It feels like a message, and even though this is nothing but a poor, hapless skunk, I know better than to ignore the kind of message that comes with entrails.
I inhale the scent again, but it’s not the smell of death that bothers me. That’s natural. There’s something else to it that I can’t quite name. All I know is that it makes my hackles rise, which in this form means theback of my neck prickles and goose bumps shiver down my arms. I’m wearing a tank top, so I can see them. It might be December tomorrow, but I’m still a wolf. I don’t get cold.
Though whatever it is about this skunk, it’s making me more shivery than I’d like.
I stand up again and look around me, keeping still enough that I can hear the murmuring of the forest.
I’m not afraid of the woods. That’s a human thing, and fair enough, because chances are, they would be eaten the minute they step three feet into a bunch of trees. There’s no telling what lurks out here at any given moment these days, but again. It doesn’t make sense that anything would be lurkinghere, specifically.
In the woods, yes. In the woods outside the wolf den where the most powerful wolf in this part of North America lives? Unlikely.
I know thatsomethingmust be lurking, not only because I can feel that little tingle of awareness but because the kind of creatures that typically hunt and kill—and I’m one of them—might do it for fun. But they’d enjoy the snack when they were done, and no one does that in the middle of a wolf path when the moon is high.
Unless they’re psycho. I can suddenly see Vinca’s creepy minions in my head, plague masks and cloaks and too much blood on an altar stone.
Suddenly it seems creepier out here than before, and I decide I’d rather deal with the usual melodramatic banshees than whatever this is. I start moving down the path again, but I can’t get that torn-up little creature out of my mind or the way it seemedplacedon this path for me to find.
Specifically me, because every other wolf around here is either one of thebitten, who would have been turned into a terror at moonrise, orbloodlike me and therefore already gathered with the rest of the pack. I’m the only wolf who’s always late. That’s not a secret.
I’m also the only wolf who lives apart from the pack. I’m the only one who has to make my way over here instead of simply rolling out of my private den into the communal caverns.
Leave earlier,my frosty mother suggested the last time I pointed that out.Or are you too addicted to making a spectacle of yourself?
That’s Johanna Hemming for you. She never bothers to lift a claw when she can use her words instead. But all of that is pack shit, and given that I’m about to walk into the greatest possible expression of pack shit there is, I need to make sure I remember to tell Ty what I saw out here.
When he’s in the mood to listen to me again, that is. After the full moon it usually takes him a minute.
But now that I think about it, the way the skunk was ripped apart and splayed open reminds me a little of that black magic crap that the death goddess’s freaky minions liked to play with. All those blood sacrifices and ponderous rituals that they found so important in the run-up to Halloween.
It reminds me of them—but they should be gone. Like she is.
Like she’s supposed to be.
It’s easier to be a wolf. You chase or are chased. You eat or are eaten. Tooth and claw, howl and hunt—wolves are simple creatures, really. Even wolves with too manyideas, like me.
This is what I tell myself as I make it to the old mine’s entrance. It looks like a ruined, run-down piece of shit, the way it’s supposed to. A derelict, blackened structure that should have fallen to pieces years ago and might still, at any moment.
I walk to the front door, or what’s left of it, and make my way into the unappealing rooms within. Debris is strewn about, looking dirty and even a little dangerous. It looks like fires have been stamped out, questionable parties thrown, and there’s even graffiti on the walls.
All lies, of course. Smoke and mirrors.
Any creature that dares to spend any time between these walls uninvited never leaves again. Wolves take territory seriously.
On the other side of the creaky, treacherous wood floor, I open another door and I’m outside again, in the narrow space between thegodforsaken old house and the hill behind it. The old mineshaft is still propped up overhead, defying gravity with every passing second.
I don’t look around for the sentries I know are watching me. I don’t need to, because they make sure that I can hear them growling as I saunter by. My special little greeting from my people, so sweet.
I give them the finger and a little smile for good measure, and then, between two giant rocks that make it look as if nothing could be behind them but more rock, I slip into the shadow that is really an opening and enter the den itself.
Legend has it that the first wolves built our cave system long before the miners showed up. Then they watched and waited as the rude, foolish humans built the pack a perfect little camouflage. As a thank-you, the wolves ate the whole mining company. A celebratory snack.
We tell our young this story around the fires when we gather, embellishing it more and more each time, so that a little wolfling might labor under the impression that “miner” is another word for “meat.” Something that does not go over well in human public schools, as I know from experience.
As I navigate my way into the narrow passage, deliberately unlit, I can already hear the howling and the barking from up above, high on the top of this hill that is too treacherous for anyone to climb without four legs and the sort of supernatural athleticism werewolves are all born with. It’s all sheer rock and treacherous crevasses. It keeps us safe. It keeps us hidden.
It also keeps us in the Stone Age, but no one likes it when I say that.
I can smell roast meat, venison if I’m not mistaken, because on full moon night there’s always a feast. For those who run, but also for those who need to stay behind. The old and infirm. The pregnant females. The young. I can hear the drums from up above. Down here, there’s music. Wolves love a full moon party. I used to myself, before I was old enough to understand what it would mean for me.
