The Heart of the Lone Wolf (4 page)

He dared not defy his father’s wishes because this would probably be his last winter. Illness made his body weaker and his temper meaner every year, but it was the longing in the old man’s eyes that hurt the Youngest the most. He would give anything for his father to be strong enough to hunt in his place. But that was impossible.

He was staring at the frozen bushes of berries when he found the pack. It was early afternoon, the sun dim behind the clouds that were gathering for the next storm. He considered going home early and warming himself at the hearth. But his father would scold him if he came back too soon. Fighting off his resentment, the Youngest sighed, the crisp air stinging inside his nose when he breathed in. Then he tensed, suddenly alert. He inhaled again slower and deeper, making certain he hadn’t imagined the smell of blood.

There was a fresh kill nearby and he hadn’t heard any shots.

Peering through the trees, he spotted three wolves feasting on the stag. Before he knew what he was doing, he had unsheathed his ri fle. Sweat broke out along his brow and he had to force his hands to stop shaking. Just once, he could come home with something.

He could never compare to his brothers, but the remains of the stag and the hide of a wolf would restore his dignity. He tucked the ri fle under his shoulder, observing the pack before he took aim. He learned from his father that it was best to shoot the leader first.

Picking the largest gray, the Youngest peered down the sights and steadied his aim.

But the fourth wolf came out of nowhere, the impact knocking him off his horse.

The Youngest barely heard the blast shot towards the sky, the wind blown out of him when he hit the ground. Then all he saw was a mass of fur as black as midnight, his ri fle thrown from his hands.

The weight of the animal bore down on his chest. The Youngest stared into its teeth, suddenly crippled with terror. Lips quivered around those sharp points, blinding white against the fur. But he gripped the neck and pushed the predator away before its fangs snapped above his throat.

The Youngest wanted to scream, but his voice hardly made a whisper. He

couldn’t move, trapped in the ferocity of a lupine glare. He stared at his re flection in the depths of those black eyes. Then a memory burst in his mind of a Shepherd and a talking wolf. His terror was gone, and confusion came near.

“What in the name of…” he murmured, then in a clear voice. “What are you

doing?”

For a moment, the Youngest wondered if the Wolf recognized him as well. Then he was off his chest, a low growl muf fled in the back of his throat. He sat up, dazed and staring at the Wolf trotting for his gun. The Wolf turned and met his gaze again, black eyes almost invisible against his coat. Then he picked up the ri fle, clutching the barrel between his jaws, and sprinted through the trees.

He didn’t know how long he sat on the ground. The bizarre scene replayed in his mind and left the Youngest mesmerized. Then his shoulder was jostled and he convulsed in a violent shudder, suddenly aware of the cold. He started and turned. The brother who was just above him in age was crouched on his haunches, still shaking his arm. His older brothers remained on their horses, while his was tethered to the saddle of the second eldest. The mare must have crossed their path when she fled.

“What the devil happened to you?” the eldest asked.

He said nothing, staring at each of his brothers and marveling how much they resembled their father and each other with their barrel chests and meaty limbs. The three eyed each other with raised brows when he didn’t answer.

“Have you lost your tongue?” the second eldest pressed. “Or can you still talk?”

The Youngest nodded, staring at the break in the trees where he last saw the Wolf.

“Do you remember the Shepherd who passed through here?” he asked. “The one with a talking wolf as his sheepdog?”

He frowned when he saw his two older brothers glance at each other and smirk.

His throat was sore when he spoke again in a louder voice.

“Well, do you?”

“Of course we remember,” said the brother crouched next to him.

He stood up and extended his hand, pulling the Youngest to his feet.

“What about him?” he asked.

“I think I was just attacked by him.”

“By the Shepherd?”

“No, by the Wolf.”

The eldest brother rolled his eyes and snorted.

“No way,” the eldest said. “That wasn’t really a wolf, but a man bewitched.”

“I swear the Wolf that just knocked me off my horse was the talking wolf that came through here with that Shepherd! He looked just like him and he took my gun.”

