Green's Hill Werewolves, Volume 2

by Amy Lane

  He looked up slowly and found himself face-to-face with a really angry brown bear.

  He didn’t know—or care—about the difference between bears back then. He didn’t know that a brown bear was smaller than a grizzly, or that a black bear was bigger than a brown bear. At this precise moment, he discovered that a California bear seemed a damned sight bigger than the little buggers they’d had so long ago back in England, and this monster was far taller than he was, had mass, reach, heinous, hideous claws, and seemed to have an entire bee’s nest shoved up his arse over something.

  Green didn’t wait for the bear to swipe first. He charged the damned thing, and together they tumbled down the cliff. Green burrowed into the bear’s fur, fumbling for its skin. They rolled off a ledge, the bear thankfully on the bottom, and landed hard on the path below them. The bear was dazed, but not for long, and Green took the opportunity to plow his hands in through that dense, thick pelt and grab the loose skin with both hands.

  Then he ripped it open. The bear reared his head back and roared in shock, and Green used the sidhe strength he so rarely relied on to punch his hand through the thing’s ribcage and yank out its heart.

  He had no idea how long he lay there, splayed over the twitching corpse of the bear, but eventually he caught his breath and his heartbeat returned to normal, and he pulled himself out of the bloody pit of the thing’s chest and took stock.

  Bloody hell. He didn’t eat meat, Adrian didn’t eat anything—and here was a life that would be wasted completely unless someone who knew something about dressing a dead animal emerged from the woodwork.

  And then—oh Goddess. He was covered in blood.

  He’d killed before. He was not pretty or skilled at it. He’d swung into a human regiment once, drunk on grief and a berserker’s rage, and emerged dripping in viscera and completely alone. He knew it was in him and knew when to use it and for the most part was unashamed of the violence that could pulse in his veins.

  But it was something Adrian had never seen.

  Adrian relied on Green’s compassion, his tenderness. Green had been the gentle healing for a violence-rent soul. It was irrational—Green knew he was often ruled by emotion—but suddenly it became imperative that Adrian not see him covered in blood.

  He gave a grunt and looked below him, over the ledge of this portion of the road, and saw the river ripping its way through the canyon. He was an elf. He could move at amazing speeds, but not on terrain such as this, where every footfall was rife with the possibility of slipping on loose shale and crumbling red dirt. He gave another grunt and looked above him. Oh Holy Goddess, he’d fallen a long way. He gasped and looked at the corpse of his enemy, then gave it a vicious, irrational, and highly satisfying kick in the side. Bloody fucking thing—he was in the thick of it now, wasn’t he?

  And then, to make matters worse, there was a bloodthirsty monster stalking him. Hurt beyond madness, maddened by grief, it slunk in the shadows, just waiting for a moment to rip out an innocent throat, to feast on the sweet ichor of—

  “Stop it.” Green’s voice echoed in Teague’s head. “I gave you this precious fucking memory to dream of. You’d best remember it right.”

  Teague grunted, came partially awake, realized he’d allowed his own dream, his own madness, to intrude, and let out a wolf whine in shame.

  “No worries.” Green’s voice smelled like wildflowers. Was that possible? “Now see it through to the end, right, mate?”

  Teague’s answer was to sink again into the dream, where he could smell the dust and the pine and the bright orange poppies peeking through the crevices of the rocky soil, taunting Green with a little bit of softness in this terribly hard land….

  By midmorning, Green had just about decided what to do. He’d recovered his breath and sat next to the cooling body of the bear, measuring his options. His bib overalls—the steel rivets carefully treated with salt water and herbs—and thermal shirt were sopping with blood, and so was the long queue down his back. He absolutely could not face Adrian like this.

  He would feel better about the kill if he knew the bear’s meat would be used. He stood with a sigh and bent, getting his back and legs and shoulders into the lift, to move the body down into the coolness of the canyon, where it would be more likely to be found either by a predator or the miners who periodically ventured to the river down there. Even for a sidhe, six-hundred-plus pounds of hairy predator was something of a lift. He just about had the thing balanced, and was working up to a good trot across the scrabble path, when a wolf crossed in front of him.

