Overwinter Page 5

  No, the smell she had picked up belonged to a stranger. Which worried her very much.

  The male nudged her side with his nose. He lifted his head and together they padded silently around the camp, their snouts dipping to the ground time and again. There were trails of scent all around them, circling them again and again. The stranger had been close all day, it seemed, but their stupid human bodies had lacked the necessary senses to detect it. Its footprints positively glowed in their brains, lighting up danger signals, triggering little jolts of adrenaline every time they found a new sign.

  The wolves had never been afraid of something human before. Human things were to be hated, to be destroyed with a vicious bloodlust whenever they were encountered. But the presence of this human was different, somehow.

  For one thing, its trail circled the camp three times and then—vanished. There was no sign of the human left nearby, but nor was there any sign of its leaving. No trail led away from the camp. Where was it?

  The male started panting then. He turned in quick circles, spinning around to see in every direction at once. The female knew that could mean nothing good, but she couldn’t detect what had agitated him so.

  With a yelp he dashed away from the camp, into the trees. She could only follow.

  Their legs pistoned at the hard ground, launching them from one solid footing to the next. Their tongues lapped at the air, dragging oxygen deep into their lungs, making their blood fizz and run fast. He was running at full clip now, as fast as his body could go, and it was all she could do to keep up with him as they wove their way through the trees, slipping around tree trunks so close that their fur stripped off pieces of fragile bark, ducking under low branches that chimed with cracking ice crystals.

  They came to a clearing and he stopped suddenly, his four legs digging deep into the resisting earth. She didn’t manage to stop in time and ended up skidding, her claws snatching at thin tree roots and small stones frozen stiff to the ground. Her hindquarters swung out and she came to a stop half facing him, squatting low to keep her balance.

  He wasn’t even looking at her. Sitting up with his forelegs very straight, he lifted his head high in the air and howled.

  It was the same strangled yelping howl, desperate and sad and lonely and frightened, that he had given the last time they’d been out together beneath the moon. Only this time it was redoubled in strength, so loud it shook the branches of the trees, drawn out and long and more painful, more plaintive.

  And this time, it was answered.

  The call that came back was very similar to his own, a piercing wail trailing off into small yelps, but the emotion behind it was different. His howl was the cry of a being in distress, torn apart by feelings it could not contain.

  The answer was almost joyous, and the crescendo of yelps that ended it sounded like cruel laughter, almost like mocking bells hung up high in the air.

  At the sound, he was off again, his tail straight out behind him as he ran.

  She followed once more. Because she didn’t know what else to do.

  They were a pack of two. They were a family, and more than a family. They were hunters who relied totally on one another for their survival, two beings joined inseparably. But now—but now—he wasn’t looking at her. He didn’t even seem aware of her. He was like a creature possessed.

  She followed. And when he stopped again, she was ready this time. She dropped to the ground just as he planted his legs, her muzzle tight against the frozen earth, her eyes looking up and around.

  The trees had given way to a rise in the earth, a slope too gradual to call a hill but too high to be just a rough patch of the forest floor. Ahead of them, just outside of striking range, a sloping ridge of broken rock stuck up from its summit like a stone finger pointing at the Northern star.

  Atop it stood a wolf, not a timber wolf but a dire wolf like them. Her white fur shone like cold fire as a narrow crescent of moon rode over her back like a celestial crown. Her eyes were in silhouette but her ears and tail stood up, the latter waving slowly back and forth, now to one side, now the other. She made no sound at all, barely stirred the air around her.

  She licked her jowls and let loose the call again. And this time there could be no doubt. She was laughing. In triumph.

  12.

  Harsh red light streamed in through Chey’s eyelids. She whimpered because her body hurt so much. What had her wolf been doing? She felt like she’d run a marathon.

  At least she wasn’t so cold anymore. She remembered how cold it had been the night before, just before the moon rose. It felt like the chill had lifted a little. It also helped that someone was snuggled up against her, spooning her from behind. That would be Powell, she thought. His arm was wrapped around her, holding her close, and his face was buried in the nape of her neck. It was unbelievably comforting to have him so close, as long as she didn’t think about what it meant.

