The Wolves of Midwinter (39 page)

Nothing clearly distinguished the females except their smaller size and their slightly feline movements. Their breasts and intimate organs were covered in long hair and fur, their height varying as did the height of the men, their limbs obviously powerful. Everywhere he looked, he saw hairy faces clotted with blood and bits and pieces of shivering boar
flesh, torsos smeared with blood, chests heaving with deep breaths. Again and again, the horns were dipped into the seemingly inexhaustible cauldron. How natural it all seemed, how perfect, to slake his thirst like this, with draft after draft, and how divine the drunkenness he felt, the utter safety of the moment.

Sergei backed up near the gathered musicians, and then giving a horrific roar, he cried out: “Through the need fire!”

He took off with a fierce leap, touching down once before he bounded straight into the flames. Reuben was terrified for him, but at once, the others began running, circling and racing to the fire in the same manner, soaring up into the heights of the fire, their powerful cries of triumph rising as they cleared the inferno and landed on their feet.

Reuben heard Laura’s voice calling to him, and in a flash he saw her break from the group, running towards the musicians, then turning and racing forward as Sergei had done, her body sailing upwards and into the hungry flames.

He couldn’t stop himself from following. Terrified as he was of the flames, he felt invulnerable, he felt eager, he felt crazed with the new and seductive challenge.

He ran at top speed and then sprang upwards as he had seen the others do, the fire blinding him, the heat engulfing him, the smell of his own burning fur filling his nostrils until he broke free into the cold wind and came crashing down on the ground to begin the race once more around the circle.

Laura had waited for him. Laura was running beside him. He saw her paws flying out before her, like two front feet, saw her powerful shoulders churning under the dark gray wolf coat.

Round the cauldron they ran and then made the mad dash once more, springing high into the licking flames.

When next they approached the cauldron, the company was gathered together, on hind legs forming the circle again. At once, they fell in.

What was happening? Why had the music slowed, why had it fallen into an ominous syncopated rhythm?

The goading song of the flutes was slowed in time with it, every fourth beat stronger than the three before. And the others were rocking back and forth, back and forth, and Margon was singing something in that ancient tongue, to which Felix added his voice, and then came the thundering bass of Sergei. Thibault was humming; the unmistakable figure of Hockan Crost, the nearest thing to a white wolf in the group, was also humming as he was rocking—and a kind of moaning hum rose from the other females.

Suddenly Hockan rushed past Felix and Reuben, grabbing with both paws for Laura.

Before Reuben could come to her defense, Laura hurled Hockan backwards right into the cauldron which almost went over, the hot liquid splashing upwards like molten metal.

Fierce growls had broken out from the Sergei, Felix, and Margon, all of whom surrounded Hockan. Hockan threw up his paws, claws extended, snarling at them as he backed away. And said in his deep brutal wolf voice, “It’s Modranicht.” He let out a threatening growl.

Margon shook his head, and gave the lowest most menacing and guttural response Reuben had ever heard from a Morphenkind.

One of the females broke through the press and shoved Hockan playfully but powerfully with both paws, and as he lunged at her, she took off, racing around the fire with him close behind her.

The tension went out of the protective males.

Another female came pounding Frank with her paws, and Frank, accepting the challenge, went after her.

It was happening now all around them, Felix going after the third of the women, and Thibault after the fourth. Even Stuart was suddenly courted and seduced and had gone tearing away in hot pursuit of his female.

Laura moved to Reuben, her powerful breasts pumping against his chest, her teeth grazing his throat, her growls filling his ears. He tried to pick her up off the ground but she threw him over and they wrestled, rolling into the shadows against the boulders.

He was on fire for her, opening his mouth on her throat, and licking
at her ears, at the silken fur of her face, at the soft black flesh of her mouth, his tongue sliding in over her tongue.

At once, he was inside her, pumping into a tight, wet sheath that was deeper and more muscular than her human sex had been, closing against him so hard that it almost, almost but not quite, hurt him. His brain was gone, gone down into the beast, into the loins of the beast, and this thing, this thing that so resembled him, this powerful and menacing thing that had been Laura was his as surely as he was hers. Her muscular body shook with spasms beneath him, her jaws opening, the hoarse roar issuing out of her as if she had no control of it. He let loose in a torrent of thrusts that blinded him.

