Season of the Wolf Pt. 03

Coyote's eyes are intelligent and miss nothing. Over the past two months I've learned to read their expression and I've noticed his eyes give away much more than he'd like them to. I can see that he's thinking and I don't tread too deeply into the uncharted territory of what his thoughts might be.

I know his lips are soft. I've felt them pressed against mine. His mouth is full and sinfully lush. His adam's apple bobs as he takes another pull from the flask and swallows it down. He knows my eyes are on him and his movements are calculated and give nothing of his thoughts away. Coyote smells of wolf and man, of wild and the smoky scent of a crisp fall morning. I'm gravitating toward him, toward his scent and the over all effect he has on me. I know I shouldn't and thank God for the safety of the no zone empty cushion between us.

Against my better judgment I close the distance and give him a gentle peck on the cheek. The scrape of stubble against my lips stirs something primitive inside of me. I refuse to acknowledge the sensation and the direction of my thoughts. "Merry Christmas, Coyote," I whisper, hating the feminine rasp of my voice. I'm on my feet and retreating to bed leaving him sitting on the couch nursing his flask of homebrew. But, a part of me is still with him, lingering along with the kiss I left behind on his cheek.

Chapter 6

War doesn't stop for holidays. The horror just keeps on going and going without the slightest pause. There has been no sign of the enemy today. Everything is quiet in a way that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end and you find yourself braced for the next wave to hit.

I could use Coyote here. He's the best tracker I've got. And I hate to say it, but he was a far better second in command than Bear. Coyote and I have always had the same goal in mind, keeping Grace and the baby safe and sound. Bear has his merits. He works for the safety of all parties concerned. But, I know if it came down to choosing one life over sacrificing many what he'd choose. His heart is where mine should be and with Grace away from this place, it is.

My scouts have turned up nothing in terms of finding the enemy's stronghold. They've scoured every last inch of the territory and found absolutely no sign of a camp. My hatred of the enemy has grown from a spark into an all consuming fire, burning me from the inside out. The fanged bastards have no honor. They fight Guerrilla style, hiding and lying in wait, picking us off one by one and whittling down our numbers.

Morale is low. Some have abandoned the cause and run for whatever safe haven they can find. I don't punish the soldiers for their lack of conviction. I can't say as if I blame them. Everyday men go out never to return again. The bodies of the dead are stacking up. I can't even give them a decent burial now that winter has come and the ground is frozen solid.

The vampires don't bury their dead. They burn the corpses and it suits me just fine. I've got enough of my own to bury. Van assures me that he's never seen it, but superstition abounds among the vampires. Sometimes, the dead don't stay dead and what comes back in their place is something just this side of hell's worst nightmare.

Grace isn't the only member of the pack I've sent away. Sure, it's a fool's errand and I don't expect he'll find one wolf willing to cast his lot into the fight. But, I've sent Michael, Grace's brother, far from this place in search of others crazy enough to join in. Michael's mission is not a safe one. There's a risk vampires will discover him. Or, if he does find a pack out there, they'll rip him to shreds first and ask questions later. But, it's the best I could come up with in terms of keeping him out of the actual war.

The truth of it is that there's nowhere safe. While we were busy isolating ourselves away from the world and preserving ages old traditions. The vampires were populating every corner of the globe. Of course, the humans don't know they share their cities and neighborhoods with the undead. The actual number of paranormals out there is an unknown, but the sum of us all, of every wolf and vampire, doesn't total a fraction of the human population. It's a delicate balance. For us, Mother Nature saw to it that packs don't overpopulate the world. The vampires have a more practical reason for not peopling the globe with their kind. They need blood to survive. When you're a predator amongst the sheep. The best thing to do is to pretend to be a sheep.

The hybrids are a threat to the natural order of things. I don't want to know how much of their wolves they've truly retained, if they can overcome their mindlessness long enough to breed or not. I don't want to know how dominant their vampire side is, if they could make more of their kind by an infusion of blood or not. I've always thought, wolf or vampire, that there's a human part to us all. Perhaps, it's the human soul trapped inside of us that is our redemption and the anchor that keeps us from truly becoming the beasts we are. But, if the hybrids have a soul or a human side, I don't want to know about that either. Not when I must maintain the view that it's a kindness and not a cruelty to put them down.

