Wild Blood (15 page)

Her smell was all over him, clinging to his fur like an exotic perfume. It made it so difficult for him to think straight or even to think at all, except for how the only thing he wanted in the world would was to stick his dick in her.

He took her from behind, her middle pair of tits clutched in his trembling claws. She made noises like his puppy used to make when it slept and dreamt of chasing rabbits. When he came, he sank his fangs into the thick fur protecting her shoulders, then he rolled off her and they lay together as she tenderly licked at the sides of his mouth. When he woke up again, she was gone. The only evidence that she'd been there at all was the lingering smell of female that still clung to his fur.

Chapter Sixteen

It was twilight when Skinner returned to the creek to wash himself. He found Rend waist deep in the icy waters, vigorously shampooing his pelt. The moment Skinner set foot in the water, the shock shifted him back into his human form.

“Damn! That's cold!”

Rend barked a laugh. “That's why I kept my coat on.” He sniffed Skinner and wrinkled his muzzle, his ears swiveling atop his head like radar dishes. “So, she fucked you.”

Skinner cringed. “It's that noticeable?”

Rend shrugged. “There are no secrets in the pack. Besides, it was only a matter of time before she did. Hoped you enjoyed it, cousin. Everybody gets one. Just one. No repeat performances.”

“She slept with you?”

“I wouldn't say that. But, yeah, I've fucked her. We all have—even Hew and Ripper. Its part of the bonding ritual that makes the pack work as a team,” Rend said as he clambered out of the creek and shook himself dry. Seconds later, he shifted back into his human form and began putting on his clothes. “What you need is a crash course in the birds and the bees—vargr style—before you wander into more trouble than you can handle. Like I already told you, full-blooded vargr—those raised within the pack—are comparatively rare. That's because bitches never travel alone. Vargr bitches can copulate whenever they like, but they can only conceive while in Season.

“That's where the Howl comes in. All the assembled males, pedigree and mongrel, battle for the right to mate with whatever bitch is in Heat. Whoever wins the melee is made her consort and becomes the Alpha male of the pack … until the next Heat.”

“Jez doesn't seem to have a high opinion of her brother.”

“Jag might be good at fighting, but he's not that hot when it comes to making babies,” Rend said with a crooked grin. “It's hard to say if he's sterile or not, since he devours any human he has sex with. He has this real thing against siring mongrels. He wants his issue to be full-blooded. Like I said, there are no secrets in the pack.”

Skinner hurriedly left the water and joined Rend on the bank, pulling on his clothes while his teeth chattered. “Don't take this the wrong way—but you make it sound like all vargr are rapists.”

“Did you have a girlfriend when you were in high school?” Rend asked meaningfully.

“I didn't date,” he admitted. “I wasn't exactly what you'd call popular.”

“What about later? When you were in college?”

“Well, no …”

“Do you beat off?”

“Of course—doesn't everybody?” Skinner replied, the blood rising in his face.

“What do you think about when you're jerking it? Do you fantasize about a romantic evening in front of the fireplace? Or do you think about taking what you want, even if she screams and fights? Is that what gets you hard?” Rend asked, his lips pulled into a nasty leer.

“What the hell are you trying to say?” Skinner demanded indignantly.

“I'm sorry, cuz,” Rend apologized, seeing the anger in his friend's eyes. “I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that vargr males can't really get it up when we're human without some rough stuff involved. That means consensual sex with humans is impossible. The vast majority of us are born of rape and violence, and we are doomed to repeat it … save for the occasional opportunity to mate with one of our own kind every few years. That is what brings us to the Howl like moths to the flame, and why, within the next few days, many of us will die at the hands of our kinsmen.”

“Aw, there you go romanticizing shit again!” Sunder snorted as he walked up. “We go to the Howl because it's a bang-up party and we can hang out with out worrying about Changing back and forth. Me, I could care less about fucking something that actually wanted it. I participate in the melee because—well, when I get a whiff of Heat, the little head takes over, know what I mean?”

“Always the poet-philosopher, Sunder,” Rend smirked.

“Hey, don't I know it? Anyway, Jag sent me down here to tell you two to get a move on. It's time to go.”

When Rend and Skinner returned to the vehicles they found the rest of the pack waiting for them in the clearing. Jez was sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass, retouching her nails with Fire Engine Red #5. She didn't look up as Skinner approached.

“Let's get this show on the road!” Jag barked. “We've still got a long drive ahead of us before we make the lodge!”

