Ascension

01 • Initiative
02 • Vision
03 • Lesson
04 • Player
05 • Angst
06 • Misunderstood
07 • Problem
08 • Circumstances
09 • Legend
10 • Changes
11 • Challenge
12 • Stalemate
13 • Endgame

Initiative

I raced over the snow, head down, eyes slitted against the flurries thrown up by Jeremy’s paws. Although Jeremy was cutting the path for me, I could still barely keep up, and with each bound, I fell a bit farther behind. For once, Jeremy didn’t slow to let me catch up. He couldn’t. Just ahead of him ran a doe. Antonio kept pace on the deer’s other side, reigning her in and keeping her running straight.

At a soft growl from Jeremy, I glanced up. Still running, Antonio ducked his head to peer at Jeremy under the doe. Jeremy growled again, and they both checked their speed, letting the deer pull ahead. As they fell a foot behind, then a yard, the doe found her last reserves of strength and shot forward, all attention fixed on the field just ahead. She made it another couple of yards. Then Malcolm sailed from the bushes on her left side. The deer skidded and wheeled on him, hooves flying. As Malcolm danced out of her way, Dominic flew from the bushes on the other side of the path. He vaulted onto the doe’s back. Her thin legs buckled and she went down. Malcolm lunged at her belly, teeth bared, but Dominic snapped at him and Malcolm veered out of the way, leaving the final blow for the Alpha.

As the deer’s blood seeped into the snow, Dominic fed. Everyone else had to wait, which they did with varying degrees of patience, from Malcolm and the Santoses, who paced icy ruts in the snow beside the deer, to Antonio and Dennis Stillwell who stood poised like setters on point, to Jeremy, who found himself a clear patch of snow and laid down, head on his paws.

After Dominic took the first few gulps, he glanced my way and snorted, jerking his muzzle toward the deer. When it came to eating, I wasn’t expected to follow the rules of Pack hierarchy. I might have been the only child werewolf they’d ever known, but in this, like most things, they followed the rules of a real wolf pack. The feeding of pups was too important to be left to chance. So I was permitted to eat with the Alpha. For the first few years, I’d accepted the privilege but, at ten, I no longer considered myself a pup needing handouts. I could wait my turn or hunt for myself. I declined Dominic’s invitation with a grunt, and walked over to lie down beside Jeremy.

After Dominic ate his fill, it was the next highest ranking wolf’s turn. As for who held that position . . . well, that was open to interpretation. Since Dominic’s older son, Gregory didn’t hunt, his youngest, Antonio, usually ate second. But today Malcolm, who usually grumbled that deer hunts bored him to tears, had decided to join us.

When Dominic backed off, both Antonio and Malcolm stepped forward, approaching the deer from opposite sides. They looked across the deer at one another. Malcolm flattened his ears against his head and raised his hackles. Antonio lowered his head between his shoulder blades and growled. There was plenty of meat—and room—for both to feed, but that didn’t matter.

As the two faced off over the deer, Jeremy pushed to his feet. When I glanced at him, his mouth opened, tongue lolling out in a wolf-grin. As Antonio and Malcolm growled and snarled at one another, Jeremy slipped up behind Antonio, stopping just behind his field of vision. No one else noticed, all too intent on the fight brewing. Jeremy crouched, wiggled his hindquarters as he tested his grip in the snow, then vaulted forward, darting in right under Antonio’s nose. He grabbed the deer’s fore-haunch, ripped it free and backpedaled out of the way.

With a roar, Malcolm flew over the deer at his son, but Antonio knocked Jeremy out of the way, then fell on him, snapping and snarling. To an outsider, Antonio’s thrashing would look real enough, but a wolf would notice that none of his snaps did more than graze Jeremy’s skin. A playful drubbing for a good-natured trick. As Antonio and Jeremy rolled together tussling, Malcolm stood back, hackles still raised, waiting for them to stop so he could let his son know what
he
thought of his trick. But they kept at it, tumbling out of the clearing, the deer forgotten. Malcolm snorted, then grabbed the haunch Jeremy had ripped off and dragged it away to feed.

