Wild Blood

by Nancy A. Collins

  “This pueblo is like an ant hill,” Skinner replied with a shrug. “It’s full of passages, if you know where to look.”

  Jag dove for his automatic rifle, which he had cast aside when he battled Feral, only to have Skinner swing the butt of the Wolfcane into his midsection, knocking him away from the weapon.

  “I said mano a mano, brother,” Skinner said, dropping the Wolfcane onto the ground.

  Jag roared and lunged at Skinner, his fangs snapping in the air like castanets. Skinner grabbed him by the throat while struggling to keep him at arm’s length. They stood toe to toe, eyes locked, grimacing at one another.

  “Don’t make me kill you, Jag!” Skinner warned.

  “Why—because we’re brothers?” the other sneered. “I don’t have problems with fratricide. Just ask Growler—or Rend, for that matter.”

  Skinner blinked, taken aback. “You and Rend are brothers?”

  Jag hooked his leg about Skinner’s calf, throwing his opponent off-balance. He then snatched up the Wolfcane from where it lay on the ground and leapt atop Skinner’s chest, forcing the staff underneath his chin and levering it back in order to expose his jugular.

  “He was my demi-brother,” Jag grinned. “That’s why he was so loyal to me. Not that it did him much good, in the end.” Jag lowered his face until his snout touched Skinner’s. “Humans have a saying: ‘Blood is thicker than water’. It is true, you know. And it’s much tastier than water, too. Rend should have left to bleed to death in that alley in Albuquerque, Skinner. That way Rend would still be alive, instead of dead meat. The same is true for your mother, the little coyotero bitch, and all the others. Because of you, they’re all dead meat! What do you think of that, brother?”

  Jag howled in pain as Skinner’s jaws snapped shut on his snout, splintering his muzzle. Jag screamed in agony and let go of the Wolfcane to try and staunch the blood jetting from his mutilated nose.

  “Jag! Watch out!” Jez screamed.

  Jag turned to look at his sister as Skinner struck him with the heavy silver head of the Wolfcane hard enough to send cranial fluid squirting from his ears.

  Skinner got his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. As he looked down at Jag, he felt no joy in standing over the vanquished body of his foe. He was alive. Jag was dead. That was it, nothing more. Suddenly a bullet zipped past his head like any angry insect, nicking the tip of his ear. He looked up to see Jez, her face contorted into a mask of rage, advancing on him with a Glock in one trembling hand.

  “Murderer!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you for that!”

  Before Jez could squeeze off a second shot, a lithe, gray shadow emerged from the darkness, grabbing her from behind. Jez fought for control of the weapon, cursing like a drunken sailor at the top of her lungs. But then another gray shadow appeared and helped the first to first disarm, and then wrestle the angry werewolf to the ground.

  “Fuck this,” Sunder muttered upon finding himself surrounded by a dozen coyotero warriors armed with silver-bladed knives. Spitting in disgust, he tossed down his weapon and lifted his hands in surrender. “I ain’t dying for some stupid mojo stick.”

  Changing Woman strode forward and stood before Feral. Standing Dog snarled at his murderer from atop her head. “You’ve grown careless in your old age, Feral,” she said acidly. “Living as a lapdog has softened your wits.”

  “If you’re going to kill me, bitch, get it over with,” the werewolf growled.

  “Oh, I don’t want to kill you,” she replied with a nasty laugh. “I plan on sending you back to your Bitch Queen bearing tasty pies baked from her wretched little whelps.”

  Feral blanched. “Please—killing me would be better.”

  “For you, perhaps,” she smiled coldly. “But I shall be gracious—far more than you were to me, under similar circumstances, twenty years ago. If you can take the Wolfcane away from Skinner, then you and your companions are free to leave.”

  “Is this some kind of trick where you use your damned coyote magic to win?”

  “I give you my oath no coyotero magic involved,” Changing Woman said solemnly.

  “If you think I’m frightened by this mewling pup of yours, you’re sadly mistaken,” Feral sniffed.

  Skinner stepped forward, holding the Wolfcane between his extended arms at waist level. He glanced down and saw that the staff was wrapped in a nimbus of blue fire.

  “The Wolfcane is vargr! It belongs with those who boast pure, undiluted vargr blood! No half-breed is going to keep me from it!” Feral stated angrily, grabbing the Wolfcane with his uninjured hand and trying to yank it free of Skinner’s hold. Skinner dug in his heels and struggled to keep his grip of the Wolfcane. Feral might be old, but he was definitely strong.

  Father and son stood snout-to-snout, glowering into one another’s faces. Every muscle in their bodies stood in full relief as they battled one another for control of the Wolfcane. Skinner was close to exhaustion, and he knew that if he faltered even the slightest, Feral would wrest the staff away from him everything would be over for him. He closed his eyes and focused his concentration, calling upon the magic that was his birthright.

  “Are you actually praying, traitor?” Feral sneered from between bared fangs. “What god could possibly reward a mongrel freak like you with their grace?”

  Even as the words dropped from Feral’s lips, the head of a giant blue wolf flickered into being above Skinner’s own, superimposing its fearsome features over those of the young vargr.

  “I would,” said the Great Wolf.

  A massive electrical charge surged up Feral’s arms, welding his hand to the Wolfcane. The silver head pulsed, its ruby eyes glowing like a bonfire, and for the first time in his life, Feral knew what it was like to look into the eyes of a wolf and know fear.

