Wild Blood (18 page)

“I welcome you, one and all, to Wolfcane Lodge! I trust my servants have seen to your needs,
mes cousins? Bon!
Let it never be said that Lady Melusine is inhospitable!”

There was a roar of agreement, which she accepted with the mock humility that Skinner now saw was her true nature. Whatever he had envisioned when Rend and the others first mentioned the Howl, he hadn't expected a ballroom full of werewolves tricked out in masquerade costumes, paying court to an aging she-wolf dressed like Marie Antoinette.

Melusine held up a hand, and the assembled rabble fell silent. “I would like to announce the names of our brethren who have perished since the last time we gathered here. Gone from the pack is Lykos, eldest of the vargr, who once marched alongside Alexander and died of that rarest of vargr ailments: old age. Also gone is Womanslayer, who the human press so crudely dubbed the Billings Slasher. He was killed while evading arrest in Montana.” Melusine bit her lower lip, and when she spoke there was a waver in her voice. “And, lastly, it gives me great pain to announce the death of Growler, who was cruelly taken from us by the accursed coyotero.” There was an audible gasp and the vargr exchanged shocked looks among themselves. “I have a little surprise for you, mes amis—one I planned to keep secret until later. But in light of the news of Growler's death, I see no reason to wait,
mais non
?”

Lady Melusine clapped her hands, and two young vargr males dressed as footmen emerged from backstage, pushing a circus animal cage covered by a sheet.

“We vargr have waged war with the coyotero since we first arrived in the New World. Many of our cousins have fallen to their ambushes over the years—yet we still prevail! Their spies and assassins are everywhere! Just two days ago, my loyal guards captured one such spy!”

Melusine motioned for the sheet covering the cage to be pulled away. The assembled vargr moved forward, pressing against the stage in hopes of getting a good look at the enemy.

Skinner stood on tiptoe, trying to get a clearer view. The coyotero—whatever it might be—sat huddled inside the cage and refused to look in the direction of the audience.

“Show them your face,
espionne
!” Melusine snarled as she viciously poked at the captive with the butt of her crook.

As the coyotero grudgingly responded to the prodding, Skinner gasped and knuckled his eyes in disbelief. The spy that sat huddled in the cage, her clothes torn and her face bruised, was none other than Root Woman's granddaughter, Rosie.

Chapter Twenty

Skinner lay sprawled across his bed, staring up at the raw pine rafters, and a joint dangling from the corner of his mouth as Rend portable iPod deck ground out Sonic Youth.

“What are they going to do to her?” he asked.

“Her who?” Rend asked as he stepped out of the bathroom, fresh from his shower. Instead of using a towel, he shook himself dry, sending spray in every direction.

“Ro—the coyotero they captured,” Skinner replied, catching himself before he blurted out Rosie's name.

“Probably use her in the Hunt,” Rend yawned as he took the joint from Skinner.

“What's that?”

“Normally they use a human or an esau. Feral—the Master of the Hunt—sticks the prey in a big burlap bag and drags it through the woods, so it'll leave a scent trail. Then he hangs the bag from the limb of a really high tree. The first vargr to the scene gets to keep the ears. It's not much different than a foxhunt, except we don't use horses.”

“Doesn't sound very sporting.”

“I didn't say it was,” Rend countered as he flopped down on his own bed, folding his arms behind his head. “What's it matter to you? It's not like she's vargr.”

“But she's a shape changer, too, isn't she?”

“You better not let the purebreds hear you talk like that,” he said ruefully. “They're not werewolves, they're were-coyotes!”

“So?”

Rend crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth. “Duh, they're not vargr!”

“I still don't get what's the big difference.”

“The coyotero are native to North America and didn't like the idea of sharing their territory with European interlopers. So they declared war against the vargr, and we've been fighting one another—mostly through guerilla actions—for five centuries now. Our side started getting the upper hand about a century ago, thanks to Manifest Destiny. The coyotero won't admit it, but their days are numbered. It's only a matter of time before the vargr reign supreme on this continent.”

“And you say they killed Growler?”

“Probably,” Rend muttered.

“Aren't you sure?” Skinner frowned.

