Ascension (4 page)

While Peter went for his run, Jeremy and I disposed of Peter’s clothing a few miles away. As we did, Jeremy talked the situation over with me, making sure I understood what had happened and why. He no longer worried that I might be traumatized by such things, nor seemed surprised when I wasn’t. At first I’m sure he wondered whether my acceptance of such things was a cause for concern, maybe a sign that I lacked a conscience. By now, though, we’d been through enough for him to understand the truth about me. I couldn’t grieve for those two dead girls any more than I could ever grieve for any person, human or werewolf, that I hadn’t known.

That didn’t mean that I couldn’t understand the tragedy of their passing. Every death should have a purpose. If it doesn’t, then it is tragedy, and anyone who commits such an act has violated a basic law of nature. The only excuse for killing an animal is for food. The only excuse for killing a human is protection of self or Pack. Even if I could stand there, stone-faced, as Peter and Jeremy disposed of two bodies, that didn’t mean my brain wasn’t processing the tragedy of it, and that I wasn’t storing this lesson away in my memory. What I’d seen that day shouldn’t have happened and, knowing how it had happened, I’d make sure I never let myself get into a similar situation.

Once we’d burned the clothing, we returned for Peter. Jeremy parked a quarter-mile from the nature preserve. Then we walked to the fence, climbed it and headed into the woods. Jeremy followed Peter’s trail to a pile of clothing haphazardly shoved under a tree. He inhaled deeply, sampling the wind. I did the same, and couldn’t pick up a fresh scent, meaning Peter was still running.

"Can we go, too?" I asked as Jeremy pushed Peter’s clothing farther under the bush.

"I suppose so," he said. "Just remember—"

"Hide my clothing better than that," I said. "Yeah, I know." I started to look for a place to Change, then glanced over my shoulder at him. "Can I go find him as soon as I’m done? Or do I have to wait for you?"

Jeremy chuckled. "Since when have you ever had to wait for me?" he said, and disappeared into the forest.

Jeremy was right, of course. Even at Stonehaven, where I could gain a few minutes by tossing my clothing wherever it landed, I could never Change faster than Jeremy. No one in the Pack could, though, so that was some consolation.

When I finished, Jeremy was lying outside my thicket, head on his paws, eyes closed, as if he’d been waiting so long he’d fallen asleep. I snorted and pounced, but he rolled out of the way easily, sprang to his feet, twisted around and pinned me by the neck before I even had time to think of my next move. I sighed, breath billowing out in the cold air. He gave a low tremor of a growl that I’d learned to interpret as his wolf-version of a chuckle.

He released my neck and turned, as if to run, presenting me with his flank. I shouldn’t have fallen for it. Only the most incompetent wolf would turn from his opponent like that. I was young, though, young and hopeful. When Jeremy turned, I scrambled up and dove at his flank, jaws open. At the last second, he dropped to the ground, and I flew over his back and pitched muzzle-first into the ground. While I lay there, sulking with a noseful of dirt, he prodded my hindquarters and gave a soft growl, telling me the game was over, we had to go find Peter.

When I got to my feet, Jeremy jerked his head, making an arc to the left. Then did the same to the right. Communication in wolf-form is never easy, but we’ve learned to supplement the basic growls, yips and snorts with enough motions to get across a more complicated message. Jeremy was telling me that the game wasn’t really over—it had just changed form. Since there was no rush to find Peter, we could make a tracking sport of it. One of us would go left, the other right, neither following the easy trail Peter had left. We’d see who could find him first. I answered by tearing off to the left.

After about a hundred feet, I stopped and set to work. Tracking by secondary clues is much harder than following a trail. You have to use all your senses: listening for twigs crackling underfoot, sniffing for a scent on the breeze, looking for movement in the shadows. Being overanxious to beat Jeremy, I took off after the first noise I heard, and startled a couple of field mice. That was embarrassing—mistaking two mice for a hundred-and-seventy pound wolf. After that, I forced myself to take a sixty-second breather. When I felt calm enough to continue, I set out again.

I found a path and padded along it, nose and ears twitching for some sign of Peter. I’d gone about fifty yards when there came a noise so loud that I dove for cover, fearing gunfire.