  The Great Wolf opened wide its jaws and grabbed Feral about the head and shoulders, shaking him as a she-wolf would a troublesome cub. There was the smell of ozone and frying flesh, followed by what sounded like the shrieking of a dog. When the great Wolf finally let go of Feral, he dropped to the ground curled in upon himself like a dead spider. His fur was now smoldering and his eyes had been baked white, like egg custards.

  “Daddy!” Jez shouted.

  He shuddered and jerked like a cheaply made windup toy as he whined like a kicked dog. Jez tore herself free of her captors and threw herself onto her father’s steaming body. Sobbing hysterically, she cradled Feral’s head in her lap. “Daddy, can you hear me?”

  Feral opened his mouth to reply, but could only groan as his tongue had exploded and his teeth were shattered.

  Jez looked up at Changing Woman, tears of hate rolling down her cheeks and matting their fur. “You promised no coyote magic!” she said accusingly.

  “And I kept my word,” Changing Woman said as she knelt beside Feral and sliced his ears from his head with her ceremonial dagger. “What you saw was wolf magic, child. Your totem spirit has turned its face from you and chosen a new prophet.”

  Jez abruptly jumped to her feet, throwing her arms about Skinner’s neck. “I’m not mad at you for killing Jag and hurting.

  Daddy, Skinner! I swear! I’ll be the queen soon, and you can help me get rid of Mama!” She babbled madly into his ear. “You can kill her for me and I’ll take over and we can do as we like! It’ll be wonderful, Skinner!”

  “That’s not going to happen, Jez,” Skinner scowled in distaste as he peeled her arms from around his neck. “Get her away from me.”

  A pair of coyotero warriors stepped forward and pulled Jez away, pinning her arms behind her. As they began to drag her away, Jez began to struggle. “No! You can’t do this to me! Skinner—I’m pregnant!”

  “Let her go,” Skinner said, motioning for the guards to set her free.

  Changing Woman raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain that’s wise?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  The warriors glanced at Changing Woman, who nodded her head, then stepped away. Jez stood before Skinner w
ith her eyes downcast, shivering like a whipped dog.

  “Go on! Return to your mother!” Skinner barked. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  “What about Daddy?” she asked meekly.

  Skinner stared at Feral, now blinded and crippled by the force that birthed his race millennia ago. It was difficult to believe that this pathetic creature was his father. No, not his father—his sire. Feral had provided the seed he had grown from, nothing more.

  “Take him with you, if you want,” he replied.

  Jez didn’t wait to be told twice. She quickly helped what was left of Feral onto his feet and led him away, whispering to him in the same breathy, cheerful voice reserved for children and the hopeless.

  “What about me?” Sunder asked flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

  “You can leave with Jez, if you like,” Skinner replied.

  “That’s the problem,” the werewolf said with awry smile. “I don’t like Jez.”

  “All who desire to live in peace are welcome to join us. That includes you.”

  Sunder shook his head. “Naw, I’m a loner by nature. The only thing that was holding me to the Pack was Rend.”

  “I understand,” Skinner said sympathetically. “You’re free to go. No one will stand in your way.”

  As Sunder turned to leave, he gave Skinner a sideways grin. “Who would have guessed you to be a wolf-wizard? Good luck, cuz.”

  Epilogue

  Skinner emerged from the sweat lodge and stood under the full moon that hung over the mesa, studying its far-away dry oceans and dormant volcanoes as he wiped the perspiration from his body.

  It had been a year since he had come West in search of his true identity, and he had never been happier. He had been completely accepted by the coyotero, Rosie was now his mate, and his relationship with Changing Woman was finally developing into something more familial. He knew she could never be a mother to him, but he did not need her to be, for he already had one whose heritage would always live in his mind, if not his flesh.

  Now that he was the new leader of the coyotero, he had seemed it wise to relocate. After all, Lady Melusine was not the kind of matriarch to take the murder of her son and the mutilation of her consort lightly, so they abandoned the pueblo in Arizona in favor of an old ghost town in New Mexico, just to be on the safe side. Most of the coyotero had adjusted to the change quite handily, although Root Woman had complained mightily about being relocated so late in life. But it was all for the best, really.

  Rosie sat on the front porch of their home, busy with the beadwork for the babies’ shoes, her swollen belly serving as a natural workbench. Shortly after she told him of her condition, Skinner had a vision of a boy child, while Changing Woman had one of a girl. This is how he learned that he was the father of twins. Fella dozed at Rosie’s feet while sucking on his thumb. Changing Woman said that the half-wolf undignified habit was a result of being weaned too early.

  Occasionally Skinner found himself wondering if Jez had delivered twins, as well, but then chased the question from his head. He tried hard not to think of his demi-sister, or the cubs he had sired with her, but sometimes it was hard not to.

  He had not had been visited by the Great Wolf since the night he battled Feral, but he could tell it was still with him, locked inside the Wolfcane. If it had work for him to do, it was keeping it to itself. But then again, vargr live a very long time. It might be another century or two before the Great Wolf set him on whatever task it needed done.

  Until then, he would continue his apprenticeship under Changing Woman, love his mate, and raise his cubs the best way he knew how. Because, when all was said and done, he was still his father’s son at heart.

  Find out more about Nancy A. Collins at:

  truesonjablue.blogspot.com

  hopedalepress.blogspot.com

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Nancy Collins

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1532-5

  Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com