The Summoning

BOOK ONE OF THE MOON WOLF SAGA

CAROL WOLF

NIGHT SHADE BOOKS

SAN FRANCISCO

CHAPTER ONE

I
wasn’t going to get involved.

I heard the drums start up at sundown. When the wind was right, I caught a hint of smoke. But there was more than that: a hum in the air, a tremor of power gathering. Well, that pissed me off. There’s no way I was going to allow someone to raise power in the territory I had marked out as mine, without at least finding out who it was, and what they were up to. And then do something about it.

A muddy haze on the horizon caught the last glint of sunset as I slipped past my landlady’s window. I’d made a point of not letting her see much of me since the day she rented me my place four months earlier, the day before the big earthquake. My I.D. says I’m nineteen, and that I stand five foot four. I’m five foot nothing, lean like a runner. I didn’t try to look taller, or older. I just looked her right in the face as I handed it over. My eyes are green with flecks of gold when I’m easy. When I’m angry, you’d almost think they were gold, if you dare look close. My landlady looked away. Maybe it was the smile. You don’t see my teeth when I smile like that. But you know they’re there.

The lights of Los Angeles were visible to the west, softened by the haze. Half of a waxing moon was high in the sky. Traffic was light on Greenleaf as I trotted up towards the hills to the north of Whittier. No one could see me. Why not make a night of it? I changed.

It felt so good to stretch out my full length, all four paws hitting the ground. I opened my jaws slightly to take in the wave of scents. My ears pricked forward, categorizing the new range of sounds. The night looked suddenly brighter, the edges sharper, and distracting distances blurred as my wolf mind focused on scent and sound to describe the world.

I went easily till I made Hellman Park and got off the pavement, then I opened up, streaking straight up the hillside. A small herd of deer bounded out of my way, gasping in terror. One let out an adorable shriek. My head skewed round, following them, the compelling scent calling me to the glorious chase, the promised victory. For a moment I lusted for that flying mortal leap, my jaws ached for that first gripping tear that brought up flesh and blood and life all at once… I let them go. I had other game afoot that night. In retrospect, it would have been better if I’d gone after the deer. Well, not for everyone.

They had set up wards in a dozen places along the trails of the park, little wispy spells like tiny suggestions appearing suddenly in your head: “There’s nothing here, go away, you’re not hearing anything.” They don’t work on me. At least, these didn’t. Maybe they weren’t expecting anything like me to show up at their party.

I found my intruders in a hollow beyond the crest of the hill. They’d laid out their circle out of sight of the fire station that’s up on the west end of the ridge. That was smart, because they’d built a bonfire. About two dozen women danced widdershins around the fire to the pounding of drums; a couple of djembes, and a big round buffalo drum. They all wore long dark robes that swung in heavy shadows in the firelight. There was purpose in the dance, the drumming, the chanting, the ceremonial clothes. And I was going to know what it was.

I laid up on the hillside overlooking their circle, invisible in the shadows and the brush. I could feel the charge in the air from the power they were raising, like the pressure of a coming storm. They sang, clapped, danced, and drummed, raising a charge of chaos and turning it on the spindle of their dance, the pattern almost printed on the air.

At the west edge of the circle they had built an altar of stone and wood, where candles burned among various crystals and pots and branches of herbs, pieces of fruit and flowers. The leader stood there with her back to the circle, holding a sword across outstretched hands. Her voice rose in a different song—a summoning? So this was not a random power raising. Not an experiment. These people knew what they were doing, and they had a purpose. And I was going to know what it was.

Her lone voice, high and strong, wove a counterpoint with the drums and the chanting, and the beat of the women’s feet on the broken grass and dirt. The leader raised the sword in the air, and the drumming changed, reverberating in the darkness. The hair rose all down my nape. I crouched uneasily. The circle chanted aversion, protection, deflection; the altar working summoned—what? Help?

The leader’s gaze rose my way, met my eyes briefly, and returned her concentration to the working. I bared my teeth for an instant. Frankly, I like a little more respect than that.

The drums hammered imperatively; the dancers wove among one another, their voices rising to a clamor. My head came up in wonder as I sensed a new flare of energy. I got up, turned about, tasting the air. There were other circles in other strong places tonight, near and far, raising power as well. The working here had just connected up with the others. What was going on? It wasn’t one of the eight holy nights; I knew that. The equinox was more than a week away. This was something else, something unusual. I settled down again, uneasily, to watch.

The chanting changed as the connection of their energy to the power of distant workings solidified. They wove it together quite nicely with their own; this bunch knew their stuff. The moon began to fall toward the west.

