Storm Hound

by Claire Fayers

  To my cats. I’m so sorry.

  I have no idea how this book happened.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  SOME MONTHS LATER

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  He was Storm of Odin, last-born hound of the Wild Hunt that runs across the plains of the sky on stormy nights. He was barely four months old, but almost as tall as the crimson-tailed horses that raced before him. His coat was the black of the deepest midnight; his eyes shone golden-bright, alive with excitement.

  He was Storm of Odin and this was his first hunt. He opened his mouth and howled, his voice joining the cries of the pack around him. The scream of hunting horns echoed between the wide horizons, and moonlight glanced off the hunters’ helmets and the tips of their spears. Sky and earth trembled together.

  He was Storm of Odin, and . . .

  . . . he was having a little trouble keeping up.

  He ran as fast as ever – faster, in fact, because he was straining now, his muscles beginning to ache, and the wild joy of the hunt was being overtaken by an uneasy feeling that all was not well. He dropped his head and his howls became a series of pants and grunts as he struggled to keep his legs moving forward. The crimson horsetails were no longer in his face but flickered in the darkness ahead.

  The stormhound slowed, and his paws began to sink through the cloud beneath him. He howled again, his voice less like thunder across cloud-topped mountains and more a cry of: ‘Hey, wait for me!’

  No one heard. No one waited.

  The Wild Hunt rushed on.

  Far behind them all, Storm of Odin uttered a final yelp and fell from the sky.

  Morning came and brought a headache with it. The sunlight made everything bright and sharp-edged – much bigger than he’d expected. The sky, no longer thunder-filled, was a clear, light grey, speckled with white wisps that didn’t deserve the name of clouds. Mountains rose in indistinct humps all around while, closer by, trees towered over him, their branches hung with faded green leaves. Grass pricked at his paws as he took his first step.

  Where was he?

  The only creatures in sight were a huddle of sheep staring at him from a field on the other side of a grey stripe on the ground. A road – he’d heard the huntsmen speak of them. Humans built them because they didn’t have wild horses to carry them. Instead, they crawled along these grey paths in armoured shells like snails.

  The stormhound stepped on to the road to look about. The surface was rough, surprisingly hard and smelled of warm stones and tar. A large sign stood opposite.

  These shapes meant nothing to him. And why weren’t the sheep fleeing from him in terror, or falling at his feet in awe? Were they so stupid they didn’t know who he was?

  Hey! Sheep! the stormhound shouted.

  The sheep gazed blankly at him, chewing grass. Eventually, one of them wandered closer. You talking to us?

  Who else would I be talking to? A growl rose in Storm of Odin’s throat as he prowled forward. I am Storm of Odin of the Wild Hunt. Did you not hear us pass by last night?

  The sheep looked at one another and back at him. If you’re a stormhound, said the one who’d spoken before, I’m Aries. The Ram – get it?

  And I’m Rameses of Egypt, another one baaed. The whole flock fell about laughing.

  Storm of Odin growled again in annoyance. You’re not even rams, you stupid sheep.

  The sheep only laughed harder.

  Caaaaaaar! one of them shouted.

  The stormhound shook his head. Don’t you mean ‘baaaaa’?

  The ground trembled. Storm of Odin leaped backwards just in time. A rush of air, a noise like thunder and something metal roared by on the road. It was vast – the size of a chariot – and almost as loud as the Wild Hunt.

  A moment later it was gone.

  The stormhound rolled over and came up coughing. The air tasted of smoke and oil.

  Car, the sheep said smugly. The rest of the flock chewed grass frantically, looking as if they were trying not to laugh.

  Another of the metal things rushed into sight and shot by, faster and noisier than anything the stormhound had seen in his short life.

  What do you get if you cross a stormhound and a sheep? one of the sheep asked. A very baaaaaaad dog. Go back to the sky, storm puppy. It’s not safe here.

  Storm puppy? Storm of Odin growled at the insult. He put a paw on the road, intending to cross over and teach the sheep a lesson, but he felt another rumble begin to build and stepped back. Odin would smite the sheep for their insolence when the Hunt returned. He turned his back with as much dignity as he could muster and began to walk.

  He was much slower than last night. The thorny weeds at the side of the road stung his paws and every time a metal car came past the wind buffeted him and he had to flatten himself to the ground. After a while, rain began to fall and he plodded on through puddles. He wanted to sit down and rest but forced himself on. This grey road must lead somewhere – why else would the humans rush along it in such a hurry?

  Then, unexpectedly, a car swerved to the side of the road and stopped. A door opened and a man stepped out.

  Storm of Odin began to growl and stopped in surprise. The man was huge, so tall that his face was a faraway blur. The stormhound scuttled backwards on his bottom. This was far worse than he’d thought. He hadn’t fallen into the world of men, after all, but a land of giants!

  The giant squatted and stretched out a hand, palm down. ‘It’s all right.’

  No, it wasn’t all right. It was very not all right. The human world was not supposed to be this big.

  Unless . . .

  Oh no.

