The Last Wolf

by Maria Vale

  We head out into the blue-gray gloaming. John is the last out, as always, and pulls the door closed behind him. I’m surprised to find Ti sitting on a log in his single work boot and sweatpants. One leg is cut high over the purple-wrapped cast. He has a thick anorak and a crutch.

  Everyone takes a seat, watching. The sun is no longer visible beyond the peaks, but its rays color the clouds on the horizon a golden peach. A light dusting of mist rises from Home Pond into the newly frigid air. The grass is already a little crunchy under my bare feet, and I know tomorrow it will be covered with hoarfrost.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Wanted to help you with your leg. You helped with mine, so it’s the least I can do.”

  I probably shouldn’t let him fix my leg, but maybe just this one time. To have one Iron Moon when I can keep up with everyone else, when I can maybe even squeeze my way in and get something better than bones and hide at one of the bigger kills. I sit, leaning against his good leg, because if the Iron Moon takes you when you’re standing, you will topple over like a rotten beech in a gale.

  The sun has almost set, and there are a few final murmurs of Eadig wáþ, which is still always said in the Old Tongue, because “Happy Hunting” doesn’t begin to capture the full sense of wáþ, of wandering and journeying and, yes, hunting.

  The inevitable reply, “And be yourself not hunted,” has just one meaning.

  The only other noises are from the pups, who run everywhere barking and yipping and scrabbling over the adults who will join in the running and leaping and hunting. John always brings a lung back from one of the bigger hunts for the pups to fight over.

  “Don’t they have to be in skin before the Iron Moon?” Ti asks, pointing with his chin toward the yipping tangle of fluff.

  “The Iron Moon makes us wilder, but since there is nothing wilder than a wolf pup, they’re kind of immune. It’s only when they start taming that they are in danger. After the Year of First Shoes.”

  John and Evie sit near the front, watching the gold being sucked out of the sky.

  He lays her down gently and curls his body around hers.

  “What happened to John?” Ti points at the Alpha’s shredded skin.

  But it’s too late. The gold is gone, and my heart is already beating faster, my blood is running hotter, my face is distorting, and as the roof of my mouth lengthens and narrows, I have said my last word of the Iron Moon.

  Maybe Ti said something else, but I can’t tell through the ocean rumble in my changing ears. I feel his hands on my hip and my leg.

  Through one unfocused eye, I see his achingly handsome face bent over me. I try to turn away, because I love him now, and as much as I hate myself for this petty vanity, I don’t want him to see this horrifying midway point.

  Of course I love him. Only a wolf who loved him would break his leg with a maul so he could stay human.

  He pulls hard, and I yelp, my leg twisting, the tendon being pushed back, and he lets go, and my leg goes numb. When I’ve finished phasing, I stand and shake it out.

  I finish first and run around the writhing Pack, showing off the speed and agility that they have always had but still feels new to me. A pup jumps on me, because I’m a competent adult, damn it, and it’s time to get this hunt cracking. I tear around the Great Hall, a whole covey of fur balls following me.

  When John finishes his change, he shakes his magnificent coat of tan and dark gray, then throws back his head. The whole pack howls to the world, announcing the untamed joy of being us.

  On his two legs, Ti towers among the roiling mass of giant wolves. He turns to go, but before he does, I jump up, my front paws on his chest. I lean my head against him, then twirl around and bound after the Pack.

  Kayla noses my hip and cocks her head to the side. I leap into the air. See? I show her. See?

  Mostly we range wide in small groups or in pairs of mates or bedfellows or shielders, returning only occasionally to Home Pond. When the pups tire out and can’t keep up, someone has to guide them back home so the coyotes won’t pick them off. Since it’s my turn to watch Ti, I drag the deer lung back to the Great Hall, and the pups come trundling after.