When my heart stopped thudding, I realized that the sound came from something crashing through the undergrowth. Had Peter frightened a buck? Or a stray dog? Whatever it was, it was large, and it was running full out, not caring how much noise it made. I crept from my hiding spot and moved a few cautious steps down the path. The wind shifted then, bringing a scent that made my eyes widen in shock. Jeremy? No, that couldn’t be right. Jeremy would never crash through the forest like a panicked deer. I snorted, clearing my nose to sniff again. Then I caught Peter’s scent . . . and that of another werewolf, one who definitely shouldn’t be out here.

A yip rang out, the high-pitched yelp of a surprised wolf. I didn’t recognize the voice, so I knew it was Peter. A growl followed. I knew that growl.

I shot forward, running as fast as I could. I veered off the path to take the shortest route. Twigs whipped my face. One caught my left eye, the sudden sting forcing it closed, but I just narrowed the other eye and kept running.

I made it to the clearing first. There, inside, was a wolf with dark red fur—Peter—lying on his back. Looming over him was a massive black wolf.

Peter twisted and bucked, hind legs kicking, but Malcolm had him pinned. Malcolm growled, lowered his face to Peter’s and looked him square in the eye. Peter struggled wildly and managed to claw Malcolm in the belly. With a roar, Malcolm grabbed Peter by the neck ruff and dashed him, headfirst, into a boulder. Peter went limp. Malcolm stepped over Peter’s prone body and pulled his head back for the throat slash that would end Peter’s life. Then the bushes behind him parted, and Jeremy leapt through.

Player

Jeremy sprang at Malcolm and hit him in the left flank, knocking him to the ground. Malcolm’s surprise lasted about a millisecond. Then he jumped to his feet and charged. Jeremy tried to feint, but the momentum of his spring left him off-balance and Malcolm hit him square in the side of his ribcage. Jeremy’s breath flew out in a groan and he skidded sideways to the ground. Malcolm lunged for a throat-hold, but Jeremy managed to scuttle backward fast enough to get out of his way.

As Malcolm swung around again, Jeremy leapt to his feet and dove out of the path of his charge. Jeremy barely had time to recover from the dive before Malcolm twisted around and rushed him. This time, though, when Jeremy tried to evade, Malcolm was ready. He swerved in mid-lunge and caught Jeremy by the hind leg, throwing him down.

As much as I wanted to believe otherwise, I knew Jeremy was no match for his father. At forty-seven, Malcolm was a werewolf in his prime, having the experience of age yet none of its disabilities. The only wolf in the Pack who could beat him was Dominic and even that was starting to be questioned as age slowed Dominic’s reflexes. Mutts came to Stonehaven for one reason: to challenge the best. That "best" was not, and never would be, Jeremy.

Although I knew this, I waited out the first few minutes, hoping I was wrong, and afraid if I jumped in, I’d get in Jeremy’s way. Jeremy recovered from the first throw-down, and managed to slice a gash in Malcolm’s foreleg but that was the only hit he scored. Within five minutes, Jeremy was bleeding from his hind leg and his left ear, and the froth around his mouth was tinged with pink.

I knew then that no amount of luck was going to get Jeremy through this. Nor was staying out of his way going to help. So I leapt in, snarling, and threw myself on Malcolm’s back. For a full-grown wolf, this is a good offensive move, pitching your weight onto your opponent and bringing him down. For an eighty pound pup, it was like dropping a terrier onto a bull Mastiff. I executed my leap perfectly, and landed square on his back, fangs finding purchase in the loose skin behind his neck. And all Malcolm did was huff in surprise, then fling me off.

When I got back to my feet, I changed tactics. If I couldn’t be formidable, at least I could be annoying. While the two wolves fought, I darted around Malcolm’s legs and tail, nipping and tripping him. It distracted him enough to prevent a quick victory, but not enough to let Jeremy win. Finally, Malcolm tired of snarling and snapping at me. With one full-on charge, he knocked Jeremy flying into the undergrowth. Then he turned on me.