I sensed him as he topped the ridge and raised my head. He walked down the slope and straight to their fire, a young man, not tall, straight-backed and fair-haired, in an old leather jacket and worn jeans. I got up when I smelled his fear, trailing along behind him like blood from a wound. Not a new fear, but something he had carried with him for a long time. He made his way into their circle, breaking up their working and bringing it to a halt, as though he were under a compulsion. Curious. I wondered what he thought he was doing. The drums and voices stopped so sharply that silence opened up like a sound of its own. As the women turned on him, his fear bubbled up fresh and new. I could taste it where I stood. I moved closer down the slope, parting the brush like a shadow.

“It is not your business,” I heard one of the dancers tell him.

“It is,” he insisted. “I can help, if you’ll let me.”

“You?” she said scornfully.

The leader came forward, and the others made way for her as though their movements had been choreographed. She stood before him and looked him over, and he bent under her regard as though he stood in a strong wind.

“This is no place for you.” Her voice was grand and strong. She was middle-aged, heavy-set, and carried her years as she wore her power, with authority and grace.

He made an effort to stand his ground. “Listen, I just want to know what’s going on, what you’ve heard.”

She held out a hand toward him, as though feeling a fire for its warmth. “I know what you are, Dark One. I command you to depart.”

While the celebrant spoke, the women moved up to surround him, the fire burning at their backs. Some of them took hands, touched shoulders, reinforcing each others’ power. He swayed, and braced himself against them.

“I’m not what you think. Really.” His eyes seemed to burn in his narrow face, but that could just have been the intensity of his desire.

“No?” the celebrant asked.

“No, I mean yes, all right.” He looked down, “But it’s different than you think.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Can you prove it?”

He raised his head and met her gaze. “I’ll bear any trial you care to name.” He added, “If you command me.”

“If I command you?” the celebrant asked, surprised. “Can I command you?”

“Yes,” he said. He bent his head to her. Some of his fear and tension left him. That was strange. The women surrounding him shifted. Their force changed, no longer pressing him out, but something else, probably more dangerous. What was he thinking? I moved up a little closer.

The celebrant studied him, her hand again feeling the air between them. “You aren’t one thing or the other. Dark or light, where is your place? Have you come here to find out?”

He shook his head. He looked even younger than I’d thought, not even in his twenties. “I know what I am,” he said. “I’m willing to prove my good intentions.”

The celebrant did not seem impressed. “Are you?”

“To you, yes.”

“Even to your death?”

He smiled a little, and shrugged. “If that is your wish.”

A shock of excitement went through the group. I decided it was time to step in. I didn’t know what they thought was wrong with this guy, except maybe his gender, but I wasn’t going to stand by and see murder done.

When I stepped into the circle the group froze, electrified. I felt the trance of power and self-assurance lift right away from a lot of those women. I almost grinned. Now that’s respect.

The leader turned her head to me. She didn’t back up even a step. “Sister, welcome.” She nodded regally. “Do you have business here?”

I stood up. I may not be as impressive on two feet, with my short dark hair, jeans, and a black sweatshirt, but there’s nothing sillier than an animal dumb show when you’re trying to have a conversation. Besides, when I change, it’s impressive, whether you believe you saw what you thought you saw or not.

I folded my arms and nodded in return. “Lady.”

She asked, “Is this one under your protection?”

I looked over at the young man. He stared at me, wide-eyed. I could sense his shock, but he wasn’t feeling any more fear, like a lot of the women were. Funny—he smelled calmer now.

“I’m just here to see fair play done. Seems like you were ganging up.”

“He has agreed to the trial.” She looked over at him for confirmation and he nodded. But he was still staring at me.

“Very well.” I gave them permission to continue.

Someone brought her the sword from the altar. Very low, very sharp, very slow, the drumming began again.

They called on the powers of light. On purity, rightness, right action. When they called on the powers to give one straight answer, one right truth, I started to feel uncomfortable. What would one straight answer or one right truth make of me? I had a thousand of them. I thought of voicing a question, or an objection, but the circle, as I said, was strong and practiced, and this new working borrowed power from the pattern of energy already flowing across that hill. I was too much a part of it myself by then to break away. The celebrant raised the sword. She sang, and the women answered, and they collected all the power of their working and directed it into the blade of her sword. She turned to the young man she had called the Dark One, and raised it over him. He bowed his head, and she lowered the blade. When it touched his skull, he changed.

I leaped, huge with sudden rage, changing instantaneously, and had him on the ground, his head in my jaws, on instinct at the scent of it. He screamed then, and he was just a guy again, my forepaws on his shoulders. He writhed under me, the sword fallen feet away in the dirt. I got off and backed away, head still down. My flanks were heaving, and I snarled involuntarily. The taste of his blood and his scent were human, now. But what had that thing been as the sword touched his head?

It had been shapeless, but deep, like a writhing hole into nowhere, or some place from my nightmares, or beyond death, a dark mass of potent otherness. It had will, and consciousness, I’d felt it clearly, a will so powerful I could taste it. The memory of it kept my hackles on end. He lay on the ground, shivering. He smelled of blood where I’d broken his skin, and fear all over him.