Stillness. The thin silver rain came down without a sound. Not so much as a hiss from the great fire with its dark slowly collapsing logs, its high flaming towers of timber.

The music was low, furtive, patient, like the breath of a beast who was dozing, and dozing they were, Laura and Reuben. Wrapped in the shadows and against the rocks, they lay in one another’s arms, heart pounding against heart. There was no nakedness in the wolf coat; only total freedom.

Reuben was groggy and drunken and half dreaming. Words floated to the surface of his mind—
love you, love you, love you, love the inexhaustible beast in you, in myself, in us, love you
—as he felt the weight of Laura against his chest, his claws dug deep into the tangled mane of her head, her breasts hot against him, hot as they’d been when she was a woman, hotter than the rest of her, and he felt the heat of her sex in that same old way against his leg. Her soft clean scent, which wasn’t a scent at all, filled his nostrils and his brain. And this moment seemed more intoxicating than the dance, the hunt, the kill, the lovemaking, this strange suspension of all time and all worry, with the beast yielding so effortlessly to this fearless drowsiness, this half sleep of mingled sensation and perplexing contentment. Forever, like this, with the spitting and crackling of the giant Yule fire, with the sharp cold air so close, the soft wet rain little more than a mist, so close, yes, not really rain, and all things revealed, all things sealed between him and Laura.

And will she love me tomorrow?

His eyes opened.

The music had quickened; it was a dance again, and the tambourines were playing, and as he let his head roll to one side, he saw between him and the immense blaze the leaping, dancing figures of the Forest Gentry. Silhouetted against the flames, they danced arm in arm, and swinging in circles like old peasant people have always danced, their lithe and graceful bodies beautiful in silhouette against the fire as they ran on around it, then stopped to make their fancy circling steps again, laughing, whooping, calling to one another. Their song was rising, falling, in time with their steps, a blending of glorious soprano voices and deeper tenor and baritone. For one moment, it seemed they shimmered, became transparent as if they would dissolve, and then were solid once more, with the thud of their feet on the earth beneath them.

He was laughing with delight as he watched them, their hair flying, the women’s skirts flying, the little children forming chains to circle the elders.

And here came the Morphenkinder with them.

There was Sergei marching, leaping, turning, with them, and here came the familiar figure of Thibault.

Slowly, he rose, rousing Laura with nuzzling and wet kisses.

They climbed to their feet and joined the others. How ancient and Celtic the music sounded now, joined again with violins and stringed instruments far deeper and darker than violins, and the clear metallic notes of the dulcimer.

He was drunk now. He was terribly drunk. Drunk from the mead, drunk from making love, drunk from gorging on the living flesh of boar—drunk on the night and on the sizzling, hissing flames against his eyelids. An icy wind gusted into the clearing, raking the fire into a new fury, and tantalizing him with the very light fistfuls of rain.

Hmmm. Scent on the wind, scent mingled with the rain. Scent of a human? Not possible. Worry not. This is Modranicht.

He kept dancing. Turning, twisting, moving along, and the music bubbled and boiled and pushed and hurried him along, the drums pounding faster and faster, one rolling riff crashing into another.

Someone cried out. It was a male voice, a voice full of rage. A loud strangled scream tore the night. Never had he heard a Morphenkind scream in that fashion.

The music had stopped. The singing of the Forest Gentry had stopped. The night was empty, then suddenly filled with the crackling and exploding of the fire.

He opened his eyes. They were all rushing round the fire now to the place of the musicians and the cauldron.

There was that scent, stronger now. A human scent, distinctly human like nothing in this clearing, like nothing that should have been in this clearing or in these woods tonight.

In the flickering half-light all the Morphenkinder were crowded into a circle, but the cauldron was not the center of this circle. That was way off to the side. There was something else in the center of this circle. The Forest Gentry hung back whispering and murmuring restlessly.

Hockan was roaring at Margon, and from the other male voices he knew came a rising chorus of fury.

