by Faith Hunter
Eli held his weapon, ready to fire, the night-vision scope doing nothing to help him differentiate the two mud-covered werewolves. I caught my breath, staying low to the surface of the water, and crawled through the canal, back to shore, again, still, miraculously, holding my useless, mud-caked weapon. I fell, gasping, on the beach. The roar of the wolves made my eardrums shudder.
They fought in hip-deep mud and water, two enormous wolves. Wrestling like grizzlies, biting, fangs raking, claws trying to keep purchase on wet fur, jostling in the water with supernatural speed as the sun set behind them. I smelled wolf blood and heard their harsh breathing, like broken bellows. I was shivering, hard shudders bashing through me. It was still winter. And I’d been in the winter-cold water too long. And I’d nearly drowned in mud. Twice. My body was reacting to the stress with a case of shock.
The werewolves fought onto shore, Eli backing slowly, not daring to take a shot, unable to tell the two wolves apart. Then one broke away. Rushing toward me. Jaws wide. Eli fired, the concussion echoing across the still water. The wolf stumbled. And Brute landed on top of him. Sinking his fangs deep into the back of other wolf’s neck. With a wrenching motion, he snapped the enemy wolf’s spine with a crack that rebounded across the black water.
Together, the wolves fell, slowly, to the beach. Brute didn’t let go, but worried the wolf’s spine, tugging, tearing, until there was no way that even the accelerated healing of a were could recuperate from the damage. Eli came closer, moving with the careful step and determined stance of the warrior. He placed his weapon against the skull of the dire wolf and said, “Now.”
Brute leaped back.
Eli fired. And fired. And fired.
When there was nothing but pulp left of the dire werewolf’s head, he stepped back. The wolf’s blood flowed into the canal water. Brute lifted his snout and howled, long and lonely. Again and again. No one answered. No wolf replied.
* * *
But across the canal I saw a silhouette framed in the sunset, the bloody, setting sun on one side of him, the bloody, rising moon on the other. It was another werewolf. Silent. Controlled. Watching. He met my eyes across the water, letting me see him, letting me know him. It was the lone wolf, sitting in the shadows of the trees, downwind, absolutely still. Beside him was a dog I recognized, her gaze as intense as the wolf’s. I thought about telling Eli, about getting him to shoot the wolf. But . . . the wolf wasn’t a threat. I knew that. He was a lone wolf, watching, living among humans in perfect harmony and control. I lifted a hand to acknowledge the gaze, and his place in the swamps. He dipped his head to me and turned slowly, trotting into the quickly falling night, PP at his side.
Half an hour later, I heard the whine of the airplane engine, and the coughing-thump as the propeller turned over. Moments later, from a mile away, a plane skimmed over the trees, rising into the air, flying beneath a bloody moon. I had no idea how he had masked his scent, but I figured Sarge was a wily old wolf and knew a trick or two.
* * *
It took the equivalent of a fire hose to clean us both off, Brute and me. The mud was caked to us, thick and dry, by the time we got to the hotel, and colder than a winter death, even huddled together in the floor of the pilfered wolves’ airboat. Which we stole with impunity. But finally Brute was white in the moonlight and I was . . . at least clean, though shivering so hard I couldn’t talk, even with Beast heating my blood. I managed to climb to my room and stand, fully clothed, under the scalding shower until I was warm again.
It was only then, as the memories of the battle recurred again and again, that I realized that Brute had saved my life. If the werewolf had landed on me, in his leaping attack, jaws open, he’d have caught my throat in his fangs and ripped my head off.
I owed the werewolf my life.
“Well, c-c-c-c-c-crap,” I said to the shower walls.
* * *
I was asleep beneath a mound of covers when I heard my door open. “Don’t shoot. It’s me,” Rick said, his voice a croak. He sounded worn to the bone, and when he crawled into the bed beside me, he was feverish hot, barely strong enough pull the covers over himself after he fell against me. Pea scampered between us, nestling into the angle of hip and thigh.
“Your virtue is safe,” Rick murmured, “this time. I honestly just want to . . . cuddle.”
He crawled in beside me and fell asleep against my shoulder. I curled my body around him, breathing in his cat-scent, absorbing the heat of his cat. Together, we three fell asleep.
Note from Faith: I hope you liked Beneath a Bloody Moon.
I fell in love with the gulf years ago, and have wondered for years about the canals. For research on this subject, I talked with John Jensen, and was given privy to some of his groundbreaking research on the area. If you are interested, take a look at his forthcoming books, to be released from this site: www.EarthEpochs.com
The first of five books in the Earth Epochs series is Ancient Canal Builders of North America—Florida and Louisiana Harbors and Canals.
The second Earth Epochs ebook out in about November is Ancient Canal Builders of North America—New York Harbors and the Ancient Inland Waterway.
The third book is the disaster mechanism, cause and effect, due out in April next year: Earth Epochs—The Last Great Cataclysm—7,000 Years Ago.
Faith Hunter is the USA Today bestselling author of the Jane Yellowrock Novels, as well as the Rogue Mage novels. A native of Louisiana, she spent her early years on the bayous and rivers, learning survival skills and the womanly arts. She liked horses, dogs, fishing and crabbing much better than girly skills. She still does. In grade school, she fell in love with fantasy and science fiction, reading five books a week and wishing she could “write that great stuff.” Faith now shares her life with her Renaissance Man and their dogs.
Carol Malcolm serves as the director of the Urban Fantasy track at Dragon Con, after having moderated panels there for five years on the Dark Fantasy/Horror track. Other moderating credits include Fandom Fest, Coastal Magic (formerly Olde City, New Blood), and AnachroCon, and for the last three years has been one of the organizers for a small literary festival in the town where she lives. A book reviewer and editor at Bitten by Books since 2008, Carol reads extensively in the urban fantasy genre, and also writes a column on genre television. When not reading, writing reviews, or working at conventions, Carol spends as much time as possible with her husband, children, and three amazing grandsons.
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