  Green slowed, moving smoothly. If the wolf wanted the bear, he could have it, but otherwise, Green was a wood elf. When he wasn’t vibrating with desperation and panic, he was usually pretty comfortable in a rural setting. Besides, while he did not know bears, he was relatively comfortable with wolves. They were usually content to watch his kind and felt no need to interfere.

  But suddenly the wolf was a naked human—his hair long, straight, and white, and his body, still muscular and sound, covered in sagging skin.

  This was not just a wolf—it was an old skin-changer, a werewolf.

  Green was so surprised, he dropped the bear. It landed in the dust with a heavy, bone-breaking thud, and Green and the werewolf stared at it in shock.

  “It is just as well,” the werewolf said after a moment. “My brothers will want to eat it, and they would rather not journey down to the river today.”

  Green looked up, wondering if his eyes were as big as they felt. “You speak English.”

  The old man blinked and sank to his haunches, as comfortable in that position nude as Green would be. Green joined him, hunkering down in the middle of the hard-scrabble trail by the corpse of the dead bear. It only seemed polite.

  “I like humans,” the werewolf replied mildly. His voice was canyon deep and sonorous, but not without humor. “These days, humans speak English.”

  After centuries of learning Gaelic, Latin, Pictish, Welsh, Old German, Old French, and a dozen Scandinavian languages that no longer existed, Green had to agree. “These days, in these ways, yes, it’s true.”

  “So is there any other reason you were hauling a perfectly good dinner for my tribe down to the river?”

  Green sighed and looked at himself. “Yes, brother. I need to wash.”

  The old werewolf looked at him wisely. “When you get to your trees at the top of the hill, you will be able to call water. Why not wait until then? You will need your strength, brother. Even for your kind, it will not be an easy climb if you wish to beat the dawn again.”

  The blush traveled from Green’s chest to his cheeks—he could feel it. He did not know what it looked like through the gore and fleshy matter crusted on his face, but the werewolf sniffed the air and looked at him with some amusement.

  “Surely your blood eater has no problem with violence!”

  Green shrugged and looked away. “Not from me,” he admitted, and the werewolf nodded as though this was not at all unusual.

  “This is not the hardest land to live in,” the man said after a moment of stillness. There wasn’t even a breeze across the succulents and grasses to break the quiet. “There is water and game, and the snows aren’t too bad, and the droughts do not last for lifetimes.”

  A nod, then a smile. Green was used to people speaking in poetry. It was the hallmark of the sidhe.

  “But as easy as this land may be,” the werewolf continued, “it is still difficult to survive. A challenge—especially for people like you, who come from an easier place.”

  “Yes,” Green said, wondering where this was going.

  “Do you not think your blood eater will be happy to know that you can defend yourself in such a place? I saw you shoving him into the earth in panic. You are afraid he cannot fend for himself. Wouldn’t it be a relief if one of you could survive?”

  Unexpectedly, Green felt tears. He’d been a captive for over a hundred years. How bloody good could he be at surviving if that w
as true? “I am not a warrior elf,” he said, trying not to be wretched.

  The werewolf nodded sagely. “This is good. Warriors die when they are young, or live to be naked old men having senile conversations with strangers. The world needs more men who kill from need only, not because they love it. It’s good when these men can take care of themselves. It means they will survive to teach others to love.”

  They sat for most of the day. The werewolf brought his brothers—a motley assortment of people, every age and genetic heritage to pass over this part of the continent. They lived in a quiet pack, and after thanking Green for the meat, hoisted the monster of a creature over their backs and disappeared down the road.

  The older werewolf, the pack’s alpha, stayed and shared some tubers and vegetables with Green, and Green—who had been living off hardtack for more than a week—was grateful. In the late afternoon, they moved to where Adrian’s coffin was buried, and Gray Flower, the werewolf chief, helped set up a sun blind using the tarp and watched over Green as he slept.

