“But what does all this have to do with me and why you gave me up?” Skinner asked impatiently.
“All will be made clear in time,” she sighed. “As I said, the vargr and coyotero have been at war with one another for centuries. Then, twenty years ago, there was an attempt to arrange a treaty between our peoples; a nonaggression pact, as it were.
“The tribal council was hesitant, as you might expect, given the vargr penchant for treachery. But to prove their good will, they sent a solitary emissary to meet with us—a vargr prince named Feral.”
Skinner abruptly stiffened and raised his head.
“Ah I see you are familiar with his name. Do you know of him?”
“We’ve met,” Skinner replied stolidly.
“Feral was quite eloquent, and argued his people’s position very ardently. He said that the vargr had grown weary of eternal warfare and that there was more than enough room in the New World for both vargr and coyotero. He even suggested that, given time, genuine friendship could blossom between our peoples, producing a new breed for a New World.
“The elders were persuaded to agree to a peace treaty. As medicine woman, I accompanied them to the meeting site in order to invoke the coyote- totem’s blessing. There were a dozen of us, including my mate of many years, Standing Dog. But when we arrived, we discovered it was a trap. The vargr were waiting in hiding, and in great numbers. They fell upon us like the rabid wolves they truly are …” Changing Woman’s voice shook for a moment, and then she took a deep breath and steadied herself as she continued. “Feral took great pleasure in torturing Standing Dog before my very eyes, then raping me inches away from my mate’s skinned body. I managed to escape, and I succeeded in reclaiming Standing Dog’s pelt.” She gently stroked the coyote skin she wore about her shoulders as she spoke. “A few weeks later I discovered I was pregnant. I was uncertain as to what I should do. My initial response was to rid myself of it. There is a special herbal remedy Root Woman prepares for those who wish to induce a miscarriage rather than carry a child. But then it occurred to me—what if the cub I was carrying belonged to Standing Dog? When my time came, Root Woman helped me deliver, but when she brought the cub forth for me to lick clean, I saw that it was vargr. If Root Woman had not jerked you away, I would have killed you right then.
“She left the encampment with you and never spoke about you again. I always assumed she left you to die of exposure on a hillside somewhere. It wasn’t until you came to her shack seeking information about your birth that she confessed to what she’d done. So you see, now, Skinwalker, why I cast you aside. I did not know at the time that you had inherited the shaman’s vision,” she explained, pointing to her own golden eyes. “But even if I had known, I could never have been a mother to you. Nor will I ever be. But I can be your teacher. You possess a great deal of wolf-magic. It has been locked inside you since birth, but it awakened once you were exposed to the Wolfcane,” she smiled, pointing to the staff resting at his feet. “Because of your hybrid nature, you are the first vargr in centuries who has ears that hear within, eyes that see beyond. You are prophecy fulfilled.”
Changing Woman got to her feet and went to a wooden table in the corner of the cave laden with papers and books. She produced a scroll bound by a leather cord, gently stroking it as if it were a sleeping animal.
“This is the vision journal of the coyotero shaman Broken Tooth, written three hundred years ago. He was my grandfather, your great-grandfather.” She unrolled the scroll, which was covered in a strange script that didn’t resemble any human language Skinner had ever seen. “Ah, here it is: ‘In my dream I saw fields scorched and the forests reduced to charred stumps. The skies were full of ash and the rain fell like the tears of demons, burning the flesh of those below. As I watched, a wolf attacked a coyote, and the coyote attacked in return. Each tore out the others throat and their blood flowed together, to form a crimson lake. From the pool of blood arose a warrior-wizard riding on the back of a great wolf and carrying the totem of the vargr in one hand and the spirit shield of the coyotero in the other. In his wake vargr, coyotero, half-wolves, humans and true beasts alike followed. The dark skies rolled back and there was again light, and the earth blossomed once more.’ You are the one prophesied, Skinwalker,” Changing Woman said as she rolled the scroll back up. “You are the warrior-wizard who will deliver us from extinction.”