Ultimately, I couldn't ask anyone in my company to do something I personally wasn't willing to do. Certainly, I've asked enough of the pack to share their veins with the vampires on this side of the enemy lines in order to win this war. I donated my blood to Christine. If a man loses something of his soul with every drop of blood he bleeds or draws, I am indeed a soulless creature.

I sit with the palm of my hand pressed to the wound her fangs pierced into my veins. My head is reeling and my body weakened by the amount of blood I donated to prove Van's theory wrong.

Perhaps, I need to believe that there is no bringing a hybrid back from the brink and that was why I was so willing to offer my blood. I've put so many hybrids down in the name of mercy and my personal convictions. If I'm wrong and by some miracle we do get Christine back, I'm guilty of more than killing out of kindness. I'm a murderer.

The bar has been closed for months, but I can still smell the sharp tang of Coyote's homebrew tinting the air. I close my eyes against a wave of nausea and lean my head back against the wall behind me. Christine has a voracious appetite and just the scent of blood sends her into a frenzy of bloodlust. So far, the makeshift cell is holding and I can hear her pounding on the door begging to be set free.

Sometimes, I think the things she says almost make sense. She's nothing more than a shadow of the woman she used to be. But, sometimes I swear I can see her, the real her, in there staring out at me though the crazed glint in her blue eyes.

Van is the only witness to me offering my wrist. I don't think I could stomach anyone else watching the expressions twist and turn on my face. Feeding Christine is pain and it goes against my wolf's character to allow another predator open access to my throat. Van doesn't watch out for me, to keep her from draining every drop, but for her as well. He knows what my wolf is capable of. Given the state of the war and my strict policy of no quarter to the enemy. He has seen the carnage my wolf unleashes first hand. "I think she's making headway," he says in that quiet, pensive voice of his.

I can only grunt in reply. I don't have the strength for an in depth verbal exchange right now. At least, Christine has stopped pounding on the door and Van quickly got the hint and leaves me alone to quite literally lick my wounds. In the aftermath, there is silence, the kind of silence that has been haunting me all day, the calm before a storm about to hit land.

Chapter 7

We eat cabbage for good luck on New Year's Day. At least, I suppose its New Year's Day. Pickled cabbage, which is actually a lot like sauerkraut, tastes just as badly as it smells. Though it's a waste of food we might end up needing before this war is over. I barely manage to pick at the generous helping on my plate. I've kept Coyote at a distance this past week. Carefully avoiding him and keeping well out of his path. But, we still manage a few routines such as eating together and when the nightmares get too bad or the nights too long, seeking one another out for comfort.

I hate that I've become so dependent on Coyote in such a short time. That fact only serves to condemn me further. I try not to dwell on my morbid thoughts. But, Han is slipping further and further away from me. Oh, I think about him and this goddamned war, but the good times we had together are like wisps of smoke drifting on the wind.

It isn't Coyote's fault. He's simply trying to live up to his word. He pours on the charm in hopes of making this impossible situation bearable for me. He can't help who he is. He's a natural born flirt. It's me that is taking things to an unhealthy level.

Maybe, I'm subconsciously letting Han go because I don't expect to see him again. I know the man Han is and he isn't without his flaws. There isn't a selfish bone in his body. I used to love him for that. But, now I see his selflessness in a different light. He'd die for a good cause and I hate him for it.

Coyote frowns at me and at my uneaten plate of food. He reads me like pages in a book and beyond a doubt knows I am not in a happy place. I try to force a smile on my face and work up a little enthusiasm for the meal. I don't quite manage to pull it off. Unlike Coyote, I can't tell a lie or bend the truth to my will.

The cabbage tastes like cardboard and sets my stomach churning. Coyote glares at my plate and I begin to wonder if as a parent would a disobedient child he's going to force me to stay put until I've finished every single bite. "You know, Grace. There's only so much cabbage a man can eat before things get critical. I haven't found one single can of air freshener down here and I don't think the ventilation system was designed with cabbage farts in mind."

