Season of the Wolf Pt. 03

Wolves are wily creatures. I'd like to think we're noble, but we're not. We're plotters and schemers to the very core of our being. Grace has been used and manipulated her entire life. I'd like to think that I'm better than the people who engineered the lies, but I'm not. I'm no better than her mother or Christine, or even Han, for that matter. I've always told her the absolute truth, but there have been times, many of them, where I haven't been completely honest. But, my dishonesty has always had her best interests at heart. Of course, everyone else says the same thing. They lied for her benefit.

The vampires have a weapon in this war that may very well be the end of us. I didn't tell Grace about Christine for a very simple reason. If I had, Grace never would have left. I needed to get Grace out of there. I needed her complaint and trusting. She was. I couldn't tell Grace for a reason beyond my need to save her skin. If Grace thinks she has nightmares now she hasn't even begun to dream.

I guess these days I have my fair share of nightmares too. But, unlike Grace, who only dreams of the worst possible situations. I've seen my worst nightmare in the flesh, the hybrids. Nature's worst cosmic joke and the enemy's H bomb against us. Wolves turned into vampires.

Believe me, I wanted to put Christine down for her own good. But, I couldn't do it. Normally, I'd give my right arm to have a gorgeous blonde snuggling up to my neck. But, not when she's trying to sink her fangs into me. I locked Christine in the old beer cooler in the back of the bar and got Grace the hell out of there.

I don't have many limits, but killing someone who was once a friend or at the bare minimum a wolf, like me, is at the top of a very short list. I think beyond my own morality. I saved Christine's life for Grace's sake. I'm hoping maybe Han can use some of that pack mojo of his to bring Christine back. If not, I know he'll be able to do what I couldn't. He'll put her down.

I have to admit. I'm not a religious man. For the most part, I don't believe in the hocus pocus crap that made us what we are. But, these days I do my fair share of praying to the ancestors and to the Goddess of Creation. Hell, I think I've muttered at least one prayer to any deity with an ear willing to listen. I pray for the souls of these twisted hybrid creatures. I pray that there'll be something left of us when this war is finally over. I pray for Grace and for Han and for everyone I left behind. Primarily though, I pray for myself. That I'll be the man I'll need to be once the dust settles and the last of the burning cinders has cooled to ash.

I'll keep trying to get news from home. Maybe, the war is over, but I doubt it. I'm still fighting it here every time I'm near her. I thought I loved her before. Looking back I realize. I knew nothing about love. That's different now. I've learned that love is sacrifice. I just don't know how much of myself I'm willing to sacrifice for the greater good. I don't know, if my plan succeeds and I've kept her whole. If the war ends and we do return, I don't know if I'll be able to give her back to Han.

Chapter 3

I lift my face into the weak sunrise and inhale the sharp scent of snow on the morning air. Last night I slept out in the open and bits of frost cling to my clothing. I don't feel the cold anymore. I've gotten used to winter's bite. I need it. The intense sting of the cold and the numb burn that settles in once you've been frozen to the very bone.

The war hit hard and fast. For beings with nothing but time, you'd think the vampires would have debated this war into the next century before moving to action. But, they didn't. The lines were drawn before anyone had a chance to utter any words of peace.

I crouch down by a stream clogged with ice and drink out of my cupped hands before splashing the chilly water over my bedraggled face. I need to wakeup. But, that's an impossible thing to do when you're living in a nightmare. The woods are barren and stark. There's not another living thing here in this once peaceful haven except for us. The war scared off the game. I haven't seen a deer or as much as a ground squirrel in weeks. The trees used to grow thick and untamed. But now, the few that were left standing once the enemy burned the woods to the ground reach their spindly charred limbs into a gunmetal gray sky clogged with snow clouds.

The ground is covered in deep ruts from the frozen boot prints of the enemy. Blood flowed early in this war and the earth was greedy and drank till she could drink no more. Both sides have taken heavy losses as the shallow freshly dug graves in the old cemetery can attest. I've commanded troops, though it seems a fool's errand looking back on it now. I sent them to their deaths and into the loving arms of our ancestors. But, they're the lucky ones, the ones fortunate enough to die. It's us. The few of us left that are truly condemned.