  He woke Green near sunset and helped to pull the coffin out of the side of the hill. It was harder than it sounded, and more than once the old Indian remarked it was a good thing Green didn’t love that blood eater too much, or they would have needed to go to the other side of the hill and pull it out that way.

  At dark, Gray Flower turned wolf and faded into the wilderness. He would visit later that night and allow Adrian to feed from him, and the long tradition of werecreatures and vampires living in symbiosis would begin. But first Green lifted the lid of Adrian’s resting place and waited for the soul wind to blow through him again.

  Adrian’s sky-spangled eyes opened, took in Green’s appearance—the blood, the savagery, and his transparent, helpless relief that Adrian would survive.

  “Bloody hell, mate! Whatever you fought, I’m glad it’s dead!”

  Green smiled, his shoulders shaking in helpless laughter, and Adrian sat up, pushed Green’s crusted hair back from his face, and kissed him, gore and all.

  THE DREAM ended abruptly.

  Teague opened his eyes. The sun was bright enough through the drapes that it would have been impossible to go back to sleep again anyway. Teague looked to where Mario had been sitting earlier and was unsurprised to see Green instead.

  Green reached out an absent hand and smoothed Teague’s hair back. The gesture was sexless, genderless, and paternal, and Teague shivered and accepted it.

  “I would have died,” he said. “In captivity. I don’t know where you were held captive, but I would have gnawed my own legs off. I couldn’t have done it.”

  Green tilted his head back against the headboard, closed his eyes, and smiled. “You silly boy. You’ve lived your whole life in captivity—first in your father’s grasp and then in your own mind. And you’ve done worse than chew your legs off. You’ve gnawed your heart into tiny pieces. But you’ve survived.”

  “I don’t want to just survive,” Teague said, shocking the hell out of himself. “I want them, Green. I want them to love me for me. I….” His chest ached. God, Goddess, whatever—it hurt just to admit. “You know, for a minute yesterday, I was happy. I….” Teague turned away from Green and buried his face in the pillows, hoping he would smother himself rather than let the words come out, but they burst free anyway. “I could be so happy with them.”

  Green was suddenly stretched out behind him, spooning him into a cocooning embrace Teague couldn’t fight, didn’t want to.

  “You will be, mate. You’ll see. Having them watch you fight is exactly right, and Jack’s need to accept who you are is exactly right. You’ll get your happy ending, mate. I cannot choose to think otherwise.”

  Teague had learned that elves couldn’t lie, so he noticed—he noticed Green didn’t say “I have no doubts.”

  And it was actually comforting to know that Green had doubts. Because that made two of them. But it made two of them who hoped—no, more than that. Three. No, five. No, there were more. Teague realized everybody who had sat and watched movies in the common room with him would be hoping that afternoon.

  Whether he and his lovers had a hope of becoming forever or not, he would never be alone. “Captivity,” Green had said. Not anymore. For the first time in his life, Teague felt free.

  Passive Atonement

  JACK HAD learned to love Katy, even though she had only showed up in the beginning to be with Teague. The fact that she didn’t leave him alone after Teague left only cemented the deal.

  She was the one who helped him to his feet, who sat him in his stuffed chair and stroked his face until the sobs settled in his chest. She was the one who crooned at him until he was ready to quiet and to listen. For a few moments, they sat in silence, and he appreciated her—her softness, her gentleness. He and Teague were all sharpness, rough edges, hard planes. Katy fit well with them. Fit well with him. The thought almost started him off again, and he couldn’t do that.

  “Where do you think he is?” Jack asked when the silence pressed too hard on his chest.

  “In the front room having a breakup party,” Katy answered promptly, without having to think, and Jack squinted at her. He’d never heard of such a thing.

  “What, college boy? You never see one of those in a dorm? They’re in all the movies.”

  Jack flushed. “I only started watching movies after I started rooming with Teague.”