I should have run. I know that. But running would mean leaving Jeremy behind, and I couldn’t do it. I pulled myself up to my full height, braced my forelegs against the ground, lowered my head between my shoulder-blades and snarled at him. Malcolm stood there for a moment, watching me, head slightly tilted, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Then he lumbered over to me, lowered his head until we were muzzle to muzzle, and growled. I growled back. Malcolm met my eyes and I swear he smiled. Then Jeremy hit him from behind, knocking him away from me, and the fight began again.

Any hope we had of besting Malcolm faded fast. Jeremy was hurt, and getting more hurt by the minute. I was only wearing myself out. Soon Malcolm had Jeremy pinned by the neck. I went wild then, attacking his head with every ounce of strength I had left. He just pinned Jeremy with his forepaws and threw me off. By the time I recovered, he had Jeremy by the throat again.

Jeremy’s eyes were closed. When I saw that, everything in me went cold. Then I saw that Jeremy’s chest continued to rise and fall. Malcolm loosened his grip and lifted his head. The fur around Jeremy’s neck was wet, but with saliva, not blood. Malcolm hadn’t bitten Jeremy, only choked him until he lost consciousness. Malcolm backed off then, gaze fixed on Jeremy.

Had he realized, in that last moment, that he couldn’t kill his son? Yes. But only because, if he did, he would lose everything. Edward Danvers’s will not only gave Jeremy Stonehaven and all its assets, but stipulated that on Jeremy’s death—no matter how he died—the estate would go to charity. And, perhaps even worse, a letter would be delivered to Dominic or his successor, detailing crimes that would guarantee Malcolm’s execution. Should Jeremy not die, but be permanently incapacitated, the same provisions took effect. So Malcolm was trapped. His life and his livelihood depended on the continued good health of his son.

After a long, regret-filled stare at Jeremy, Malcolm turned to me.

I raced forward, swerved past him and wheeled, positioning myself over Jeremy’s head. When he stepped toward me, I lowered my head and growled. He took another step. I snapped at his foreleg, teeth clicking hard when he pulled back. For a moment, he just looked at me. Then he turned to his original quarry: Peter, who was still unconscious.

I waited until he was far enough from Jeremy that I could be sure he wasn’t trying to divert my attention. Then I sprang over top of Peter and growled. Malcolm stopped short, eyes widening. This, I suppose, he hadn’t expected. Again, he stepped toward his prey. Again, I warned him off, forelegs braced, fur on end, making me look, oh, at least a good five pounds heavier.

I drew back my lips and snarled. He stopped and tilted his head, gaze locking with mine. I could feel the depth of that gaze as he studied me. He feinted left. I blocked him. He darted forward. I snapped, this time in an awkward swipe at his throat. He pulled back and, again, I saw a smile in his eyes.

Several more times he tried to get around me. I know now that he’d been toying with me, testing my willingness to protect Peter. If he’d wanted me out of the way, he could have grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and tossed me aside. At the time, though, I truly believed I was the only thing standing between a Pack brother and certain death, and I put everything I had into countering Malcolm’s moves. Once I even managed to snag his foreleg. When that happened, he pulled back, as if in shock. He looked down at the small wound, then at me, and I saw something in his gaze that made my stomach turn: admiration.

I lunged at him, snarling. He grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the ground. For a minute, he held me there, not clamping down, just holding me, like a wolf with a misbehaving pup. While holding me, he glanced at Peter. Resolution flickered in his eyes, as if he’d decided something. Then he backed off me, huffed once, billowing steam from his nostrils, and loped into the forest.

I kept watch over Jeremy and Peter until they awoke. Jeremy was first. About ten minutes after Malcolm left, he started twitching and moaning as if struggling to wake up. Then he shot to his feet and looked around, lips pulled back in a snarl. When he saw me, he relaxed. He circled the clearing once, sniffing the air, but Malcolm was long gone. Peter stirred then and, after a few prods from Jeremy, opened his eyes. He looked around dazedly, then his lids drooped. When Jeremy prodded him again, he snapped at him. Jeremy snarled back and prodded Peter until he got to his feet. Peter shook himself, then blinked, as if suddenly remembering what had happened. Jeremy herded us back to where I’d left my clothing. We took turns Changing while the other two stood guard.

Once we’d all Changed, Jeremy assessed injuries, beginning with me. I had only bumps and scrapes from being thrown around by Malcolm.