I scrub my hands as best I can in the stream. But, they're so stained with blood that no matter how hard I try. I can't get them clean. I stare down at my ragged, mud caked palms in disgust. Were these once the fingers that caressed Grace so tenderly? These hands so capable of delivering death, did I ever think they'd be careful or gentle enough to hold my newborn son?

I'm lucky. I got Grace and our unborn child out of here before the war began. Others of the pack weren't so fortunate. The women not fighting on the front lines bury our dead and the children, few that there are still too young to fight, play amongst the graves. I've sent boys out to do battle with grown men and watched the enemy cut them down like saplings blocking a path. Fifteen doesn't seem old enough to die, but there are worst things than dying. I've seen it.

The enemy won't kill us all. I suppose they could whittle our numbers down until there are just two of us left. All they need is an Adam and an Eve and the rest of us are as expendable as chaff left behind after the harvest.

I've never been a big believer in history repeating itself. But, perhaps it does. This isn't the first war fought in this place. The blood of brave warriors and the enemy has flowed freely here before. I'm not the first man to lead troops into battle or to mourn the dead and dying left behind in the aftermath of such senseless destruction. I'm not the leader or the man my ancestor was, but unfortunately I'm the best these people have.

My race has been on the brink of extinction before. The enemy didn't succeed last time and they won't this time. There's always a way, some small glimmer of hope that somehow manages to miraculously to survive. I've done all that I can to ensure the future of my pack. Even though I've entrusted that hope, that small flicker that refuses to die out, to another man. It's enough to know it burns brightly like a beacon in the dark of the night.

This war is about vengeance, an ages old grudge match between Van and his maker. But, it's also about so much more than that. Van might have started it, but that the enemy is on our doorstep was inevitable anyway. This war, from my perspective, is about blood. Protecting it. Preserving it. Wolf blood carries magic and it's the key to the thing the vampires want the most. Though the vampires are as far from a human as one can get. I suppose, its very much human nature to want the things you can't have and to find a way to cheat the system in order to get them.

I drag my wet fingers through my hair and try to tame the unruly mop. A foolish attempt and a total waste of time, but a man should look his best when he wakes up in the morning. Especially, if it's the dawn of the day the war ends for him and he has the good sense to finally lie down and die. Perhaps, today is the day I get lucky and it's over for me.

A cold rivulet of water rolls down the back of my neck and tickles its way over my spine. I hardly notice the chill. I'm old as fuck. This isn't my first rodeo or war either, for that matter. One benefit of being what I am is while you're not officially immortal. You live a damn long time, sometimes, too long. Fighting this war is for me like climbing into the saddle again. War has a rhythm of its own and I've fallen into step with its morbid beat.

Funny thing is. I've never questioned my destiny till now. I've always known whatever path my life took. It would eventually lead me to Grace. I've slept in the mud before. Clung to my weapon as if it were a lover. But, I've always had faith that no matter what the war or where the battlefield. Dying was not my fate. I don't think that way anymore. This war, like all other wars that came before, will eventually end. But, I'm not so certain that this time I'm walking away from it when all is said and done.

I don't doubt meeting Grace and falling in love with her was a part of my destiny. But, now that I've fulfilled my destiny of falling in love and fathering the next generation, I'm not sure if Grace is the only thing fate has in store for me. I think for me, this is my Culloden or perhaps, better said, my Tippecanoe. Perhaps, it's in the blood. Dying on the battlefield. After all, I'm by far not the first warrior of my people to suffer such a fate. And truly, is there any nobler cause than to die for than the future?

We've been lucky. So far, the humans are oblivious to our little war. Of course, that changes the dynamic a bit. This is a war not fought with any weapon other than the weapons the Goddess gave us. We have to keep things quiet and invisible. Both sides agreed on that one condition of warfare.

My wolf hunts for the enemy. There is no hesitation on his part. No remorse, not until I awake with the sweet coppery taste of blood coating my tongue. I am my wolf and he is me. In war, you do what you need to do to win. And that's what we've done. I've ripped men apart with my teeth and claws and feasted on the entrails of the enemy unfortunate enough to cross my path. I'm not proud of the things I've done to secure the future. At this point, with each side teetering so closely to the brink, I can't say the war will end until there's nobody left to fight it.