  That night when I take up my position by the Boathouse, Ti is reading in bed, looking so human and lonely. I watch him intently from the deep black of the overcast Adirondack night. Sitting absolutely still on the dock, I follow the shape of his thighs under the warm fleece blankets up to his hard, ropy stomach and the folds of dark skin leading to his thick, naked chest. His long, strong fingers swipe across the touch screen.

  Finally, he puts down the tablet but doesn’t turn off the light. Instead, he kicks off the covers with his good leg. Did I imagine he wore pajamas just because I’m not there? Did I imagine he wouldn’t have an erection, just because I’m not there? He slides his hand slowly across his chest. He pinches his nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Not hard, but firmly and slowly and deliberately. The other hand slides further down. He lifts his good knee. I can see everything as his hand gently cups the twinned weights. He knows how much I like to feel them heavy in my hand. He tightens his fingers, tugging until the skin is smooth and taut around them and his erection leaps slightly from his torso. He makes a fist in front and pushes in until he crowns.

  Somehow, without me noticing, my front legs straightened, and I shuffled closer to the glass, every muscle tight.

  Slowly, he pulls back out. He doesn’t move his hand much. It’s all in the hips, in the languorous rocking of those perfect thighs and that fighter’s torso, pushing into and pulling out of that hand, which simply cannot appreciate the honor done to it.

  He props his other arm under his head, his obsidian-and-gold eyes focused straight into mine. His mouth opens, his eyes grow hazy, and great pale streaks slash across his chest.

  I stumble back, whining, and Ti smiles.

  Drawing far back into the dark, I wait for my replacement.

  It starts to snow. Not heavily, just the light, small flakes that gild leaves for a day or two before melting. It does nothing to mute the light scritching of claws. I lay my muzzle to the new wolf, handing over responsibility, then I break into a run.

  Higher up, the snow churns around me and the downed leaves swirl behind me and I run with my whole legs, faster than snow or wind.

  Past the High Pines and the Krummholz, I keep going until I hit the incised rock of the peaks. Up here, the wind cuts through even the thickening undercoat, but the chill feels so good on my skin.

  Exposed and without much prey, the Pack doesn’t bother much with the peaks, but from here, the Homelands spread out soft and muted. Leaves look cottony; needles are frilled. In the overcast night, the dusky clouds of tomorrow’s snow settle in the valleys like gray ribbons.

  I throw back my head and howl.

  “I am.”

  From scattered hills and deep forests, wolves answer.

  “We are.”

  * * *

  On the final day of the Iron Moon, we gather back near the Great Hall. Except for the occasional bunny snack, no one is hunting much now, though Tara came across a beaver who was too slow and too stupid to get out of her way. She wasn’t hungry, but she did her duty to the beaver gene pool and brought the still-warm body back for the pups.

  Mostly, now that everyone’s eaten their fill, they fight. This is the most boring part of the Iron Moon. Challenges are mounted and met. Echelons are rearranged. Fucking rights are gained and lost. Ti finds me at the palisade and puts his hand in my ruff. He’s no longer using his crutch.

  I butt him irritably and stalk off. I can’t masturbate thankyouverymuch and am in an extremely pissy mood.

  He tries to keep up but then steps in something. “Oh hell,” he says, jumping back on one foot. “What is that?”

  When the sunlight finally emerges on the third day, we go through the whol
e process in reverse. There are always a few stragglers out in the woods, but when it starts to get cold, nobody wants to be too far from home in their bare skin.

  I pull my clothes back on and brush my teeth quickly but don’t even bother to comb the burrs out of my hair before I rush to find Ti, who is already running across the lawn. “I heal quickly,” he says before I splutter out anything about his missing cast. He scoops me up, wrapping his arms around me, and twirls back toward the Boathouse.

  “Three things,” I whisper to him. “About John’s back—it’s an Alpha thing. What you stepped in was beaver intestine. And what the hell were you reading?”

  “The New Yorker,” he says and kicks open the door.