I wrinkle my nose and snort. The idea of Coyote stinking up the entire compound with his farts really is kind of gross. But, I begin to giggle as if I'm ten years old and jokes about bowel gas are the funniest thing ever. He grabs my plate and begins to eat my portion. I'm quickly snatching my untouched fork off the table and shoveling down the cabbage before he eats it all. Coyote grins and holds the plate steady. Dribbles of cabbage juice roll down my chin and onto my shirt. "Eat up, Grace. We're going to need all the luck we can get."

I wipe my chin with a napkin. Pretending as if I have a few table manners left. "You don't believe that, do you? I mean, about cabbage bringing good luck in the New Year?"

Coyote shrugs and sets my empty plate on the table. He suddenly grows serious. His eyes turn dark and grave with the direction of his thoughts. He picks up the napkin I abandoned and gently dabs at a spot I missed on my lower lip. His face hovers dangerously close to mine. Tilting his jaw, he places a gentle kiss on my cheek. "I don't know about cabbage. I'd like to believe I've got enough luck for the both of us. They say the first person you kiss on New Year's Day is the person you're going to be with for the rest of the year. I think its bullshit. Don't worry, Grace. I'm going to get you home."

I'm blushing and blinking away tears. Coyote may not be a still water, but he runs very deep. "Why did you do that? I mean, I'm not superstitious either, but why?" My voice is tremulous and wavering. If Coyote doesn't believe the folklore about the New Year's kiss. Then why did he do it? My stomach twists with guilt. I can think of worse places to be and worst people to spend the rest of the year with than him.

Coyote has yet to release my chin from his gentle hold. He tilts my head up so that our eyes have no choice but to meet. "I don't know. Maybe, I'm tempting fate. Doesn't matter. That wasn't a real kiss anyway. It doesn't count."

"How real does a kiss have to be to count?" I ask and immediately regret it. His mouth descends on mine before I can rebuke my words. Coyote tastes of cabbage and the pungent burn of homebrew. The kiss is hungry and filled with want. His tongue grazes my lips asking and searching for answers. My reply is unmistakable and nothing is left to interpretation. I open up and let him in.

I should stop this insanity immediately, but my common sense is drowning, going under for the last time beneath the gentle onslaught of Coyote's kiss. He wraps his fingers around the base of my neck, guiding me closer. The angle is awkward, but he compensates by shifting his weight in the chair, towering over me and drawing me closer and closer till I'm captured in his gravitational pull.

This kiss counts and we both know it. I'm breathless and Coyote occupies my every conscious thought. A moan escapes my lips and he swallows the sound. The rhythm of his tongue probing my mouth slows to gentle strokes that leave me gasping for air and hungry for more. I don't know when I moved my hands, but I did. My fingers have found their way to his waist, winding through his belt loops holding on to them for dear life. His breath is hot against my cheek and I find myself breathing him in. I realize for the first time since this whole mess started that I feel alive again and it's because of him.

I'm willing and offer my throat as his lips leave mine and kiss a path down the sensitive track of flesh. His tongue is a branding iron, searing me. Coyote has slid from his chair and crouches between my thighs on his knees. I have the power to stop this. The position of Coyote's body is his way of letting me know that I decide what happens next. I arch my back, pressing myself to him as he nuzzles his cheek against the heaving rise and fall of my breasts. His hands grip into fists around the loose cotton of my shirt. I don't want to decide. I don't want the power he's given me. I don't want to be the one that condemns us both.

The growl that leaves his throat is more animal than man. I respond by digging my nails into the hard, muscular flesh of his shoulders. If Coyote disapproves or feels the slightest twinge of pain it doesn't show. His hands go wild, tugging at the hem of my shirt to expose as much skin as possible. The heat of his mouth kissing and nipping its way across my rounded belly has me curling my toes and loose boned, drifting and drowning in an undercurrent of desire.

Coyote's muscles shudder beneath my fingertips as he grapples for what is left of his control. His breath comes out in short, hot panting gasps as he runs his stubbly cheek over my belly. His hands grip and dig into the soft flesh of my hips. "God, Grace, God," he moans with what little air his heaving lungs have managed to take in. He rests his palm on the curve of my belly staring at the roundness in wonder before placing a gentle kiss on the place where his hand rested seconds ago.