“That's what Jag told me. I wasn't there.”

“But you're not sure.”

“Why should he lie?” Rend shot back heatedly.

“You tell me,” Skinner countered.

Rend swore under his breath and got up from the bed and began to pace back and forth. Skinner sat with his legs crossed in the lotus position and watched his friend.

“You think Jag killed Growler, don't you?”

“It's a strong possibility,” Rend conceded.

“But they were brothers!”

“Demi-brothers,” Rend reminded him. “And everyone knew Melusine favored Growler over Jag. He was her favorite. There was a lot of bad blood between those two—especially after Jez started flirting with Growler. Supposedly, Jag and Growler were waylaid by coyotero while we were in East L.A. I saw Growler's body—he'd been shot through the head with a silver bullet, and coyotero aren't particularly well known for using firearms. They prefer silver arrowheads and knives when they fight.”

“So if you think Jag's responsible for Growler's death, why didn't you say so to Lady Melusine?”

“Just lay off him, okay?” Rend snapped. “Interfamilial intrigue and fratricide is hardly unheard of among the vargr! For the purebred it's a way of life!”

“I don't get it—why do you insist on protecting him?”

Rend sighed and ran a hand over his forehead. “Five years ago, I was a know-nothing mutt, just like you. Sure, I'd been on my own for nearly a decade—I'd even run across a couple of others like me, but they were as confused and fucked-up as I was. Then I met Jag. He was the one who taught me what my heritage really meant. He offered me a place in his pack and schooled me in the ways of the vargr. Before then, I was a loner—without friends or family, preying on those society shunned.

“I was nothing more than a murdering cannibal, incapable of sharing my thoughts with anyone for fear of exposing myself. My loneliness and isolation was driving me insane. Jag gave me the chance to be part of something bigger than myself—and for the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to feel like I belonged somewhere. Jag gave me all that. I can't rat on him because of what happened with Growler. While I don't always approve of the things he does, or how he does them, he's still my friend. I'll never turn against him, no matter what happens. Now get to bed. Tomorrow is the rut melee. You're going to need all your strength if you want to survive—and get some nookie.”

Just before dawn there was a light rapping sound on their bedroom door. Rend leaned over and shook Skinner. “Wake up! It's time for the melee!” His voice held the excitement and anticipation of a child announcing the arrival of Christmas morning. As Skinner reached for his clothes, Rend stayed his hand. “There's no need. Follow me.”

There were several other vargr already in the hallway, all of them nude. Together they silently padded toward the central lobby. Within a few minutes there were four dozen nude men of various ages and physical builds moving down the stairs and headed out the front door. Skinner had to force himself not to giggle at the sight of some of the older vargr, who were far from imposing when seen buck-naked in their human skins.

The brisk morning air hit his bare flesh, tightening his scrotum and raising goose pimples on every inch of his body. His first instinct was to drop his human skin in favor of his far warmer pelt, but Rend caught his eye and shook his head.

They walked across the neatly manicured lawn, heading toward the tree line. Skinner felt something pass through him like a jolt of low-voltage electricity. It made his scalp prickle and the tips of his fingers and the bottom of his feet pulse. With every step he took, the throbbing in his extremities grew more intense, until it felt like his body was keeping time to an unheard drum beat. He glanced down and saw that his penis was completely engorged, pointing the way like a divining rod.

After a few minutes, they came upon a natural clearing in the woods that was half the size of a football field. In the middle of the clearing was a huge boulder that jutted forth like the fossilized tooth of some long-extinct giant. Perched atop the boulder was Jez, naked except for body paint and a necklace fashioned from rawhide and the bones. Jag sat hunkered at the base of the rut-altar; the ruling consort protecting his claim to power.

Jez got to her feet and surveyed the congregation, deciding the pace and direction in which the rut would go. Smiling, she squatted on her haunches and let loose with a stream of urine that steamed in the cold morning air. Her heat wafted down to her waiting suitors, filling the clearing with the scent of the most primal of needs. The assembled males moaned and growled, sprouting fur and fang in response. As he shed his human skin, Skinner felt the last traces of reason slip away with it. There was only a hot coal between his legs and the knowledge that the only way to douse it was to plunge it into Jez.