  The thought had been knocking quietly for his attention for some time, but Storm of Odin hadn’t wanted to let it in. Now, it overwhelmed him. He looked down at the earth, at his two front paws, glossy black and quite small in the grass. He felt one of his ears flop sideways and though he growled with effort he couldn’t make it stand up again.

  The man was not a giant. Storm of Odin was small. This world had shrunk him. He let out a whimper of despair.

  The man lifted him out of the grass with hands that smelled of mint and soap. Storm of Odin bared his teeth.

  You’re a fierce little thing, aren’t you?’ the man said, and ruffled the stormhound’s black ears.

  This was worse humiliation than anything so far. When the great Lord Odin got to hear about this, he would smite this man and his tin shell from the face of the earth.

  ‘What kind of person would abandon a puppy?’ the man asked.

  The Wild Hunt, that’s who. But it wasn’t their fault I got left behind, and they’ll be back soon, so if you would kindly release me an
d be on your way I will consider asking Odin not to blast your home and family with thundery vengeance.

  The man clearly didn’t understand a word. Instead of putting Storm of Odin down on the ground, he carried him to the car and placed him gently on the back seat. Then he produced a blanket and proceeded to dry the stormhound’s wet coat.

  A fluffy blanket. Pink, printed all over with kittens and smelling of cat.

  This was too much. Storm of Odin shook himself free and stood up, ready to enact his own thundery vengeance here and now, but the man had already let him go and was climbing into the front seat of the car.

  ‘Hold tight, little guy,’ he said.

  Little guy? Eat lightning, human!

  The metal shell rumbled and lurched. The stormhound’s stomach lurched with it. On second thoughts, he’d just lie here and chew the man’s blanket for a while. That’d teach him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Storm of Odin must have dozed off because he awoke to the sound of more human voices and someone lifting him away from the smelly blanket. He’d become quite attached to its damp edges and he scrabbled to keep hold of it. He might as well have saved his strength, because the man untangled the pink folds from his claws quite easily and held him, one- handed – a feat even Odin would not have managed. Storm froze in surprise for a second before he remembered his humiliating smallness. He let his ears flop down over his eyes, blotting out this horrible world. The Wild Hunt would have returned to Odin’s halls by now. He imagined the feasting, the bones and scraps of meat thrown on the floor for the hounds to fight over, and his stomach ached.

  ‘I found him at the side of Ross Road,’ the man said. ‘It looks like someone abandoned him there. I’d take him home but I have cats.’

  A lover of cats – the enemy of hounds. No wonder the man wanted to imprison him. Storm of Odin lifted one ear a fraction and saw a second human peering down at him, a female human this time. She had sensibly chosen to protect her eyes with round pieces of glass held in a scarlet frame, although her clothing was just as flimsy as the man’s. Her dress ended at her knees and her top half was swathed in a fuzzy thing that looked like it had been borrowed from a sheep, but, smelled overwhelmingly of dogs.

  Storm of Odin stopped struggling. You smell better, Fuzzy-Lady. I will allow you to approach. But be respectful.

  The Fuzzy-Lady stroked his head. ‘He can’t be more than a few months old. Poor little thing.’

  He was not a poor little thing. He was a stormhound. He lived in the halls of Annwn beyond the mortal world. He hunted lightning for sport. He flattened his ears and gave a growl that should have sent clouds fleeing.

  The Fuzzy-Lady smiled. ‘He’s a fighter, isn’t he?’

  Of course I’m a fighter. I am a hound of the Wild Hunt.

  The Wild Hunt, which had run off and left him, he remembered. They hadn’t even noticed when he fell from the sky. Storm of Odin shook his head and sneezed. It mattered not; they would find him soon enough. His stomach rumbled. He wondered if they had any food in this place.

  Yes, there was food. Storm of Odin smelled it as the Fuzzy-Lady carried him through a doorway into a bright corridor. There were also dogs. Twenty or so of them, all lying in cells, separated by wire mesh.

  A prison! Storm of Odin barked and yelped, but somehow Fuzzy-Lady held him so that he couldn’t scrabble free. She opened the door of an empty cell.

  ‘In you go,’ she said, pushing him inside. She put a bowl of meaty chunks in front of him, patted his head and withdrew, locking his cell door firmly behind her.

  Last night, Storm of Odin would have torn the wire mesh apart and chewed the pieces just for the fun of it. Right now, he was tired and hungry and his paws still ached from all the walking. He sniffed at the meaty chunks, then licked the gravy. It was surprisingly tasty and the chunks themselves were bite-sized with just the right amount of chewiness. This huge bowl all to himself was an unexpected luxury and he buried his nose in it.

  The surrounding dogs watched curiously through their wire screens. After a while, he felt their gazes on him and he lifted his head from his bowl.

  I am Storm of Odin, he said, Stormhound of the Wild Hunt, follower of Odin One-Eye, also known as Arawn of the Otherworld. I run with thunder and lighting and all creatures tremble when I pass. He bowed his head a little to show that none of them needed to fear him. He had no quarrel with these dogs. They were prisoners here the same as him and he would treat them kindly. What is this place? he asked.

