by Gaja J. Kos
A small breath escaped her as he caught her unprepared, kneeling directly in front of her. He took one of the fine black leather sheaths in his hands and slowly fastened it around her thigh. His fingers lingered on the sensitive inner flesh, sending a surge of desire through her with every well-placed stroke.
“I think it suits you.” He looked up, the green of his eyes standing out against the dark shade of his hair. “And it'll suit you even better in battle.”
He trailed his hand upwards, following the curves of her body as he rose, finally stopping at the fullness of her lower lip, bringing his own dangerously close.
“You can take care of the rest,” he whispered, his breath brushing against her lips.
He stalked to the other side of the room, leaving her to compose herself and organize the rest of the sheaths and holsters in strategic places over her body. He returned with a large wooden box, engraved with gold words in a language she couldn't understand; carefully, he placed it on the bulky table that stretched a fair distance alongside the wall.
“One final thing.” He unhinged the golden lock, inviting Rose closer. “It wouldn't be courteous to let my guest leave unsatisfied.”
Chapter 8
It was already heavy nightfall when the pack of six pushed farther into the thick Czech woods. Otmar had given them detailed instructions of the route, but the White werewolves had settled themselves deep within the forest, in a remote segment that wasn't by any means easily accessible, which made it all but impossible to find the pack without comprehensive guidance and a focused mind.
The rawness of the woods combined with the tedious length of the trail forced them to fully shift; however, even in their wolf forms it had taken them hours to make any relevant progress. They had left their belongings in a concealed spot on the edge of the woods where they had begun their hike, not wanting to be slowed down by anything, even their provisions; since none of them had any desire to hunt in the foreign woods, the time pressure played an even bigger role.
They were grateful the path led them mostly through the sections covered with thick undergrowth and densely grown trees. Their deep black fur melted into the shadows, efficiently hiding them from the excellent night vision of the ravaging packs that drifted through the area. Zarja had been right—the situation in the Czech Republic was far worse than any of them could have imagined. Nobody had reported the extent of the slaughter; possibly even the leading weres had no means of obtaining an accurate body count.
They had managed to cross into a fairly calm and untouched area–reminding them they must be closing in on the Whites' location–but their trek up to this point had taken them through the aftermath of the numerous battles that had transpired in the Czech territories. The sickly smell of blood turning the meadows into lakes of red, broken branches and broken bodies left there to rot stayed with them even as they progressed, the stench sticking to their fur. They tried their best to maneuver around the ravaged fields; however, there had been so much carnage in the woods, they had no hopes of avoiding it completely if they wished to remain on the designated path.
A deep growl from Jens stopped them in their tracks. They huddled closer together, carefully finding their footing in the immaculate battle formation they had perfected over the years. Simultaneously, they tuned their ears to the barely audible rustle of leaves just a little farther into the woods. As the sound grew louder, their claws sunk deeper into the soil, tendons in their feet tense with anticipation.
A final rustle of leaves revealed thirteen massive bodies clad in the thickest layer of pecan brown fur. Their muzzles were tainted with streaks of red that had already begun to coagulate, but otherwise they appeared to be uninjured. And lethal. Growling spread through the newly arrived pack, their body language emitting a blend of caution and danger.
Evelin pushed forward, separating herself slightly from the rest of the Black pack, ignoring Mark's stern gaze as she passed. She arched her back and dropped her head on her front paws. Keeping her gaze leveled with the ground, she maintained the position as she sent out a fragrance of armistice, spiced with knowledge of her family's connection with Otmar. Even though she effectively concealed her doubts, her body nonetheless stiffened at the possibility of making a mistake. If the ructious weres weren't serving Otmar, she was putting herself in a very vulnerable position. With her hind legs ready to launch, she waited for the unfamiliar weres to respond.
The alpha approached her with assertive strides, his heavy paws thudding on the ground. Evelin didn't flinch, didn't even raise her eyes. She meticulously listened to his movement, bringing up a mental image in her mind. She didn't need her eyes to have complete control over her surroundings–something she hadn't told the pack, not even Mark. The supremely developed hearing and sense of smell were a relatively new ability, and although she had already mastered them almost to perfection, she wanted to explore the skill further, understand it better, before informing the rest of the Blacks.
Evelin felt the were's breath on her fur as he took in more of her scent while she made sure the particular blend she emanated remained unchanged. As the massive were examined her further, his rich brown fur catching the first rays of sunlight that poured through the trees, she focused on calming herself on every level, knowing the alpha in front of her was beyond human reason and could easily misinterpret something like an elevated heartbeat. The alpha growled, but it wasn't directed at her.
Daring to look up, she saw the Moravian pack relax out of their slightly crouched positions, breaking up the tightly woven combat-ready formation. The alpha brushed against her black fur in a way that made Mark growl under his breath, but Evelin collectedly accepted the affection. With a wild, yet understanding flicker in his eyes, the alpha stalked back to his pack, leading them away into the woods.
Once they were sure a fair distance separated them from the Moravian pack, Mark drew back into a half-shifted form, hurrying towards Evelin.
