have the license?” The pastor was clearly in the mood to get going, glancing at the time on his cell phone.
“Yes.” Gabe handed it over. Petra expected to be fidgety, her heart hammering. But she felt peaceful, serene. Her heart slowed, and she felt the way she did when she was taking a nap in sunshine. Warm.
“Short and sweet, you said on the phone when we talked earlier?”
“Please.”
Petra held the amaryllis stem in one hand and Gabe’s hand in the other. The thick stem of the flower felt like a cold piece of celery, but Gabe’s hand was unexpectedly warm.