“Like hell I am!” Skinner snorted. “I might be a lot of things, but a messiah ain’t one of ’em! And I’m certainly not magic!”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” Changing Woman said. “Look at your hands.”
“Why?”
Changing Woman picked up a coup stick wrapped in leather and decorated with eagle feathers and struck Skinner on the top of the head with it.
“Ow! What’d you do that for?” he yelped, rubbing his skull.
“If you are to survive being my apprentice, Skinwalker, you must learn two things: the first is ‘believe in yourself’, and the second is ‘do what you’re told’. Now go ahead and look at your hands.”
Skinner grudgingly glanced down, only to gasp in surprise at the sight of forearms enveloped by a pale blue fire that flickered like the Northern Lights.
“What is that stuff?” he yelped.
“The kitsune know it as foxfire, but humans call it an aura. It is a manifestation of the totem spirit that dwells within those who possess Wild blood.”
Skinner looked at Changing Woman and saw that she, too, was wrapped in blue fire. Hers, however, seemed far more focused, with most of the aura concentrated about her head and hands.
“The reason I made this cave my home is because it is a place of power,” she explained. “It amplifies what is invisible and renders it visible—for those who have eyes to see. It makes it easier for me to have my visions and work my spells. That is why you can see your magic here, where you couldn’t before. But we must work quickly. There is not much time. The vargr following your trail are very close. We must prepare you for your encounter.”
Root Woman found Rosie in one of the empty pueblos, huddled in the darkest corner. The old woman used the sounds of her sobs to pinpoint her exact location. She was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, her head bowed as she rocked back and forth.
“So there you are, child. I was beginning to think you’d left us and headed back to the truck.”
Rosie lifted her head, tears streaming down her face and dripping off the point of her chin. “Oh, Granny! What do I do? He is the prophecy!”
Root Woman knelt beside her and placed a thin arm around Rosie’s shaking shoulders. Root Woman sighed and stroked her grandchild’s hair. “That may be the case, but he is still flesh and blood, still a man. Whether he is destined to lead our people to greatness or not does not mean anything. The true heart of the matter lies in whether or not you love him. Do you?”
“God help me, yes, I do.”
Root Woman pulled her into her arms, like she used to do when she was a cub, cradling Rosie’s head against her wrinkled breast. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You’re certain this is where their scent leads?” Feral growled.
“Yes, milord,” Jag replied. They were hiding behind an outcropping of rock, upwind from the coyotero guard standing watch at the entrance of the canyon.
“This is most advantageous,” Feral said, stroking his chin. “We have been trying to locate their main encampment for decades! Now we can exterminate them like the vermin they are! It makes bringing the renegade to ground even more satisfying, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, sire, it does.”
“How many do you think are holed up there?” Sunder whispered.
“Hard to say,” Feral mused. “Maybe as many as thirty.”
“But there are only five of us!” Sunder protested. “We’ll be massacred!”
Feral opened the rucksack he’d brought with him, revealing a cache of semi- automatic weapon
s. “Never underestimate the equalizing effect of superior firepower.”
“Cool!” Ripper grinned. The drummer snatched up one of the guns and immediately pointed it at Jag’s head. “Bang! Bang!”
“Stop that!” Jag snarled, slapping the weapon out of the skinhead’s hand.
The younger werewolf flashed his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that, Jag.”
Jag slapped a magazine of silver jacketed hollow-points into the breech of his Glock and pressed the muzzle against Ripper’s shaven temple. “I shouldn’t have done what, shit-for-brains?”
Sweat abruptly beaded on Ripper’s upper lip and trickled down his exposed scalp. “Nu-nu-nuthin’, Jag. I was just fuckin’ with you. You’re the top dog here, cuz. Everyone knows that.”
“Fuckin’ A.” Jag cast a wary glance toward Feral. If his sire noticed the tussle for domination, he did not show it.
Sunder frowned. “Guns are great, but coyotero aren’t allergic to silver, are they?”