Van is my grandfather. It seems strange to connect such a word to a two centuries old vampire. But, nevertheless, he is. He's on our side, the good vampires versus the bad ones. Family ties mean little in war and I've often wondered if I shouldn't lure him out somewhere and let the enemy have him. If I thought it would bring this war to an end, I probably would do exactly that. But, I doubt if turning Van over would accomplish a thing. I'm not fighting for him anyway. I'm fighting for me and what's mine. And it's such an ironic thing, ripping men apart with my bare hands in the hopes of peace.

I close my eyes and dig my fingers into the cold muddy soil along the bank. I wonder what Grace would think of the ruthless man I've become out of necessity. I've fallen so far from the Hanson Galloway she fell in love with. Perhaps, that's why I entertain myself with thoughts of my demise. When I said that sometimes dead is better. I wasn't talking about the hybrids or the captives taken for their blood by the enemy. I was talking about the men unfortunate enough to survive this war.

Grace once said she loved staring into my eyes. That she felt as if she could look into their depths and see into my soul. What would she see if she could look into them now? Would she love that man? Would she still see me even if when I stare into the mirror's reflection I can't recognize myself anymore?

I trust Coyote has enough sense to keep Grace as far away from here as possible. I suspect until after the baby is born and the Alaskan winter finally ends. He'll be able to fulfill that task. Maybe, by then the war will be over. Maybe, by then he will have taken my place in her heart. I'll hate him for it, if I'm still alive when that day comes. But, I told him to do whatever he needs to do to keep her alive and Grace can't survive without love.

I'll always love her. In fact, it's my memory of her love that keeps me going from one day to the next. But, I can't go soft and I'll never be the man she fell in love with again. That man died when first blood was drawn and there is no coming back from the hellish places he's been.

I slept up in the hills last night. The terrain is too rough and steep for an ATV. I went out to patrol the outer boundaries of our territory. The last wild place left untouched by the war. Here the wind is ripe with the scent of pine and musky tang of small game. Pure and unspoiled by war, this is the world Grace remembers. Perhaps, that's why I'm so adamantly protecting it. Everything down below is tainted with the stench of blood and death.

The manor house still stands. She's like a war bride waiting faithfully for her beloved soldier's return. She has been abandoned. Her skirts are tattered at the hem, moth eaten, and dusty. But, she has her pride and keeps her head up high. Though she's just a house. She's a Galloway to the last timber in her attic and brick in her foundation. She is my faith. As long as she's intact and standing, Grace has a place to call home and the future is still possible.

Horse twitches his ears and his nostrils flair. He shakes his head, rattling his bridle. I smell it too. The scent of wolf fills the air. Bear sits on his hindquarters in wolf form, watching me with appraising golden eyes. I don't bother speaking. There's no point. It's time to go back to the camp and back to the war. I climb into the saddle and leave my thoughts of Grace and the man I used to be behind in this pristine place. I'm riding as fast as Horse can handle the terrain. Riding back into hell.

Chapter 4

We've set up camp down by the river bottoms. I don't bother navigating Horse over the rough terrain. He knows the way. I ride thoughtlessly and blindly through the heart of our little tent city. It's winter and frost clings to the canvas. The air is filled with the mingled smells of misery, wood smoke from the campfires, and the stink of too many unwashed bodies living in a cluster. It's the pungent reek of war.

I pretend I don't notice the empty tents. Tents that just a day ago someone called a temporary home. Damp, muddy, and cold, this place is its own version of hell. But, it's defensible. With the wide river flanking us and a the flat land of the flood plane running parallel to the camp the enemy can't catch us unaware.

We're fighting this war the old fashioned way. Taking down the enemy and picking away at his numbers one soldier at a time. It's a quiet war, clandestine and very up close and personal. Bullets are a waste. They merely serve to piss the enemy off. As I've learned, there are far too few ways to kill a vampire and none of them are exactly pleasant. The best way is to unleash our inner wolves and let them do what they were born to do. Hunt, kill, and consume. But, that does little to preserve a man's soul when the memories come rushing back and the taste of blood is thick on his tongue.

We started out at over one hundred and fifty willing and hopeful men. My combined pack numbered over ninety-five wolves and with Van's addition of forty eager and loyal vampires no one thought this war would ever become a reality. Van's efforts did nothing to delay the first attack. The enemy was already at our gates. We just didn't know it.