“Are you all right?” He discreetly stroked the silky black fur on her side.
Evelin looked at him with silent affection burning in the emerald green of her eyes. She followed Mark into a half shift, feeling the early morning dampness of the forest on the now-exposed areas of her skin.
“I'm fine, thank you.” Her gaze trailed the Moravian weres' path into the forest. “They were Otmar's. And they will leave us alone.”
“The alpha...” Mark lowered his voice, intended for her ears only.
“It wasn't anything inappropriate. Don't worry.” She smiled with reassuring warmth. “However, he did warn me that we're not out of the fighting range just yet. We'll have to be vigilant. The pack we've encountered was the remotest one of the Moravians; the next one we meet might not be so friendly.”
They continued to trail the route Otmar had laid out for them, Mark and Evelin shifting back into full wolf form to reserve their strength. The Moravian pack was right; they stumbled across more blood-drenched ground as they progressed, attentively listening for any signs of possible threats. There was nothing but silence, the battered bodies reeking of excruciating pain and the promise of death that had been dutifully fulfilled, and now flowed savagely through their decaying flesh.
Zarja growled, tearing away from the rest of the pack, running fast towards a pile of severely bloodied carcasses a short distance away. Mark howled, taking a step in her direction, but did not charge after her; it would be careless to break their ranks in such a way.
The werewolves took care of their own; that was nearly dogmatic. However, they had all understood when forming the pack that exposing the other weres to a strategic disadvantage, especially if there was no visible threat to face, was out of the question. Zarja was on her own.
She furiously sniffed the ground as she approached the discarded mass of flesh, shoving the bodies aside with her muzzle as she made her way through the carnage. Libor's pack, she thought, following the unique scent of her cousin that burned in her nostrils. After sniffing through the corporeal
pile, she realized the scent wasn't sufficiently pronounced for Libor to be amidst the fallen werewolves. However, he had been there. It was his scent she had caught from across the meadow, his footsteps she had followed directly to the massacre. But despite her notable sense of smell, the site was drenched with an overwhelming amount of odors, giving her a headache when she tried to comb through them, seeking the one that would give her the answers she was aching for.
Another howl from Mark made her turn her head, and she reluctantly forced herself to return through the crimson field back to her pack; she had done all she could, yet it seemed wrong to leave behind the only lead on Libor anybody had found so far. She half shifted as she approached, not wanting to waste energy by communicating in wolf form.
“You don't have to tell me I was being stupid. I had done a quick sweep of the perimeter for any activity before I took off...” Zarja wasn't usually the one to defend her actions. However, she felt a slight pang of guilt deflecting like she did, putting the rest of them in an uncomfortable position. She let out an apologetic sigh. “I'll tell you everything later.”
Shifting back, she followed Mark, who had already begun to move forward, following the course he had thoroughly memorized at a steady pace. There were fewer bodies, fewer scents to throw them off as they reached the thicker part of the woods. She remained at the back, her senses open to any disturbances, but her mind was flooded with thoughts of Libor.
She kept reminding herself of the possibility that her cousin might still be alive, but she couldn't ignore how his scent had been suddenly cut off at the edge of the carnage. There should have been at least a faint trace leading away from the battlefield; if Libor had moved, she would have known. A bitter taste coated her mouth as the images of cannibalistic werewolves rushed through her–even some of the more civil packs still devoured their fallen opponents, or at least the alphas and second-in-commands. Libor may not have been the leader of the Double-Tails, but as second-in-command, he had led his own subdivision of werewolves–the ones she had seen bloodied and ravaged in the crimson meadow among the trees–and acted as their alpha. She shoved the grim thoughts in a locked corner of her mind, focusing her gaze on the several pairs of pure black paws in front of her.
Despite paying attention, she almost knocked into Jürgen's behind as Mark abruptly halted in the front. Pushing her senses farther out, she could now hear the steady rhythm of footsteps. They were at a disadvantage, standing in a small clearing. To rush into the woods for cover was not an option; the echo of steps was unwaveringly getting louder. To run would be to show weakness, not to mention leaving quite a few sides exposed.
The weres shuffled into a circular formation, each one of them standing their ground in a crouched position, viciously baring their elongated canine teeth. A branch moved at the edge of the woods. Their bodies tensed with a burning drive that would inevitably lead into a bloodbath.
Zarja let out a low growl, filled with harrowing threats. Fully prepared to rip out the throat of the approaching intruder, she tightened her muscles, ready to jump... And then she shifted.
Chapter 9
“Rose!” Zarja embraced her with unguarded affection, her nude body warm against Rose's arms. “I was ready to rip your throat out!”
“I wouldn't expect anything less.” Rose laughed, stepping into view for the rest of the pack to see.
The five werewolves came closer, gingerly wagging their tails at the new arrival. Mark shifted while the rest of them stayed behind in their wolf forms for security measures. Zarja quickly squeezed Rose's hand before returning to her position at the back of the pack, shifting along the way.
“Sebastian told us you were tied up somewhere,” the older were huffed.