“Duh!” Jez rolled her eyes in disgust and pantomimed putting a gun to her head with her thumb and forefinger. “But if they get shot in the brain, it doesn’t matter. Head shots kill them just the same as vargr, silver bullets or not.”
The coyotero guard standing watch at the entrance to the pueblo had once fought alongside the Sioux at Little Big Horn. The vargr who opened fire on him did not know that, and even if they had, it would not have mattered to them. He never even knew what hit him. One minute he was standing watch, the next his brains were flying from the back of his head.
The raiders moved swiftly down the narrow throat of the canyon toward the pueblo. Upon seeing the invaders, the coyotero on the ground level dropped what they were doing and ran to the ladders that lead to the cliff dwellings. Jag opened fire first on the males, emptying his clip into their skulls, as did Feral, Ripper and Sunder.
A coyotero female clutching a child in her arms emerged at the mouth of one of the ground-level caves, only to be shot through the head by Jez. The infant, trapped in its mother’s dead arms, cried in confusion and fear until the female werewolf fired upon it, causing its tiny skull to disappear in a cloud of blood and bone fragments.
Feral stood on the canyon floor, flanked by Jag and Sunder, each armed with military grade machine guns. They scanned the cliffs for signs of movement.
“Changing Woman!” he shouted, his voice echoing throughout the pueblo.
“Your father has arrived,” the shamaness sighed as she picked up her coup stick and replaced her dead husband’s skin atop her own.
Skinner scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with alarm. “You’re not seriously going out there to talk to him, are you?”
“He’s calling my name,” Changing Woman responded matter-of-factly. “I must respond.”
“He’ll kill you!”
“He will try,” she said evenly. “Just as I will try and kill him.” With that she shouldered past Skinner and stepped out onto the walkway that ringed the upper tier and overlooked the floor of the canyon.
Ripper instantly lifted his weapon, aiming it at the medicine woman, only to have Feral swat his hand down. “Hold your fire, cub,” he snarled. “We are not animals! There is etiquette to these things.”
“I hear you, Feral,” Changing Woman yelled. “Why have you attacked my people?”
“Don’t be coy! Hand over the renegade to me! If you do so, we will leave without further violence!”
“I can not do what you ask, Feral,” Changing Woman said with a shake of her head. “Skinner is not mine to surrender.”
“He is vargr!” Jag shouted angrily. “He has broken vargr law! It is our right to claim him for punishment! You can not keep us from him!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, young wolf!” Changing Woman said with a humorless laugh. “Skinwalker is a race unto himself, bound by no law save that which governs his heart!”
“You’ve been chewing too many peyote buttons, old woman!” Feral retorted. “The renegade is vargr and must pay the penalty for violating our most sacred of taboos!”
“I neither lie nor hallucinate, Feral. Skinwalker is half-vargr and half-coyotero. But you knew that the moment you first saw him, didn’t you?”
Jag frowned and turned to fix his sire with a questioning glare. “What is she talking about?”
“Yes, why don’t you tell him, Feral?” Changing Woman replied, her voice echoing throughout the canyon. “Tell them that the renegade is your seed! One I bore nearly twenty years ago, cursing your name with every contraction!”
“You think that means anything to me?” Feral scoffed. “Woman, I’ve slain so many of my own whelps I could build a cathedral with their bones!”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Changing Woman snorted, raising her coup stick. “Here, allow me to help you add another chapel.”
At a gesture of the coup-stick held by the medicine woman, a dozen coyotero, male and female, young and old, emerged from the cave dwelling that ringed the upper tiers of the pueblo.
“Are those actually bows and arrows?” Jag laughed in disbelief.
“Hey! Losers!” Ripper shouted, waving his gun at the standing archers. “This ain’t Cowboys and Indians!” He spun around dropped his trousers, waving his naked ass back and forth. “Try hitting this, you flea-bitten savages!” When his taunts failed to inspire a volley of arrows, he smirked and yanked his pants back up. “What a bunch of wussies!”