  Katy blinked at him slowly. “Oh, Jacky! You really did think life was your own little blanket fort, didn’t you? Didn’t you see? The world doesn’t just wait outside while you and your people make nice. You either deal with the world or it falls down and crushes your head!”

  “Or your heart,” Jack said softly. His face threatened to crumple again. Teague had looked… sad. Defeated. Lonely. All the things Jack had sworn Teague would never be again, and Jack had driven him to that place in his heart. And now, now Teague was out with the world, and Jack was here alone.

  Katy patted his cheek. Well, not alone.

  “He’ll come back,” she said softly. “He has a point, that’s all. He is hurt, but he’s not just our lover anymore. We’ve got to do more than kiss his boo-boos and make it better. We’ve got to obey him, just like a leader. And we’ve got to obey the people he bows to. This isn’t America anymore, Jacky. This is like the, the….” She waved her arms, looking for the word, and Jack found himself smiling. She did that a lot. As reserved as he and Teague were, it was lovely to see some animation, some excitement, in the eyes of the other member of their family.

  Katy’s arms stilled in a dramatic flair, and she found her words. “Like the United Peoples of Green or something! Green’s the big shit, Cory’s his other half, and Teague’s like his cabinet or something, you know? We’re not just being married to the guy who breaks our hearts. We’re being married to the Secretary of Big Fucking Werewolf Shit, and if the President says our guy has to go keep the peace, baby, that’s what he does!”

  Jack reached out an arm and pulled gently on Katy’s waist as she sat on the arm of his chair. She took the hint and allowed herself to be pulled into his lap, and he feathered his hand through her blue-black hair. “That’s what he does,” he echoed softly. He’d loved poetry classes in college. Sometimes the simplest grammar said the best goddamned things.

  “Yeah, hon,” she said into his chest. Her voice was a sad little echo, and he realized he’d done this to her too. His own stupidity—his complete lack of judgment—had not just driven Teague away from him, but away from her.

  “Why didn’t he take you with him?” Jack wondered aloud. “He could have stayed in your room. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Katy looked up at him, her tears running her mascara, and he tenderly wiped them away with his thumbs and then wiped his thumbs on his jeans.

  “Don’t you get it, Jacky? He loves me. I don’t doubt that. But you’re the one he followed. You’re the one he became a werewolf for. He can’t just love one of us. He can love his family and be happy, or he ca
n break his heart and be alone.”

  Jack sighed in frustration. “Damn it, that’s not fair! I’m not worth all of that!”

  A small, soft hand grasped his chin and forced him to meet a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes. “Now, see—that’s what he’s felt like these last weeks. And we finally convince him it’s not true, and….”

  “Yeah,” Jack whispered miserably. “And I fuck it all up. And part of the reason he feels like it’s not true….”

  “Is that the shit he does here at the hill is important. Yeah. You’re starting to get it now, aren’t you, pendejo!”

  Jack frowned. “What’s pendejo mean?” he asked suspiciously.

  Katy grinned at him tiredly. “Let’s just say it’s not as bad as puta and leave it at that, okay, Jacky?”

  Jack nodded. Okay. In either language, he was an asshole. He guessed he knew that now, didn’t he?

  They had their own little breakup party in their room. Jack and Teague’s television had been moved in, as well as their own DVD collection, and Jack put in About Time. Katy was about to slip away and get them some food when Grace showed up with a tray, including some desserts, and presented it to her.

  Jack saw Katy blush. She cast him a surreptitious glance and looked back at Grace gratefully. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soaked in shame for something Jack had done, something Katy had nothing to do with.

  Grace rolled her eyes, caught Jack’s miserable glance, and winked. “He’s not the only one to not know what he’s dealing with here. No worries, Katy. You guys are welcome in the were common room, or with the vamps….”

  Katy shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It would be better if he didn’t see us at all. At least not until tomorrow.”

  Grace took the tray back from Katy and put it on the dresser, snagged Teague’s soiled, discarded clothing as she did so, and tossed it in a little pile outside the door. Then she turned to Katy and enfolded the girl in a long-limbed hug.