Nine of Stars

by Laura Bickle

  The ice cracked. He jammed his bloody fingers into the fissure and ripped it open, spattering the pristine white with red. He made a void of about the size of a bowling ball, got his arm and shoulder through, as the structure creaked and groaned. His shoulder split in a blinding pain as he forced it, like breaking down a door.

  Finally, he stumbled out, into a drift of snow up to his knees, howling. He collapsed to the snow, gasping and bleeding.

  “Goddamn it. Goddamn it,” he kept saying, over and over again, stupidly, riding the bright edge of that anger.

  Dawn had begun to lighten the horizon. Anna floated above the snow, her arms wrapped around her elbows. She made no tracks, her toes not brushing the cold surface.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, and she looked afraid.

  He began to laugh. A ghost—a ghost was calling him fucking crazy.

  He’d show her.

  He climbed to his feet, staggered to the snowmobile, a lump with handlebars clearing the topmost drift. Summoning that white rage, he scooped the snow away from the machine, his breath burning in the back of his throat. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, hard enough that he thought his chest might explode of a heart attack.

  But he slammed his battered hands into the snow, over and over, until he cleared a ski. In pure wrath, he slammed his shoulder against the jammed rear track. The snowmobile shook, the track shivering loose from the ground.

  The machine came free, sliding from the snow and causing him to stumble. Snarling, he grasped at the handlebars, determined not to let it defy him. He swung his leg over the seat and cranked the engine to life, turning back to Anna. A feeling of invincibility surged through him, pounding through his lungs and his skull.

  “Are you coming?” he snarled.

  She looked down at the ground with an expression of unfathomable sadness. She faded away, like dry ice in a stiff wind.

  “Go back to hell, then. I’ll do this alone.”

  Leaving the cracked-open shell of his shelter behind him, he struck off into the frozen wasteland, into the burning white unknown.

  Chapter 16

  The Pack

  The Locus looked behind them, like Lot’s wife, for miles.

  Gabe had begun to despair that it would ever turn away from Skinflint Jack’s cabin. There had been incredible magical gravity there, and the Locus was behaving like a compass held too close to a magnet. Perhaps their disruption of the cabin, the opening of the ossuary, had let the power leak out over the land. He scraped frozen blood from the Locus and added fresh from a slice at the edge of his hand every mile. If he was honest with himself, he was unaccustomed to seeing his blood this way. As a Hanged Man, it looked red in ordinary sunlight, but glowed in shadow. Now, it was simply red. He was rewarded for his efforts as a droplet finally, reluctantly, turned away from the cabin to the north.

  Sun burned through the tatters of the clouds, lighting the desolate land before them. The plain at the foot of the mountains had begun to break up in pockets of pine forest and rills of uneven ground as they descended into a shallow valley. They were forced to travel more slowly, winding through trees and sliding over frozen creek beds, avoiding clumps of underbrush hidden by a skin of snow that could hang up the snowmobile. The snowmobile was already slow and heavy with three passengers and all the gear they could cram onto it.

  “We should stop here,” he suggested, at a spot where frozen creek met forest. This place was shielded from the wind, and perhaps they could take a few minutes to consult a map and eat something.

  Sig dismounted immediately and began nosing in the packs. Petra dumped some dog kibble out in a dish for Sig, while the coyote made a face. Gabe slipped him some beef jerky when Petra turned away to unfold a map.

  “The creek is here,” she said, tracing a spidery vein with a gloved hand.

  He saw that she’d marked the location of the cabin and traced out their route with times. He didn’t blame her for not fully trusting that the Locus might suddenly fall silent and leave them stranded.

  “And the mountain my dad mentioned is here.” She circled a triangle with her pencil. She looked north and squinted. “It’s still too far away to see with the haze, but maybe . . .” She dug into her pack for some binoculars. “There it is.”

  She passed them to Gabe. “Doesn’t look like anything much is going on there,” he said. Through the binoculars, he spied an eagle’s shadow on the snow of the sloped peak and the shapes of elk. But nothing out of the ordinary.