  Then she felt his erection poking her in the back.

  Her immediate reaction was to pull away, to get away from him as quickly as possible. But he was so warm, and his arm felt so good around her. And she had to admit she was tempted. Her wolf had been turned on, she could feel. Normally she remembered nothing of what it had thought or done when she was away, but sometimes she picked up on subtler things. Its emotional state, the raw open needs and wants and hatreds it felt. At that moment she could still feel the wolf’s lust burning in her human veins. There was a dampness between her legs she couldn’t deny.

  And if she just shifted up a few centimeters, if she hitched her hips up and pressed back just a little, she could scratch that itch. Once it went that far, well—there weren’t many more obvious ways to make the first move.

  It would end the confusion between them, the tortured wondering and the constant feints back and forth. It would make so many things easier. And all she had to do was wiggle her butt a little.

  Did she actually want it, she wondered? Or was she just ridiculously horny? The question seemed more academic the more she thought about it. Slowly, making no noise so she didn’t wake him too soon, she started to squirm backward.

  It would be a decision she couldn’t unmake. But even if it was the wrong decision, that was maybe better than making no decision at all.

  He sighed in his sleep. Happily. Yes. He would go along with this. Once he woke and found himself making love to her, he wasn’t about to stop and demand to know what she thought she was doing. He would grab her, pull her close. Give in. He wanted this as much as she did, she knew, he would—

  —There was someone looming over her, she suddenly realized. The two of them were not alone. She opened her eyes and looked up, saying, “Dzo? You’ve got lousy timing, buddy.”

  Except it wasn’t Dzo. She just had time to see a snarling face, a pale naked human body. White hands reached down and grabbed Chey’s hair, hauling her roughly away from Powell.

  13.

  The stranger dragged Chey up to her feet and then shoved her forward, kicking her at the same time in the back of her left knee so she stumbled as she lurched toward a tree trunk a few feet away. Chey threw her arms up to protect herself as the tree loomed large before her. A broken-off stub of a branch, its end jagged and rough, came flying up toward her eyes as she tried desperately to get her balance back. She just managed to throw her head to one side as her chest collided with the trunk.

  The breath was knocked right out of her. Chey saw spots swim in her vision and her ears rang with the force of the collision.

  Had she still been human, that would have been the end. Instead she reached deep inside herself and found a growling roar there that vibrated through every cell in her body. It gave her strength to pivot sharply around so she could face her opponent, legs bent in a fighting crouch, hands up to counterattack.

  It was a woman who had attacked her, a pale, slender woman with long red hair and a face contorted by rage. She was just as naked as Chey was, but she held a rock as big as her head in both hands. She brought
it up high and then hauled it back, crashing down, aimed right at Chey’s forehead.

  Chey batted it out of her hands like it was a beach ball. She listened to it thud off the ground to her left, but never took her eyes off the other woman’s face. She had no idea who this person was, or where she’d come from, or why she was naked, but none of that mattered. Something very old and strong and wild was filling her up, so big it felt like it was stretching out her skin. She opened her mouth to shout a question, but all that came out was a vicious snarl.

  The redhead leaned hard to one side and aimed a kick at Chey’s stomach. Chey grabbed the foot as it came slicing toward her and twisted, hard. The other woman grunted in pain and dropped to the soft covering of dead pine needles on the ground. Chey jumped on top of her and started punching her face and neck, with her right fist and then her left, over and over.

  Spitting with rage, the redhead brought her knees up hard into Chey’s chest and shoved her loose. Rolling to her knees, she grabbed for Chey’s hair again. Chey reared back to avoid the snatching fingers.

  It was a bad mistake. It left her throat vulnerable. The redhead jabbed hard at her windpipe and suddenly Chey couldn’t breathe. She managed to scramble up to her feet and stagger away, but instantly her overworked muscles started demanding more air, air she couldn’t get down her throat.