He sits back on his haunches, his eyes wildly searching my face. In the desire tinged depths of his brown eyes I see a glimmer of guilt and the spark of his internal conflict. I too am conflicted. We both love Han. We've already betrayed his trust in us. We both know once we cross this invisible no man's land in our private war. There is no going back.

Coyote runs the pad of his thumb over my kiss swollen lips. The scent of lust, both his and mine, is thick in the air. It's a sweet scent, like cherry candy. But, there's a hint of bitterness beneath the cloying sugary sweetness.

His hair is a mess, disheveled and standing up on end from where I dug my fingers into the thick mass. I reach out to try to smooth it down, but he ducks his head away.

Coyote is such a contradiction. The hard planes and sharp angles are a contrast to the softness of his hair and the gentleness of his kiss. I want to say something to absolve him of his self-imposed guilt. I'd rather carry the full burden on my own shoulders than share it. I don't know what magic combination of words will make this right. I open my mouth to speak, but Coyote shakes his head, silencing me with a finger pressed to my lips.

He eases his weight off his knees and sits down in the chair. Coyote rests his elbows on his thighs and stares at the floor, ignoring my imploring gaze. It's important to me that he understands I don't blame him. The kiss wasn't an accident. I won't go that far. But, it was just as much my fault as it was his.

I'd like to say that we should chalk the whole incident up to the stress and strain of being basically trapped together and the fact that we're a guy and a girl and sometimes things happen. But, that explanation seems cheap and hardly contrite enough to fit the depth of emotion behind such a simple thing as a kiss.

We have to move forward, past this kiss. I don't want to lose him. I couldn't bear to feel like I'm in this on my own or worse, that his only place in my life is as my babysitter. We can't pretend it didn't happen. Not when I can still feel the warmth of his body and the heat of his lips pressed against mine. After a long silence Coyote finally clears his throat to speak. "Grace, do you know what the pack does on New Year's Day?"

I don't know if Coyote's question is meant as a diversion or as a sign that he also doesn't have a clue as to what else to do so he's putting the whole thing behind him. "No. I don't."

"We give our human sides the day off and we run."

"But, I thought you said I'd get lost?"

Coyote shakes his head and pins me with a bitter smirk. He's hurting. I don't mean the pain from the erection still so hard and proud beneath the fly of his jeans. He's been injured on a level I can only begin to comprehend. He cups my cheek and I want to cry over the warm sensation of his palm against my skin. "Grace, you're never going to get lost. I won't let you."

Chapter 8

I'm freezing and shivering. My skin is damp and bits of frost dangle from the ends of my hair. For a minute, I don't know where I am. I'm confused and gasping. My fingers claw at the rocky bottom of the cave that hides the secret entrance to our underground retreat from the eyes of the world. Every inch of my body hurts. I feel as if I've been torn apart and then hastily slapped back together again. And I realize that I have, literally.

The confusion, the cold and shivering, and the pain are normal after a shift from one form into another. There and back again and that's where I've been. My human sensibilities are beginning to come on line. I'm me again, human, freezing and curled into a fetal position, waking up with the rock cutting into my soft skin.

Coyote shuffles toward me on wobbly uncoordinated legs. The parka he drapes over my bare shoulders is a welcome thing. The fur lining is cool and the bulk of the coat makes my bones ache to their marrow. For some reason I notice his bare feet. They're long and narrow with a high arch that almost makes them look graceful.

The shift affects everyone differently. For me, it's akin to being run over by a semi trailer or maybe, a speeding locomotive. He makes the agonizing reforming of bone, molding of flesh and sinew, and exchange of man for beast look as easy as sliding off a pair of jeans and tugging them back on again.

I grit my teeth and try to scramble onto my feet. In this cave at the top of the world, freezing to death isn't just an expression you say when it's a little brisk outside. It's a real possibility.

My breath forms white puffs of steam as I exhale and try to pull myself together.

The inside of my mouth tastes like things I'd rather not consider. It's then that my wolf begins to supply the mental images and fill in the blanks. I remember the sudden exodus from human thought and the surge as instinct takes the place of reason. I clench my hands into fists. But, I'm remembering the feel of the cold's bite against the pads of my paws. We ran, our wolves playing together in the snow.