“Calm down,” the second eldest said. “If that’s your story, we’ll take your word for it.”

After untying his horse from his brother’s saddle, the Youngest tried to mount, only to be further embarrassed when he couldn’t. His limbs trembled and he had no strength. His third eldest brother gave him a lift to get him back in his seat, but a grin teased the edges of his mouth.

“Papa really needs to stop forcing you to hunt,” he said. “It’s just not right.”

****

The Wolf stalked to the dead stag left behind, gripping its hind legs between his teeth and dragging it with deeper into the woods. His jaws ached from the weight, but he didn’t stop.

The gray wolves saw him coming. The other male joined him in pulling the

carcass to their den, while the leader and his mate sat in the mouth of the cave. Their golden eyes didn’t blink once as they watched. He had been with the pack for well over a year, but it may as well have been from the beginning. The Wolf had no memories of life before he joined them.

The leader allowed him to take his favorite parts of the buck before the rest of the pack could eat. He savored the rare privilege, chewing the bones thick with meat until he had enough. By the time he was done, night had come. Three glimmering pairs of eyes made their way to the stag while the black Wolf curled up in his resting place, pressing his snout into his belly. His nostrils quivered from the scent of blood and ripening innards, and he listened to the shred of meat torn from bone as he drifted off.

The Wolf remembered the young hunter. He relived the thrill of smelling his fear, his horror pulsing into him. His mouth watered at the memory of that open throat. He just missed the thick vein when his jaws snapped shut, his quarry pushing him away in time.

The Wolf had wanted to kill him, this scavenger who would have stolen their food. But something changed in the young man’s eyes. Suddenly, the Wolf could no longer smell his terror. He didn’t know why he spared the hunter’s life, but something about the man made him pull back and take his weapon instead. The Wolf fell asleep to the fading memory of that face staring at him.

Hours later, he came awake. There was a vicious storm blowing outside the cave, but it wasn’t the winds that disturbed his sleep. The Wolf pulled his head up. The beat was soft and steady, a thumping monotony of an unchanging rhythm. He tried to ignore the sound, close his eyes and go back to sleep. But on and on it went.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

With a grumble of irritation, he looked at the gray wolves to see how they bore it.

Their bodies were relaxed, muzzles tucked in their front paws, bellies expanding and contracting in the rhythm of sleep. Their ears that twitched at the slightest noise were still, deaf to the echo ricocheting around them.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

Irritation mounted to frustration and the Wolf repressed the urge to howl. Instead, he pressed his head into the ground and covered his ears to block the sound. But the beat was inside him now, vibrating in his bones, muscles, and sinews.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

Suddenly, the Wolf understood why he heard the rhythm and the others in the pack didn’t. He was listening to his heart.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

Then he felt his hollow and the throbbing resumed. This time, the pain wasn’t borne of rage but of longing, as the Wolf remembered he was a man. His life came back to him in a rush: he thought of his early years with his parents, the night of their murder, his life with the Bard, his adventures in the world, and his isolation when he returned. His hollow ached as he remembered the gravest mistake of his life. Ella Bandita.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

He remembered the Shepherd, and the anguish of being sent away. The vile

threatened again. But the memories of joy were stronger, drowning out the hatred before it began. He relived the months he was alone and immersed himself in his lupine senses to survive. His transformation was gradual. His human life fell away the more he reveled in the euphoria and freedom of his wolf nature.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

Then he remembered the day the gray wolves called for him, their ululating harmony haunting the night sky. Without thinking, he answered, howling to the hills above his lair. The next day, he woke up to find they’d come for him.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

The Wolf looked at the pack and realized how much he loved them. The

throbbing in his hollow was torment when he thought of leaving. But the siren song of his heart told him something he didn’t want to hear. He closed his eyes and forced himself into a light sleep.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

The next day, the storm con fined them to the cave. The Wolf was tense, snarling at the slightest irritation. He went too far when he guarded the stag, hoarding the prime share of the meat. The gray wolves banded together and drove him to the furthest reaches of the cave; the leader staring him down while the others ate. He kept to himself for the rest of the day, and ignored the offering set before him. The Wolf sensed their confusion, but he couldn’t help himself. The beat of his heart was relentless and there was nothing he could do to shut it out.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

The storm broke that night and the Wolf left. He thought the drumming in his hollow would tear him apart; it was all he could do to keep going. He almost turned back when he heard the mournful call of the pack. The Wolf couldn’t stop himself from howling at the dark sliver of moon, tears streaming from his eyes. But he had no choice.