Rose could tell that while Mark may have trusted the Kresnik's word, he was nonetheless concerned for her well-being, the slight, yet irrepressible paternal instinct rising within him. And she loved him for it, remembering all the times his protection and advice had helped her grow up into the werewolf she was now.
“I wasn't exactly tied up.” She stifled a chuckle. “But I did have some unexpected business to take care off.”
Mark raised an eyebrow, urging her to disclose more information. She was unsure how to phrase what she had learned from Veles. The god had given her some invaluable insight into the whole disconcerting matter; however, it was all too vague, at least at this stage in their exploration.
“It's nothing new, only a confirmed suspicion.” She carefully chose her words. “These deaths aren't even remotely normal; the violence is severe to the point where it surpasses even the supernatural, and the manner of their passing isn't something caused by your run-of-the-mill poison.”
It isn't of this world, nor does it come from any of the godly realms, Veles's rich voice echoed in her memory. He hadn't examined the toxin himself. However, he had managed to observe the souls of its victims firsthand, and that was a bigger pool of information for the god of the underworld than any corporeal remains might have offered. It separated the spirit from the body.
Mark fixed his eyes on Rose, letting her know he was aware that she was holding back information, but would not press her for it. She expressed her gratefulness in a shy half smile, placing her hands on his shoulders.
“It's good to see you, old man.”
“Nice of you to finally get your ass here, kid.” He flashed her a wide grin, the tension in his features lessening. “We have to get going; we only have a short distance left, but I'd like for us to return before nightfall.”
Rose gave him a curt nod and joined the pack. She was the only one still in human form, but she preferred it that way. She had always been very agile, which meant she had no trouble keeping up with the pace Mark set. And if she needed to tap into her inhuman speed in case an undesirable event suddenly came up, it would take her less than a tenth of a second to reach her half-shifted state.
Moving into her position at the rear of the pack, Rose had to admit the clothes and weapons Veles had provided her with were comfortable and flowed in tune with her movements, containing the highest level of efficiency. As frustrating as Veles was, she appreciated what he had done for her. What he had gifted her.
I look forward to stripping the weapons off of you, he’d said and smiled as he escorted her to the edge of his worldly estate.
Running through the woods, she still felt the warmth of his demanding grip on her hips, the pure strength with which he held her against his body. She had been fully clad in weapons, yet they remained unobtrusive, allowing their bodies to fuse in fervor, a lascivious promise hanging in the air. He’d angled his head slightly, lowering himself in a way that allowed for his subtly full lips to almost brush against hers.
Take care, Rosalind. The faintest gush of his warm breath skimmed over her skin, suggestively concentrating on the curves of her lips before he disappeared, leaving nothing but vast countryside surrounding her.
Veles's captivating image stayed with her until the pack reached a well-hidden habitat, belonging to the Czech White werewolf community. Shielded by the teeming spruce trees, the weres would have missed the settlement, had they not known where to look. The White werewolves had taken advantage of a rocky cavern, cloaking it with earthly colors and thick branches while the undergrowth grew unrestrainedly in front of the entrance, only a small, nearly unnoticeable path leading through it.
They came to a halt a short distance from the den, far enough to stay concealed in the shadows. Sniffing the air, they checked the perimeter for any living beings. Precautions were crucial; the White werewolves wouldn't attack them, since they made sure to amplify their benevolent smell, sending it out to the areas they had already checked. However, if something bad had befallen the White pack, the attacker might have decided to remain lurking in the vicinity. Or to set up something dangerous for whoever came looking for the wolves.
“No immediate danger,” Rose said, being the only one still in human form. “But there is something.”
She took a step forward, pushing through the pack. She sniffed the air again, slowly lowering herself into a crouched position to take in the scent on the ground level as well.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, but loud enough for Evelin to hear and silently move to her side.
The wolf with emerald eyes looked at her after inhaling the air Rose was testing moments earlier. It was a gaze filled with green flames. Evelin let out a violent howl, launching herself towards the entrance. She rummaged through the brush, disappearing into the shadows of the cave. Rose sent the pack a nod over her shoulder, half shifting before exploding into a run and heading after Evelin, the rest of the pack following on her heels.
The stench of decay was much stronger inside the den; the thickness of the undergrowth must have worked as blockage, letting out such faint traces of it, it almost went unnoticed. Besides, the cave was elongated, a labyrinth of rock and scavenged greenery, the source of the smell located deep within it. A piercing howl echoed off the stone walls as Evelin reached the innermost part of the den.
Rose rushed forward, ignoring the jabbing pain of fresh cuts as she pushed through the branches and leaves. Evelin's howls didn't die down, but they were quieter, although they continued to carry the heavy notes of profound sorrow within them. Rose now knew Evelin wasn't hurt–she was wailing. And it didn't take her long to understand why.
Rose's stomach threatened to turn as she saw Evelin's black form sitting at the farthest part of the cavern, encircled with the exposed skin of what must have been more than a dozen werewolves. The reek of death was overwhelming, but what made her stomach clench anew was that particular blend of smell, the one she had sensed on the deceased White the Gamayun had brought to them. Fighting the rising bile she unleashed a forceful growl, the vibrations shaking the stone foundations of the den.