  Her vision started to go dark as the other woman grabbed her from behind, pulling Chey’s arms behind her and locking them there. Chey could only struggle feebly against the hold. Moving fast, the redhead marched her down the slope toward the water, and it was all Chey could do to keep her feet underneath her as they accelerated downhill.

  Then the water hit her face and her body spasmed in terror. Water streamed up her nose and filled her mouth as she tried desperately to take a breath that just wouldn’t come. Bubbles clouded her vision. The redhead shoved down hard on the back of Chey’s head and pressed it into the rocky mud bottom of the lake. She wasn’t even bothering to hold onto Chey’s arms anymore, but it didn’t matter. The fight, the animal anger that had given her such strength, was gone, whimpering in terror as her body signaled again and again that she was about to die.

  She couldn’t see, smell, or hear anything. Her tactile sense started draining away as well. It felt almost like no one was touching her anymore, as if the redhead had relented and walked away, leaving her for dead.

  Then a new pair of hands grabbed her shoulders. Male hands, heavy and rough, with none of the supernatural strength the redhead had possessed. The fingers dug deep under her armpits, then strained to heave her up, out of the muck.

  Chey was rolled over on her back. She still couldn’t see anything, but she could hear someone calling her name. Hands pressed down hard on her stomach and she vomited up lake water and mud that splattered all over her chest and face. When it was out of her, air surged back in and her lungs erupted in chilly fire as she took a breath for the first time in far too long.

  She could do nothing at first but lie there and let life flood back through her sore limbs. Eventually she mustered the strength to reach up and wipe the mud out of her eyes. Dzo was staring down at her, his face open in terror.

  “Do you need the kiss of life?” he asked, looking horrified at the prospect.

  “I’m … okay,” she croaked. It felt like a lie, but she knew that in a few minutes it would be true. Her body was a lot tougher now than it looked. Slowly—because even the simplest, smoothest motion was a jarring agony—she sat up and looked around her. She saw the redhead right away, standing a few meters apart with a look of deep concern and sympathy on her face. That made no sense. Even worse, she was wearing Powell’s heavy wool coat like a dress, leaving the top button undone to show off some ample cleavage.

  Powell stood to one side but between the two of them, as if ready to step in if they attacked each other again. He was buttoning up his own flannel shirt and already had his pants on.

  Which left Chey the only one who was still naked. And hurt. And covered in mud, slime, pine needles, and dead leaves. She must look like hell, she thought.

  The redhead walked over to peer down at her. Powell flinched, but he made no move to stop the stranger from bending down to place the back of one slender hand against Chey’s cheek.

  Chey considered grabbing that hand and breaking every dainty little bone in the redhead’s wrist, but she didn’t know if she had the strength for it.

  “Cherie, you must accept my apologies,” the redhead said, in a soft, cooing voice that probably made boys melt. “I am so very, very regretful that I attacked you. I didn’t know you were one of us. I saw you there, oh! And I think, all at once I think, she is hurting my man.”

  “Powell,” Chey mewled, “who the fuck is this?”

  “Um,” he said, as if unsure how to answer.

  “Pardon, please,” the redhead said. “I am Lucie. I am his wife.”

  14.

  “No, of course we aren’t really married!” Powell muttered. “She just likes to say that. To—to hurt me, to—”

  “To fuck with your head,” Chey supplied.

  He glared at her obscenity but then shrugged and nodded. “Sometimes your foul mouth manages to say things we didn’t have proper words for in my day,” he conceded. “Yes. Indeed. To … fuck with my head.”

  They were whispering together, back at the camp, while Dzo and Lucie chopped industriously away at a tree down by the water. The redhead and the … whatever the hell Dzo was were making a lot of noise and talking a blue streak. Every so often Chey could hear Lucie laugh, a fluttery little pretty sound that made Chey’s spine ache. There was no way Lucie could hear what they were saying, but still they kept their voices down.