  “I’ll take that as a good thing, though—”

  She was interrupted by Sig’s growling. The coyote had strayed away from the snowmobiles, pressing his nose to the ground. His hackles had risen and his ears were perked forward.

  “Sig, what is it?” Petra approached and knelt beside him. Her right hand reached for her sidearm.

  Gabe plucked the rifle from the rack on the snowmobile and scanned the forest’s edge with the sight. Slowly, he approached Sig and Petra.

  “Wolf tracks,” he muttered. He brushed the toe of his boot in the snow before Sig, who slithered in front of him and peed on the tracks.

  “How recent?”

  “Pretty fresh. Since the snow settled, and before the wind’s had a chance to soften them.”

  Something moved in Gabe’s peripheral vision, and he immediately drew his rifle to his shoulder.

  A grey shape was moving between the trees, light as smoke. It was a wolf. She was thin, her golden eyes bright in her rough coat.

  Gabe froze. A wolf would not attack a human, especially not one by itself. This one looked stringy and hungry, though, and she had zeroed in on what she wanted.

  She ducked behind the snowmobile, slinking low, her tail brushing the snow.

  Sig continued to growl, so loud he practically vibrated. Petra had wound her fingers in his collar, but he strained forward as the wolf sidled up to the dog dish and devoured his dog food in three quick gulps. She didn’t lift her eyes from Sig and the humans as she licked the dish.

  Petra was down on her hands and knees, talking to the wolf. “We know that something terrible is after you. We want to help.”

  The wolf backed away, nosing through one of the packs. She grasped a plastic bag full of jerky and turned to flee.

  Sig wriggled free of Petra’s grip and gave chase.

  “Sig!” she shouted, and took off after him, plunging into the woods.

  Gabe had no choice. Rifle in hand, drawing his sidearm from his belt, he followed.

  Nine raced into the pine trees with her prize, kicking up snow as she ran. Her jaws salivated around the treat, distracting her as she zinged right and left through the forest.

  The coyote was behind her. She had no desire to confront the coyote or the people. In another time and place she might consider the coyote prey, but . . . there was something odd about him. He reeked of the humans, but also of something else that she couldn’t readily identify with her heart thumping and feet skimming over the landscape.

  She just wanted to escape, to catch up to the pack with the badly needed food. It wasn’t much, but it would stop the loud belly growling among the pups. She would be a hero, she knew. This would elevate her status, and she thrilled to imagine it.

  She plunged through the woods, keening around the plastic in her mouth. She could see the wolves just ahead on a ridge. They turned at her sounds of distress and began to race down the slope to meet her. Her heart soared to see them, knowing they had not left her behind.

  The coyote howled behind her.

  Ghost cocked his head quizzically. Nine was allowing herself to be chased by . . . prey? A flicker of a smile crossed his mouth, and his tongue lolled.

  She turned, skidding in the snow, with the wolves above her and the coyote running flat-out behind her. The sack of jerky swung in her mouth, and she regarded the smaller canine with narrowed eyes. The tables had turned. She had a wall of wolves at her back. Even if they found her ridiculous, they would stand behind her.r />
  At first she thought the coyote was angry because she’d stolen his food. He looked well-fed enough. But there was something about him . . . something shimmery and otherworldly.

  The coyote had slowed to a stop, lifting his head, scenting the air and huffing.

  She cocked her head. The wolves surged down behind her in a ranging line of breathless fur, but the little coyote held his ground.

  Nine dropped the sack and stepped toward him. She lowered her head and body, instinctively falling into a nonthreatening posture as she crept to him.

  The coyote stood still, waiting for her to come, still and alert, ears up and tail swishing in the snow. He was unafraid.

  Nine’s tail was low around her ankles, ears flattened, as she extended her nose toward him. The coyote’s nose made contact with hers . . .

  . . . and she realized, with a jolt, who he was. Some bit of atavistic memory rattled loose in her feral brain, a memory from a time when she walked on two legs.