  Chapter 22

  Evie’s been in John’s office for a long time. I saw her, her rigid back toward the doorway, when I brought out one of the wood trenchers filled with breads for the Iron Moon Table. When I squeeze my way past my Packmates bringing out jams and butter and cream and cheeses and muffins and fruits and eggs, she’s still in there. John catches my eye and closes the door.

  “Eat up,” I tell Ti. “Once John starts in with Pack business, we’ll have to leave.”

  It seems like only a few minutes have passed when John stands. That’s enough to bring all the extraneous clattering and chatting to an end.

  “In our laws are we protected,” he says solemnly.

  “And in lawlessness are we destroyed,” I murmur. I grab one more cranberry pecan roll and signal Ti that it’s time for us to leave.

  “Silver? Tiberius? Not quite yet.” John turns to the rest of the Pack. “Let’s deal with the status of our table guests first. Are there any for-speakers?”

  In the Old Tongue, a fore-spreca, a for-speaker, is an advocate. There’s a lot of curious looking around, but no one is willing to speak on our behalf. John nods at me, signaling that we should leave. We have two more Iron Moons to go, so I’m not surprised that no one jumps right in.

  Ti is still straddling the bench, trying to extricate his legs.

  “I’m not sure I have the right to address the Pack as for-speaker?” says a reedy, uncertain voice.

  Tara’s eyes turn quickly to John, who gives an almost imperceptible nod.

  “The Pack acknowledges Charles Bjorksson,” she says.

  I hadn’t seen Charlie since the Slitung. I don’t spend much time in the Clearing during any Iron Moon, but this time, I avoided it altogether. I didn’t want to see the coyotes eating Ronan’s remains, and I dreaded finding Charlie there, still chasing his tail.

  This Iron Moon took a lot out of him, and when he stands, he supports himself against the table.

  “I am ashamed to come before you. I can only imagine what you think of me. I failed to do what needed to be done once. I can’t fail again. Everyone knows Quicksilver Nilsdottir. Most of us remember her parents as great Alphas. Most, but not all. The younger echelons don’t. My son didn’t. I was honored when I learned that their daughter would be my son’s schildere, but he felt she was… He felt her… He resented her.

  “I’m not a very good speaker, so I think I may be making a mess of this, but what I mean is that Quicksilver didn’t owe Ronan anything, not as a mate, not as a bedfellow. Not even as Pack. But when I… When I failed to take First Blood, to do this final service for my son, she took that on herself as a kindness to him, to me, and to the Pack. It was an act of worth. At least, I think it was.”

  He lowers himself to the bench and then stands back up. “That’s it,” he adds lamely. “That’s all I wanted to say.” Then he sits.

  John leans back and whispers something to Tara, who strides quickly toward his office.

  A few moments later, Evie comes out. Okay, now this is why we’ve seen so little of John’s mate in the past few weeks. She’s pregnant, and the entire room erupts in cheers.

  Evie and John have been mates for what must be 360 moons, but there is something about our genetics, our chromosomes constantly in transition between our two selves, that makes it very hard for us to get pregnant and even harder for us to stay pregnant. Because so much can go wrong and usually does, pregnancy is hidden as long as possible, but Evie can’t anymore. She is entering the last and hardest moon of her pregnancy and will need the help of the entire Pack.

  Everyone shouts “Anhydig hama!” the Old Tongue blessing meaning something between Resolute Birthing! and Stalwart Lying-In!

  Evie pulls out the chair next to John, but before she sits, her mate whispers to her. She remains standing, her body tense.

  With a sigh, John asks if there are any wiþer-spreca. Against-speakers.

  Evie asks leave to speak and then tells the pups to go. “Juveniles too,” she says when a few of the older ones stop, unsure if this means them.

  Tara signals to Marco, who opens the ties on two small cloth bags and starts to walk between the tables distributing the pebbles—one dark, one light—for each wolf. These are what the Pack will use to indicate which of the two speakers was most convincing. This is how the Pack will vote on our application to join the Pack.