There was the twang of a solitary bowstring, followed by an arrow striking Ripper in the chest, just to the right of his heart. The drummer looked down at the feathered shaft jutting from his sternum and yawned. “Is that the best you wimps can do?” As he pulled the arrow from his chest, the look of contempt on his callow face became a grimace of pain. “Ah! It burns!” he squealed, his voice abruptly rising in pitch. “Make it stop—!” He fell to his knees as he clawed frantically at his shirtfront, revealing a pale, hairless chest. The flesh where the arrow had been was grotesquely swollen and oozing pus, as if in the terminal stages of gangrene. Upon seeing the dreadful, suppurating wound, Ripper stared in horror at the gleaming arrowhead affixed to the projectile he held in his hand.
“Silver!” he wailed. “The arrows are tipped with silver!”
The other vargr leapt into action, firing at the archers as they ran toward the ladders that lead to the cliff dwellings. As his running mates rushed past, Ripper reached out a trembling hand, but they all ignored him, save for Sunder
“Sorry, cuz,” the werewolf said with a shake of his head, then hurried after the others.
As Jag and the other vargr neared the closest ladder, a shaggy figure emerged from the shadows to block their path. The ulfr growled and raised its hackles.
“Trust a mongrel to run with a half-wolf,” Jag sneered as he raised his gun.
“Stop!”
Jag raised his head to look in the direction of the shout and saw Skinner standing on the uppermost tier, peering over the railing down at him.
“You want me? Well, here I am! Now let the ulfr go!”
“Where is the Wolfcane?” Feral called out.
“I’ve still got your damn stick!” Skinner replied, holding up the Wolfcane so they could see it. “Now let Fella go!”
Jag jerked his gun-sight from the half-wolf’s head and fired in the direction of the renegade, but Skinner ducked and the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the canyon walls.
“Fool!” Feral bellowed as he backhanded his son. “You could have hit the Wolfcane!”
Jag wiped the blood from his mouth, glaring at Feral with his solitary eye before turning back to shoot the renegade’s pet—only to discover the half-wolf had used the distraction to once more disappear into the shadows.
“If you want the Wolfcane so damn much, you’re going to have to fight me for it,” Skinner shouted down. “Mano a mano. If you win, I’ll go back to the lodge and you can do to me whatever you like. Meet me at the top and we’ll settle this once and for all,�
� he said, motioning to the ladders.
Growling under his breath, Feral shoved his gun into his waistband pocket and clambered up the ladder, followed closely by the others.
The canyon top was a flat and unsheltered expanse, save for a solitary Joshua tree that stood framed against the desert sky and its countless multitude of stars.
“I am here!” Feral barked.” Show yourself, renegade!”
Suddenly there was the sound of gunfire, and Feral whirled about to see Sunder standing on the edge of the canyon top, shooting down onto the tier below. “Lord Feral!” the werewolf shouted. “They’re taking down the ladder!”
“Great work, graybeard!” Jag snarled at his sire, snatching away Feral’s weapon before he had a chance to react. “You maneuvered us into a trap! You should have remained home, grizzle-chin, and left this to me!”
“I will have your ears for that!” Feral growled, his finely tailored clothes ripping themselves to shred as he cast away his human semblance. “How dare you challenge me?”
Feral and Jag fell upon one another with foam-drenched fangs, snarling and snapping like pit bulls in the ring. Jez clamped her hands against her ears to try and muffle the sound of ripping fur and crunching bone. “Daddy! Jag! Stop it!” she screamed, “This isn’t the time!”
There was a pained yelp, and the two combatants disengaged as quickly as they had started to fight. Feral crouched on the ground, clutching what remained of his right hand. Jag looked down at his sire and grinned, spitting out a mouthful of fingers. “You’re past your prime, graybeard! You should never have come here!”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
Jag spun around to find Skinner standing behind him, the Wolfcane held in one hand like a battle staff. “How did you get up here?”
Wild Blood Page 18