  He was Coyote. Maybe not a fully embodied Coyote, the entire god on earth poured into a fur suit. But this creature was certainly a piece of him, roaming the backcountry for his own divine amusement. He was beyond magic, beyond the pack and the humans he led.

  She remembered the tales of him from the people on two legs—how Coyote was responsible for the moon and stars in the sky, and how an offended Coyote could cause great devastation.

  Nine threw back her head and howled.

  Petra heard the howling ahead of her.

  First it was one solitary howl, then it was many. A whole pack of wolves, howling victoriously in the daylight.

  “Sig!” she screamed, running harder into the woods. Her breath burned her throat, and she was clumsy in her thick boots. He’d gone chasing after that wolf, angry about his food, and he must have run into the pack.

  Please let him be okay. Petra wasn’t given to prayer, but she hoped something, somewhere, would hear her, would keep him safe.

  She ran into a clearing, fumbling for her gun to fire a warning shot to scare them, swearing . . .

  . . . and stopped short, stunned.

  The ground was a writhing mass of yipping, grumbling wolves. They tumbled over each other, tails flickering, bellies wriggling. She realized, in shock, that they were playing.

  And in the center of them was Sig, rolling around on his back, displaying his golden belly. The bag of jerky beside him had been disemboweled and licked clean.

  “Sig?” she whispered.

  He heard her, rolling up, covered in snow. One ear turned back, and it seemed he was laughing, his tongue lolling from his mouth. He came to her, forced his head under her hand.

  “Are you okay, buddy?”

  His tail thumped on the snow. She ran her hands through his fur. No blood, no wincing. He seemed to be all right.

  She looked over his ears at the wolves, still romping in the powder. The skinny grey wolf she’d seen before watched Petra with solemn eyes.

  Petra reached into her pocket for a piece of jerky. She peeled it from its plastic backing, broke off a chunk, and threw it to the wolf. It landed about a foot away from her.

  The wolf snatched up the piece from the snow.

  Petra broke off another piece. By now, the other wolves were paying attention. They were all different sizes and colors—black, white, grey, and mottled. One of them had a radio collar on. Petra tossed another piece into the pack. She counted twelve wolves in all. The piece she offered was snatched away by the radio-collared wolf.

  She felt a thrill of fear and fascination as the wolves closed in. Sig seemed unconcerned, leaning against her thigh as she knelt. She tossed chunks of jerky to the group. They growled and nipped at each other over the treats. Soon her pockets were empty.

  She showed her empty hands to them. “No more.”

  The grey one sat down on her haunches. The others began to sniff the snow and lick the powder.

  “You’ve made friends.”

  She realized that Gabe was behind her. He must have been watching, all this time. His pistol was in his hands and he looked as puzzled as she was. The wolves didn’t seem bothered by his presence; they continued to look for tidbits in the snow.

  Petra swallowed. “Look, I know that you guys are magic.” She felt a little stupid, but she hadn’t given any thought to how she was going to communicate to the wolves when they caught up with them.

  The grey wolf watched her, seeming to listen.

  “And I know that something awful is after you. We want to help.”

  The largest wolf, a white one, seemed to observe her as well. She had no idea if they could understand her. It was highly unlikely that even if they held any piece of human Skinwalker consciousness, they would understand English. But she tried, anyway, hoping some of her intent would shine through.

  “We want to try to protect you. And capture Skinflint Jack—to get rid of him for good.”

  The white wolf looked deeply at her, so much so that she squirmed. It seemed he could see through her, past her to places she couldn’t understand.

  After a while, her ankles began to ache. She slowly stood up, trying not to make any sudden movements. The wolves didn’t react, just watched.

  “What now?” she asked Gabe.

  He shrugged. “I know ravens. I don’t know wolves.”

  Sig huffed. He stood up, stretched, and walked past them, back the way they’d come. He didn’t look back.

  After some hesitation, the white wolf followed him. Petra guessed that he was the alpha. And then the others followed.

  Feeling as if something had transpired in the great canine pile-on that she didn’t understand, she grasped Gabe’s sleeve and followed the entourage.