“Dear God,” said Laura. “It’s your father.”

R
EUBEN PUSHED HIS WAY
through the Morphenkinder blocking him, with Laura right behind him.

There stood Phil facing the fire, his eyes wide with shock, his body swaying and stumbling as he sought to stand upright. He wore the old gray sweatpants and sweatshirt he always wore for sleep, and his feet were bare in the dirt. He seemed on the verge of passing out, and suddenly one of the female Morphenkinder grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, jerking him upright.

“He should die for this,” she roared. “Coming unbidden to our revels. I tell you, he should die! Who dares to say otherwise?”

“Stop, Fiona,” cried Felix. He rushed forward just as Reuben did, and gripped Fiona’s arm, quickly overpowering her with his masculine advantage and forcing her back as she moaned in rage, struggling against him.

Reuben reached out and grabbed Phil under the arms to steady him, but what in God’s name could he say to Phil? How could he make himself known to Phil without further shattering his sanity, and it was clear that Phil was losing all semblance of reasoning as he stared around him.

Suddenly as Reuben let him go, so as not to frighten him more, there came a gleam of recognition into Phil’s pale eyes, and he cried out: “Elthram, Elthram, help me. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what this is! What’s happening to me?”

Out of the shadows Elthram came towards him saying loudly, “I’m here, my friend. And no harm, I swear it, will come to you!”

At once three of the female Morphenkinder began to roar, advancing on Phil and Felix and Reuben. “Back, out of here,” screamed Fiona.
“The dead don’t talk at our revels. The dead don’t say who lives or dies amongst us!” The others were closing in as well, roaring at Elthram and menacing him with barks and growls.

“Get back!” Felix roared. Sergei, Thibault, and Frank moved in. The taller figure of Stuart charged up to Felix’s shoulder.

Elthram did not move. There was a faint smile on his lips.

“This is a matter of flesh and blood!” cried Fiona, one paw raised. “Who didn’t know the utter folly of these Morphenkinder to bring this human being right to their own hearth? Who did not see this coming?”

Margon took up a spot directly behind Fiona, unseen by her, but not unseen by those with her. Slowly, one female was moving away. Surely this was Berenice. She moved silently away from the females and towards Frank, taking up her stand behind him.

“No one is harming this man!” said Felix. “And no one will say one more word about death on this hallowed night and on this hallowed ground! You want a human sacrifice! That’s what you want. And you won’t have it here.”

All of a chorus the women roared.

“Death has always been a part of Modranicht!” said one of the women, surely the Russian, but Reuben could not clearly picture her now or recall her name. “Sacrifice has always been a part of Modranicht.” The other females gave their loud assent, stepping forward and then back and then dangerously forward again.

“Modranicht!” Phil whispered.

“Not in our time!” declared Sergei. “And not here on our land, and not this man who is blood kin to one of us. Not this man who
is an innocent man
!” Growls of assent came from the males.

It seemed every figure present was in some kind of motion, yet some dynamic tension held back the inevitable brawl.

“You came to our secret revels,” Fiona cried out as she faced Phil, the stubbed fingers of her hairy hand visible as she spread them out, claws fully extended. “You dared come when you were told not to come. Why should you not be the sacrifice? Aren’t you a gift from fortune, you blundering fool?”

“No!” Phil cried. “I didn’t come! I don’t know how I got here.”

Right through the band of females came Lisa suddenly, throwing back her hood, the glare of the fire full on her face. Margon motioned for her to stay back and so did Sergei but she would not.

“Look at Philip,” she shouted, her voice sharp but unequal to the others. “Look at his bare feet. He didn’t come here of his own accord. Someone brought him here.”

Fiona lunged at her, but Felix and Sergei caught Fiona and held her as Hockan drew close, threatening them. It was only with great effort that the two males could hold Fiona.

Lisa stood her ground, her face as cold and calm as it had ever been.

She went on, “These are lies. Philip didn’t walk through the woods like this. How could he? I gave him the drink to make him sleep. I saw that he drank every drop. He was sleeping like the dead when I left him. This is treachery beneath the Morphenkinder. Where is your conscience? Where is your code?”