The assembled males moved into the clearing, converging on the rut-altar. Jag bared his fangs and flattened his ears against his skull, prepared to stand his ground. And then all hell broke loose.

A pair of males who accidentally brushed against one another went berserk, lashing out with their claws and teeth, biting and slashing indiscriminately. Within seconds the frenzy had spread to the others. It looked and sounded like the world's biggest dog fight.

Fur and blood flew in every direction as the vargr males set amongst themselves, tearing at one another with talons and teeth. The weaker, more submissive males were quickly chased off. Those hurt badly enough to awake their sense of self-preservation did their best to crawl from the surging mass of snarling, snapping beast-men, only to be savaged by their fellow vargr.

A heavyset vargr with a dark, thick pelt whose eyes rolled in their sockets lunged at Skinner, snapping at his throat. Skinner dodged the attack, and when the other werewolf tried again, he was ready for him, sinking his teeth deep into his opponent's shoulder as he vigorously shook his head. The bigger werewolf screamed and clawed at him, but Skinner refused to let go. The wild-eyed vargr tore himself free, yowling in pain, and abandoned the field. Skinner spat out the mouthful of fur and flesh his opponent had left behind.

In the midst of the rut melee, there was no recognition of friend or kinsman. Skinner saw Hew leap atop the Hound as he dragged himself across the blood-soaked battlefield. Within seconds of his killing the ancient Celt, Ripper sprang onto Hew's broad back, slashing at his throat with razor-sharp talons. Fenris and Amadeo grappled one another like rabid wrestlers, while Rend and Skinner tore at one another like pit bulls.

And amidst all the blood and pain, Jez looked down upon the frenzy from her place atop the altar stone and giggled like a demented school girl.

Suddenly, without realizing it, Skinner found himself face-to-face with Jag. The reigning consort's spoiled cream pelt was stained with gore, his muzzle covered with the blood of would-be suitors. Jag's brows tightened and his hackle rose even higher upon recognizing who stood before him. The two young werewolves surged forward, fangs bared and fur bristling.

Jag sank his teeth into Skinner's shoulder, which had already been bitten by Rend, causing his rival to shriek in pain. Skinner tried to free himself from the other werewolf's jaws, but Jag would not let go. Skinner could feel his blood pumping from the wound, staining his pelt. Howling in anger and pain, Skinner thrust his claws into Jag's face.

Jag yowled and suddenly let go, clamping a hand to the right side of his face. Blood oozed between his fingers and down his cheek. With an incoherent scream of rage, the other werewolf quit the battleground, leaving the altar-stone unguarded. Skinner quickly scaled the boulder, leaving the blood-filled madness of the melee behind him. His nostrils flared as he drew in the smell of Jez's heat. The burning in his loins was so strong it erased all thought. All that mattered was the bitch awaiting him.

Jez presented herself in the manner of a she-wolf, approaching him sideways, with her rump turned to one side. With an agonized growl, Skinner mounted her from behind. Jez yowled and shivered as he penetrated her. After a few vigorous thrusts, she began squealing loudly and trying to bite her. Locked and firmly seated, he cuffed her ears and seized the nape of her neck with his teeth, pinning her to the rut-altar as he continued to hump. He was vaguely aware that the others below had ceased fighting and were watching them.

One of the males made a tentative approach toward the altar, only to have Skinner whip his head about and display his teeth without missing a thrust. Cowed, the challenger quickly backed off. After a few minutes the failed suitors began to leave the clearing, stepping over the dead and dying left on the field of battle. The sun was starting to rise and would soon dry the blood that covered the grass like so much morning dew.

As for Skinner, nothing else existed beyond the need within his loins as he pounded relentlessly against the whimpering Jez. Every movement Jez made further excited him, setting off yet another round of frenzied rutting. Exhausted, he dozed off firmly entrenched within her, only to start wake as Jez began to squirm against him in a desperate attempt to quench the fire smoldering in her womb. They copulated furiously until, fatigued and dehydrated; they were forced to pry themselves apart. The sun was dipping behind the trees and their pelts were stiff from sweat, blood and sex.