  Some understanding had been reached, beyond human ken. Maybe it was something among dogs. She wasn’t sure. But the wolves followed Sig back to the snowmobile. Petra found Sig’s bag of dog food and spread kibble all over the ground in a broad line. The wolves descended upon it like birds on birdseed. Sig, the smallest of the group, took his place at the end of the line. The other wolves didn’t push him out.

  “Do you think the snowmobile will freak them?” she asked.

  “I think that everything should be freaking them out . . . but it’s not.”

  Petra pushed it a few yards away from the wolves and started it up. She winced at the noise, and the wolves started. She put it in gear, idled about twenty feet away, let Gabe climb on, and whistled for Sig.

  Sig broke away from the consumed dog food line and trotted after her. He glanced over his shoulder.

  The grey wolf followed him. Then the white wolf, then the rest.

  Panic and optimism mixed in her. She was at the lead of a Pied Piper line of wolves. Holy shit.

  She grinned and set her sights for Sepulcher Mountain.

  The going was slow. She kept the pace comfortable for Sig. Still, he and the wolves were easily distracted. A group of them split off after a hare, and she was forced to stop while they plunged after it and tore it apart. But they returned, fur on their tongues. Later in the afternoon they took a try at a herd of elk, but came up empty. They were luckier with some pronghorn crossing a field. They took down a small one and devoured it on the spot.

  Petra didn’t want to watch. She waited with Gabe about a quarter mile away. But she made herself observe through her binoculars, fascinated that they seemed to make room for the tiny Sig.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t eat him,” Gabe said, matter-of-factly. “Wolves are natural predators for coyotes.”

  “They seem to like him.” Still, it made her uneasy. Her fingers kept twitching to her pistols at the sign of any aggression. She felt like the owner of a Chihuahua at a dog park full of Dobermans.

  “Maybe it’s because of what Maria said they were. The remains of Skinwalkers. They have more intelligence than ordinary wolves, and they might see him as under your protection.”

  “Maybe.” But she still didn’t trust, completely.

  That e
vening, the wolves went AWOL. As the terrain grew rougher, Petra had to be careful not to hit rocks or buried bits of rubble. Steam emanated from the north, and the wolves peeled off toward it.

  “Where are they going?” Gabe shouted.

  “I think . . .” She scanned the horizon with her binoculars in the swiftly falling light. “ . . . I think . . . they’re going for a swim.”

  The ground had split open to reveal a geothermal feature, a hot spring about the size of a decent-sized swimming pool. Cyanobacteria colored it pale orange, the color of a citrine, steaming in the evening. Heedless of the science, the wolves plunged in, shattering the shimmering surface.

  They were likely desperate for warmth, but Petra knew it could be a trap. The warmth in the water often attracted buffalo and other creatures in harsh winters, but the fumes could kill them, over a long period of time. She bit back her desire to call for Sig, who was dogpaddling in the steaming water.

  It looked like pure joy below her, the wolves nipping and swimming like dogs. A simple, magical thing that made her heart swell and her face split into a smile.

  She stopped the snowmobile at the edge of the pool, where the snow had melted on the stone. Her gaze tracked down to the water, and she yelped in glee.

  “What is it?” Gabe wanted to know.

  She got off the snowmobile and skidded down to peer at a yellowed crusty material on the rocks. “I think we have ourselves some mineral salts.” She stripped off her glove, stuck her finger to the warm material and licked her finger.

  “Well?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.

  “Tastes like salt. With a bunch of other stuff in there, like sulfur.” She made a face and grabbed a handful of snow to wash it down. “We should check to see if there’s actually much NaCl in there.”

  “How do we do that?”

  She scrambled back up to the snowmobile for her geology tools and hauled her pack down to the crystalline residue. With her chisel, she scraped away a good chunk of it. Under her hand lens, it looked like it might contain what they needed—some pieces that looked like they were cubic. To make sure, she struck an emergency flare. It wasn’t as hot as a Bunsen burner, but maybe it would give her the data she needed.