Once Malcolm was preoccupied with the leg, Jeremy and Antonio raced back into the clearing, before the others could decide they’d forfeited their share. They ate together, side by side, bickering over the choice bits with mock snaps and snarls.

By the time Jorge and the
Santos
brothers moved in, it was apparent that there wouldn’t be much left for me. Only Gregory had sat this hunt out, and the doe wasn’t very big. I’d probably wind up with scraps, and I’d need to battle Stephen even for those. Time to find my own meal.

I had to cross the forest before I stood any chance of finding a rabbit. A Pack hunt is pure sport. Keeping quiet isn’t a priority—if they miss their target and scare off every animal within a half-mile radius, it’s hardly a matter of life and death. They can just head for the house and raid the refrigerator instead.

The first rabbit I found, I lost just as quickly. No big surprise. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d caught my first target. There were grown werewolves in the Pack who couldn’t catch a rabbit if it ran under their nose, so I didn’t feel so bad. It took me a while to find rabbit number two, but when I did, I nabbed it on the first pounce. It’d been worth the wait. The first had been a scrawny winter-starved yearling; this one was a fat hare—more than a meal even for my appetite.

As I tore it open, another scent pierced the overwhelming smell of fresh blood. A werewolf. As I lifted my head, I caught a glimpse of dark fur. Jeremy probably. Maybe Antonio. But when my muzzle rose above the rabbit, I got a better whiff and my hackles rose.

Stephen Santos slid out from the trees. He met my gaze, and his lips curled back in a grimace more sneer than snarl. I grabbed my rabbit and backpedaled into the brush. Stephen advanced on me, nose twitching from the smell of fresh meat. A few drops of saliva dribbled into the snow. I growled, a clear "get your own meal". He bared his teeth and continued forward, ears going back, fur rising . . . as if he needed to make himself larger—he was not only double my age, but nearly triple my weight, and filling out with more muscle each time I saw him.

I backed up another few feet, and hit a solid wall of tree trunk. I looked from side to side, but the brush here was too thick. There was no chance of a breakway—not with a rabbit in my mouth . . . and I sure as hell wasn’t leaving that behind.

I crouched. Stephen’s mouth fell open in a grin, interpreting my posture as a sign of submission. When I dropped my gaze, he snorted a chuckle, and loped toward me. I watched his forepaws, waiting until they were close enough for me to see his claws. Then I threw myself forward, snarling and snapping.

Stephen fell back. Before he could recover, I wheeled, snatched my rabbit and tore past him. He jumped at me, but slid in the snow, yelping as he crashed into the thick brush. I kept running—and almost plowed headlong into a tall pair of dark legs. As I skidded to a halt, I caught a whiff of scent and my gut twisted. Still holding my rabbit, I looked up—way up—and met Malcolm’s eyes.

Malcolm looked down at me, then over at Stephen, who was still disentangling himself from the bushes. He shook his head and shot a disgusted glare Stephen’s way. Stephen rose to his feet, gaze fixing on mine, eyes blazing hate and humiliation. I looked from him to Malcolm. I was trapped.

I laid the rabbit down. Malcolm’s muzzle dipped, nodding, as if this was what he expected from me. I released the rabbit and stepped away. As Stephen lunged for it, I grabbed the rabbit by the rear legs and ran the other way.

I got about twenty feet before Malcolm leapt into my path. From behind me came the pound of Stephen’s running feet, growing closer each second. Malcolm jerked his muzzle to the side, telling me to toss down the rabbit. I planted my feet and pulled myself up at tall as I could, my head barely reaching his chest, rabbit still in my mouth. His eyes met mine. He tilted his head and, for a moment, just looked at me. Then he stepped aside.

I got to keep my dinner that night. I might not be able to outfight or outrun Stephen, but I could outsmart him, which I did by picking a path through brush too thick for a full-grown wolf to pass. By the time I finished eating, I heard Raymond Santos whistling for his son, and I knew the others had Changed back. I did the same, then ran to catch up.

I found Jeremy with Dominic and Jorge, about a quarter-mile from the house. As I ran to Jeremy, Antonio ambushed me from behind a tree, scooping me up in the air.