We have more than enough ATVs, but they sit parked in a tangle at the edge of the camp. Horses are more efficient for this type of combat. It isn't only that the enemy can hear the rattle of an engine for miles. They can smell us coming. Horses help to shield our scent. They confuse the mindless hybrids and draw their attention. Anything that moves is a potential target for the hybrids' ceaseless appetites. Unfortunately, too many horses have fallen victim to this war. But, if one man returns to his tent instead of being captured by the enemy or buried in a shallow grave. The sacrifice is worth it.

The thought of hybrids sickens me. Mindless beings turned by the enemy that are neither vampire nor wolf. I'd rather be dead, myself, than to become one of them. The enemy has turned us against ourselves. Too many have hesitated at the deciding moment and have paid the price with their lives for that one second's worth of hesitation.

Van was correct in his assessment that the pack has become nothing but cannon fodder in this war. He's a bastard, but at least he's an honest one. I'm ok with it and in essence with sleeping with the enemy for the time being. When it comes to my grandfather and me. The nut didn't fall far from the tree. I'm a bastard too. Except, I'm not honest. Every day that this war drags on and on, I slide a little further away from the man I once was. I'm cold, frozen to the bone. There's no space left in my heart or my head for remorse or guilt. No loyalty beyond the pack. And when this war is over. This war he brought to my doorstep. I will kill him.

The camp has its fair share of war widows. Our kind mates for life and once that bond is broken it's almost impossible to move on. I see it, the despondency and desperation in their eyes. Unfortunately, no one outside of the front lines has the luxury of dying. The women, just like the rest of us, do whatever it takes to survive.

I flinch at the sensation of fingertips brushing over my leg. Horse whinnies and stomps his hoof in the mud, splattering her clothes with bits of cold, wet earth. She stares up at me and the earnest despair in her eyes sickens me. I don't know her name and it really doesn't matter. At one time, she might have been pretty. But now, with her hair matted and tangled and her face smudged with dirt and lined with weariness, she's just another widow wanting a temporary escape from this war and willing to offer an hour or so or mindless comfort in return.

I despise the way she stares up at me. As if I'm some kind of hero. I'm not. But, there's something about her. Her wide brown eyes and heart shaped face that reminds me a bit of Grace.

These desperate days a man takes comfort wherever he can find it. I pull on the reins and reach down to cup her filthy cheek. She's not Grace, but she'll do. Van wants to talk to me. He'll wait. I slide out of the saddle and hand Horse off to a young boy, not older than ten that truly has no place in the middle of a war zone. "Make sure he's properly fed and bedded down," I say. He nods eagerly as if I've handed him a piece of candy instead of a job to do and trots off coaxing Horse along by the bridle.

I don't ask her name and she doesn't offer it as she leads me to her tent. A name is just another one of those things that doesn't really matter anymore. She smiles coyly as we climb inside and she zips the flaps closed. In her smile I can see a hint of the woman she once was before the war took her mate away. I probably sent him into battle. Most likely while under my command he got himself killed. If she hates me for it she shows no sign of it though.

Deftly, she strips me of my gear and works the buttons of my shirt free. She knows who I am. She handles me carefully. As if I'm a prize and it's an honor to have me in her bed. Trust me, hers isn't the first bed I've fallen into and it won't be the last. And as for a prize, she has gotten cheated.

The brush of her fingertips is light across my bare skin. It has no effect on me and I'm limp and impotent. "I can be anyone you want me to be," she says softly. There's only one person I truly want touching me so intimately and that's Grace. The woman cups my soft length in her warm palm. My body enjoys the gently squeeze of her fingers around my cock as she strokes me hard. She lifts her lips to mine, but I don't kiss her back. I can't. Kissing would make this something more than it is.

I'm empty and hollow. I don't touch the woman. My fingers won't cooperate to caress her breast or plunge deep into her soft, warm, willing depths. I allow her to guide me down onto the grimy sheets that smell of other men and sex. To me, this act, this mingling of flesh is no more meaningful or personal than any other biological function. It's just a means to an end and a temporary reprieve from one hell while being catapulted into another.