  Chey knew a little about Lucie already. Powell had told her something of the history he shared with the redhead before. Lucie, Chey knew, was the werewolf who had given the curse to Powell back during the First World War. She was several centuries old and batshit insane. She had trapped him in a silver cage, then transformed while he watched—and in the process she had scratched him, while making sure he survived long enough to see the moon rise with her the following night. At the time Lucie had been living in France with another werewolf, whom Chey had only ever heard referred to as the Baroness de Clichy-sous-Vallée. The two of them had kidnapped and cursed Powell because they wanted a mate.

  He had, by his own account, served them both in that capacity with some distinction.

  “The Baroness isn’t going to show up next, is she?” Chey asked.

  “No,” Powell said, with definite finality. “She won’t.”

  “I thought you got away from Lucie, back in nineteen twenty-one,” Chey went on, because clearly he wasn’t going to elaborate. “That’s what you told me.”

  “I did. Then she found me again, in the Thirties. We had a very unpleasant reunion in Manitoba back then. We fought—I mean, we spoke harshly to one another—and she disappeared again, and I assumed I was quit of her. Then every few decades after that she would show up again. Sometimes things were almost cordial, but always, eventually, she would get bored or annoyed with me and leave without warning, and I was always glad to see her go. It’s been a long time since I saw her, though, and I certainly wasn’t expecting her now. I wasn’t even sure she was still alive. Wherever she goes she has a habit of convincing villagers that it’s time to get out the torches and pitchforks. That’s one reason I broke things off with her.”

  Chey thought of something. “She was Miss Nineteen Fifty-four, wasn’t she?”

  He looked away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Chey laughed bitterly. “The woman you had, uh, ah, intimate, er, relations with the last time,” she said, mocking him.

  “I don’t need to stand here being quizzed about my love life,” Powell told her. Though he made no move to walk away from her. If he did that he would probably have to go talk to Lucie instead.

  Chey leaned back against a tree and rubbed at her throa
t. Her crushed windpipe had healed just fine but it still hurt a little. That had been a nasty punch Lucie had given her. She did not relish the prospect of fighting the redheaded werewolf again, but she would if she had to. “So what are your intentions?” Chey asked.

  “What?”

  Chey scowled. “Are you going to shack up with her again, now that she’s back? Throw me aside in exchange for the sure thing?”

  Powell kicked at the dirt. “Damn you, Chey, there’s more going on here than this silly little game you and I are playing.”

  Chey winced. Surely he had just spoken thoughtlessly, she told herself.

  “I don’t even know what she wants, this time,” he went on.

  “Have you tried asking her?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Sure. We can try that.”

  “You don’t think she’ll tell us the truth?”

  Powell shook his head. “With Lucie it’s not a question of truth or lies. She isn’t sane enough to understand the difference.”

  15.

  “Take a break, Dzo,” Powell said.

  The spirit looked up and shrugged.

  “Okey-dokey,” he said, and swung his axe over his shoulder before marching off into the woods.

  No one watched him go.

  Chey had always considered herself attractive, and she’d never had any problem getting men to pay attention to her. She had an athletic body and a cute upturned nose. Her brown hair fell a little past her ears, a practical cut for life in the woods that didn’t need a lot of maintenance to look good.

  Lucie, on the other hand, was some kind of goddess. She looked like she was nineteen years old and her creamy skin was flawless, untouched even by freckles. Her red hair fell in cascading waves around her shoulders and showed no sign of the fact that she was hundreds of kilometers from the nearest beauty salon. Powell’s shapeless wool coat managed to hug her curves fetchingly, falling to mid-thigh like a short kimono. She was smiling warmly and her eyes twinkled with merry intelligence. Usually when Chey met a beautiful woman, a woman more attractive than herself, her first thought was that they must be dumb as a stump. That nobody could look that good and actually be able to glance away from a mirror long enough to have an original thought. The look in those eyes told her otherwise.