  “Quicksilver,” Evie says in her still slightly accented voice, “if I could, I would treat your Pack claim separately. But by law, I cannot, and my objections to the Shifter”—she stares at him, her fingers splayed on the table—“are simply too strong.”

  As Marco comes to our table, Ti watches Gran Jean receive a smooth pebble from each bag. He glances at my tightly folded hands and does nothing.

  “I wanted this to be a time for focusing on the future,” Evie continues, “not for dwelling on the past, but I am the only one here who knows what you really are.”

  Her hard eyes bore into Ti.

  “It is amazing…all these years later…what that smell means. It was two oceans and nearly six hundred moons ago, but I still recognize it. And you still smell like steel, Shifter. Just like the Shifters who overran my poor pack in my eightieth moon, looking for treasure we didn’t have. Steel was in the guns they used to shoot every male and female and pup, except for the little one whose scent they missed because she was cowering in the cesspit.

  “It was in the knives they used to skin them. It was in their laughter when they poked at my Pack’s flayed bodies and joked because they were not human underneath, just naked dogs.” Her voice breaks, and the last words come out in a hoarse whisper. “It was in the shillings they made selling the skins of my Pack. The only treasure they ever found.”

  She stares out the window, her jaw clamped so tightly that I think her teeth must shatter. John waves to Tara, who collects the Thing from the mantelpiece. The Thing is what we call the deep box with a hole in the top big enough to accommodate even the largest fist, so that when the stone is dropped, no one can see whether it is dark or light.

  Evie’s story has been whispered among the Pack, but this was the first time I have heard it directly from her mouth. This is not going to go well for us.

  But we have two more moons to prove ourselves.

  The bench bends a little under Ti as he sits back and pulls himself upright. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at the floor. Then he strides over to the Thing in Tara’s hands.

  “I know I am only a guest here and that this vote is for Pack, but I must say something.” One hand is tightly fisted by his side. “Until I was old enough to live on my own, I spent every day listening to the whispers of my father’s people. The Shifters who hated me, who called me a dog and son of a bitch because I was half Pack.

  “Then I came here and became half Shifter.”

  He holds up a dark pebble, the one that Gran Jean didn’t know she was missing, and shows it between thumb and forefinger for the entire Pack to see. “I don’t want to go through that here. Silver, you don’t deserve to have your fate tied to mine. But I would rather be alone than live with that loneliness again.”

  He drops the pebble in
to the empty wooden box, and with that dull knock, Tiberius votes against himself.

  * * *

  As soon as the Iron Moon Table is over, Pack crisscross the three short stairs that lead to the Meeting House, carrying things in and carrying things out. Each time snow is tracked in on boots or paws, shovels scrape and brooms sweep, so that the wood is clean and no one will slip and the slush is kept outside.

  Except for two tables and a few chairs, all the usual furniture of the Meeting House has been piled into the tiny room in the back. Everything is being scrubbed, from the top of the rough-hewn beams to the hearth of the stone fireplace under the wood-burning stove.

  Ti carries the heavy canvas bag loaded with blackout curtains we will hang.

  Once everything else is done, the floors are scrubbed and a thick, muffling carpet put down that was cleaned and stored after the last lying-in. Four strong Pack move a big bed under the middle beam. Hooks there support the lights that Evie will control from her bed.

  On one side is a chair and a bed for her mate. On the other, every conceivable piece of medical equipment.

  Food and drink flow in until the pantry and the little refrigerator are stocked with everything Evie likes best.

  The backup generators are double-checked.

  Sara flies down the few steps, car keys in hand. “I’m getting bagels from Myer’s. Anything else you can think she might need from Burlington?”

  “Seems kind of over the top,” Ti says, watching Sara’s retreating back.

  “Well, what do Shifters do for a lying-in?”

  A chair is brought in for Evie’s attending physician.

  “Ti? What do Shifters do?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he mumbles. “I was the last live birth.”

  A new pillow top is brought in to make sure she will be comfortable.

  “Don’t say anything,” he says.

  “Did I say anything?”