Hearing the beat of his heart made him realize how much he wanted it back.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

The Wolf started to run, setting his pace to his breath and merging with the rhythm of his heart beating from far away. He became lighter with the passing distance, mindless of hunger and fatigue, his anguish forgotten. For the first time, his hollow throbbed from ecstasy, the echo of his pulse resonating inside him. Finally he understood what it meant to surrender to his heart. He trusted it would lead him well and followed the path set for him.

Boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…

The Wolf ran all night without rest. The next morning, thin beams of light filtered through the woods of an ancient forest, but he didn’t slow down. He sprinted through the trees, following the sound of water rushing nearby. He knew he’d come to the end of the grove from the bright streaks of light through the trees. After the cold of the high hills, this valley was much warmer from a late Indian summer. The sudden change of light blinded him when he leaped from the trees. The Wolf stopped and found he ached everywhere. Once his vision adjusted, he became numb to the soreness in his limbs. He wasn’t alone. Beside the river sat Ella Bandita.

The Wolf searched for her giant stallion, but he was nowhere to be seen. His mistress had her back to the woods, her fingers skimming the surface of water. For the first time, Ella Bandita appeared vulnerable. There was a slump to her shoulders while she stared at her re flection in the moving water.

But seeing her again did away with the peace he had found during his night run, making him deaf to the beat of his heart. He could hardly suppress the growl rumbling in the back of his throat, rage pounding again in his hollow. The Wolf lowered his head almost to the ground and breathed in. Her honey musk was unmistakable.

He was surprised she didn’t turn around. Ella Bandita must have been deep inside her thoughts, for she was utterly unaware of his presence. The Wolf found himself stalking her before he knew what he was doing, but he didn’t stop. Nothing could have been more natural for him. His hatred as a man united with his instincts as a wolf. His gaze fixed on the back of her neck and his mouth watered, anticipating his jaws around her throat. It would be such a pleasure to kill her; the Wolf was but a few steps away when a steady thudding in the ground grew stronger. Cursing the unknown rider, he fled, reaching the trees before she discovered him. He had been so close to vengeance. But now Ella Bandita stood, her eyes narrowed on the horseman coming from the other side of the valley. With no hesitation, the rider crossed the river at the low point, where the current was most gentle.

The horseman was the kind of man the Wolf despised most. He was a dandy,

sitting in his saddle in the posture of a peacock and completely dressed in dark purple.

Even his boots and gloves were dyed to match his riding suit. The only relief was the white from his lacy blouse and the long feather fluttering from his oversized hat. His horse was a thoroughbred mare with a coat like polished onyx, which he reined in before Ella Bandita. Then he swept his hat with a flourish and bowed to her. She cocked one brow and smiled slowly, her large teeth gleaming.

The Dandy was also a foreigner. Yet Ella Bandita answered him in his tongue, and beckoned him off his horse. Although he couldn’t understand the language, the Wolf recognized the hypnotic cadence of her speech and realized what she was up to.

During the week he had followed Ella Bandita, the Wolf had never seen her rob a man of his heart. Watching the Dandy dismount with a theatrical sweep of his leg high over the horse’s rump, he snarled in disgust. Ella Bandita was ready for him. Her stargaze dangled from her fingers, the colors swirling around her. The Dandy would be lost the moment he turned around, but the Wolf’s first instinct was to do nothing. The Dandy was repugnant to him with his jacket and breeches fitting him with the intimacy of a corset.