"Hey there, scrap," Antonio said. "Where’s you’d run off to?" He held me out at arm’s length and made a show of sniffing. "Is that rabbit I smell? I hope you caught enough for all of us."

"If he can catch one for himself, he’s doing just fine," Dominic said. "Better than fine."

"But he can always use more practice," Antonio said. "I say next Meet we let Clay catch our dinner. A bunny buffet." He grinned down at me. "Or guinea pig. He knows how to carve up a guinea pig."

"No, I don’t," I said. "They never let me finish."

Everyone laughed. Antonio swung me down to the ground. At a shout from the yard, I looked to see Nick running toward us.

"Good hunt?" he called.

Antonio shot his son a thumbs up. Nick raced up beside me.

"Did you get to help?" he asked.

"Course he did," Antonio said. "And he caught his own rabbit."

"Oh, man," Nick said. "You are so lucky. Was it a big one? Where’d you find it? How’d you catch it?"

While I answered his endless questions, the rest of the Pack caught up with us. Only Ross Werner and Dennis Stillwell joined our group—the Santoses and Cliff Ward hung back with Malcolm.

"Is someone here?" Ross asked, pointing at the driveway.

He was off to our right, the only one who could see around the rows of cedars lining the drive. A few more steps, and we all saw what he meant—a black pickup truck in the lane, new paint glinting in the winter sun.

"Oh, right," Nick said. "That’s what I came out about. Some guy dropped it off about an hour ago. Didn’t come to the house or anything. Just left it there. Joey said you guys must have forgotten to tell me we were getting a new truck."

"Truck?" I said, wrinkling my nose. I glanced over my shoulder at Antonio. "You bought a truck?"

Dominic mock-scowled at me. "And what is wrong with a truck, Clayton?"

Antonio put his arm around my shoulder, his other going around Nick. "They aren’t fast, are they, boys? And we like ‘em fast."

Jeremy rolled his eyes.

"So whose truck is it?" Nick asked. "Jorge? Poppa?"

Jorge shook his head. Dominic looked around, pretending not to hear.

"Hey," Antonio said. "I think we’re missing a car in that driveway. Not that I’m surprised. Damn thing was on its last legs. Probably just crumpled into a pile of rust."

I scanned the driveway, then looked over at Jeremy, who was doing the same, his brows knitting.

"Jeremy? Where’s our car?"

"The junk-heap," Antonio said. "Where it belongs."

Jeremy turned to Dominic. "Please don’t tell me you—"

Antonio grinned. "It was a mercy killing."

I watched Jeremy, seeing him struggle to keep his face impassive.

"I appreciate the gesture, Dominic," he said slowly. "But I don’t need—"

"I know you don’t," Dominic said. "But
I
do. Last month, when Nick had a fever, it took you eight hours to get here in that snowstorm. We can’t have that."

"Hell, no," a voice muttered behind us. "Kid might have died. A fever. Imagine that."

Dominic turned sharp, lips curling. Stephen, Wally and Raymond Santos all stood behind us. Dominic’s gaze slid from one to the other, but he couldn’t tell who’d made the comment.

"Dominic has a point," Jeremy said softly. "My car wasn’t suited to winter driving, and if I’m going to provide emergency medical care, I need something that is. So I will buy myself a truck—"

"What?" Antonio said. "Some old beater that doesn’t run any better than that car?"

Jeremy stiffened.

Antonio slapped his back. "Come on, Jer. Stop being so damned stubborn—"

"An old truck won’t do," Dominic said. "This isn’t a gift, Jeremy. You’re taking on this new responsibility, and saving me a bundle on doctor’s bills. I know you won’t accept anything more than gas money—"

"I don’t need payment."

"Of course you don’t. You’re doing it for the Pack. And, in return, the Pack will make sure that you have everything you need to do the job properly—including reliable transportation."

"I—"

"Enough," Dominic said.

He shot Jeremy a scowl that said he meant it. Jeremy hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Wally strode up beside us. "So, let me get this straight. Jeremy plays doctor and he gets a brand-new truck for it? Hell, if I’d known that I’d—"