  None of the dogs appeared very impressed.

  We’re in the home for homeless dogs, dear, an old female in the cell next to his said. You don’t need to worry. We live here until a new human comes to choose us. You should get some sleep. You’ve had a hard morning.

  Storm of Odin felt his coat bristle. On the contrary, I have had a hard night. I ran with the Wild Hunt through the sky above the world of men. We passed over plains, oceans and mountains.

  You have gravy on your nose, the old dog said.

  The stormhound licked it clean irritably. You’re not listening. We chased lightning bolts across the midnight sky, I’ll have you know.

  I don’t see any Wild Hunt, another voice said. What are you doing here? On holiday, are you?

  Storm of Odin turned to see a white terrier with bright eyes and ears like triangles. The terrier cocked his head on one side and grinned, his tongue poking out. You don’t look like a stormhound. I thought the Hounds of Annwn were white with red ears.

  The stormhound growled at his impertinence. Some are. And some of us are black as midnight. Stormhounds don’t all look the same, you know.

  You have to admit, you are a bit small for a stormhound, the lady dog said.

  He should be bigger, Storm of Odin thought. He recalled the moment he’d begun to fall, that awful lurching feeling as the clouds gave way beneath his feet. The other hounds and the horses running on, none of them hearing his call for help. Shame squashed the breath out of him. He’d thought he was ready to join the Hunt. He’d wrestled with the other hounds to show how brave he was and he’d almost exploded with pride last night when Odin had whistled to him as the pack gathered. What would Odin think of him now?

  In a moment, shame turned to anger – at himself for failing, and at the rest of the Hunt for leaving him. They should have noticed sooner. They should have slowed. The stormhound growled and his shadow flooded the floor of his cell, turning huge and black, filling the space with the scent of thunder.

  The other dogs believed him then. They shrank back from him, the air suddenly sharp with their fear. The white terrier gave a nervous bark and lay down with his paws over his nose.

  Storm of Odin watched, his puppy tail waving in satisfaction but as the last dog turned away from him, his satisfaction faded and turned into something new – a strange emptiness that felt almost like hunger, except he’d only just eaten.

  He’d never been so completely on his own before. There had always been others – his mother and older siblings, and then, as he grew, the pack itself. His shadow shrank back around him and he curled up in the middle of his cell, his tail twitching back and forth across his nose.

  He was Storm of Odin and he was lonely.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jessie didn’t want a dog – not any more.

  She had wanted a puppy for as long as she could remember, right up until a few months ago. She’d filled a whole sketchbook with drawings. Big dogs with watchful expressions, little dogs that ran when she flicked through the corners of all the pages. Her dog would be small enough to curl up on her lap. A terrier, maybe, with bristly, white fur, triangular ears and a cheeky stare.

  But their London flat had been too small for pets and Mum was allergic anyway so Jessie had made do with drawing – not that she’d done much of that in the past few months, either.

  ‘Wake up, Lightning Bug,’ Dad said. He and Ben were already scrambling out of the car.

  Jessie sighed. She knew why Dad was doing this – he
thought a puppy would make her happy – but he was wrong. A puppy would just remind her that he and Mum weren’t married any more, that Mum was back in London, living in an even smaller flat, while Jessie and Ben had moved to Wales with Dad for his job.

  It made sense, Mum and Dad kept saying, and Jessie repeated it to herself now. Dad could afford a bigger house. They’d always planned to move out of London one day anyway. Mum would visit them here.

  And, now that they didn’t have to worry about allergies and space, here Jessie was, with Dad and Ben at the Abergavenny Dog Rescue Centre.

  Jessie got out of the car and stood, pretending she was an artist surveying the scene. The past few nights had been stormy – the lightning had come back to get her, Dad had joked – but now the sun had broken through the clouds and dark humps of mountains slouched in the distance. Everything around them looked strange – too much grass, too much sky. She felt exposed here, as if anything might happen, and she didn’t like it.

  They’d only come to Wales once before, further north for a holiday when Ben was a baby, and it had been stormy then too. Jessie had got out of the house and had almost been struck by lightning. She didn’t remember it at all – why would she when she’d only been four years old? She only knew about it now because Dad always went on about it.

  Ben caught her hand, swinging on her arm. ‘Jessie, come on!’

  Dad smiled at them both, but the look in his eyes was strained. Jessie squeezed Ben’s hand before pulling away. She’d tell him she needed time to make up her mind and then she’d let the days go by without deciding until he’d forgotten all about owning a dog.

  Ben grinned up at her.

  ‘Lead on, Lightning Bug,’ Dad said.

  A lady wearing red glasses and the most hideous fuzzy blue cardigan Jessie had ever seen looked up from her desk as they opened the door.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. Her Welsh accent made her voice go up and down like music. ‘I’m Seren. You must be the Price family.’

  Not quite, Jessie thought, because the Price family included Mum. She looked around the room – old armchairs, two vases of wilting pink flowers on the window sill, and one of those pictures made up of dots that turn into something if you stare for long enough – a castle in this case.