This announcement was greeted by various groans as the pack once more split up their numbers between the vehicles. But before Skinner could return to the equipment van, Jag grabbed his arm. His face was millimeters from Skinner's and he radiated the hot, animal smell of raw aggression.

“What did she say about me?” he growled.

Rend coughed nervously and tried to draw the pack leader's attention away from Skinner. “Jag, about the route to the Howl—”

“Later, Rend!” Jag snarled, flashing his fangs at his subordinate. “I'm talking to the low-dog!”

“Of course, Jag,” Rend muttered, automatically stepped back as he ritually exposed his throat in deference.

Skinner jerked his arm free of Jag's grip, his shoulders tensed and hair bristling. “I've put up with bastards bullying me around all my life—and I'll be damned if I'm going to take any more of it!”

Jag took an involuntary step backward, genuinely surprised by Skinner's response. He glanced back at his sister, who was blowing on her freshly painted nails, apparently oblivious to the conflict. “I should settle this right here, mutt,” he said, lowering his voice. “But I don't have the time to waste on you. Once we get to the lodge, low-dog, I'm going to tear your ears off.”

“I'll be ready and waiting,” Skinner snarled in reply.

As he climbed into the equipment van, Skinner tossed a final glance over his shoulder and saw Jez wave to him—or maybe she was just drying her nail polish.

Chapter Seventeen

After leaving the Carson National Forest, they headed west, crossing into Colorado through the Spring Valley Pass. They continued to travel northwest, passing tiny unincorporated towns and the occasional ranch house set far off the highway, until the only evidence of mankind's existence was the road on which they traveled even higher still into the mountains.

During the winter, when the surrounding peaks were under a thick blanket of snow, the area was supported by thriving ski resorts. But during the off-season the country was all but deserted, save for those too poor or crazy to leave. It was the perfect place for a band of blood-thirsty werewolves to hold a jamboree.

A few miles past Wolf Creek Pass the vans turned off onto a dirt road that looked more like a dry river bed. After twenty minutes of teeth-rattling and pothole-dodging, Skinner caught a glimpse of a huge building made from native lumber and natural stone set against the looming mountainside. A mile later they came to a wooden entry gate. As the vehicles came to a halt, three hulking figures emerged from the surrounding trees. Although all of them were wearing human skins, they were clearly vargr, although one carried an automatic weapon slung over one shoulder.

“Snuff! Long time no see, cousin!” Sunder grinned as he rolled down the driver's side window.

“Yeah, it's been a few moons,” the guard agreed, sniffing Sunder in welcome. “Who's the new dog?” he asked, fixing Skinner with a suspicious eye.

“His name is Skinner,” Sunder explained. “We picked him up in Albuquerque a couple of days ago. He's cool.”

Snuff grunted and snapped his fingers. One of the other guards handed him a clipboard and he scribbled something down. “You'll have to get clearance from Lady Melusine if you plan on keeping him.”

“We know the drill.”

“Okay, you're free to enter,” Snuff said as he waved the microbus into the compound. “Welcome home, cousins.”

Why all the security?” Skinner asked as they drove up the winding gravel drive that lead to the lodge. “I thought the only ones who knew this place existed werewolves.”

“There's more than one kind of ‘werewolf',” Rend replied. “You, me, Sunder and Hew here are mongrels, mutts. We're half-human, but we can Change. That's what makes us vargr. Those half-humans who can't shape shift are called esau, then there are the half-wolves, called ulfr. The guards are here to make sure no esau or ulfr tries to enter the Howl.”

“But I thought this Howl thing was supposed to bring together everyone who shares Wild blood?”

“Not all Wild blood is equal,” Rend explained. “There's probably more esau than there are pedigreed and mongrel vargr combined. However, they are pathetic creatures, wrapped in the flesh and form of man, but possessing the nature and appetites of vargr. Gilles de Rais, Albert Fish, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jack the Ripper were all esau, for example.

“While we vargr may sympathize with their plight, we find it prudent to distance ourselves from them. Esau are driven by their need for human flesh, and tend to be reckless. That makes them dangerous running companions. Even the most cunning of them, like Bundy, eventually betray themselves. The last thing we need is to have media attention trained on us because the damned fools can't stop killing prostitutes.

“Vargr have dwelt in the shadows for centuries—preying on mankind at our leisure. It suits our needs that humans continue to dismiss us as myth—a quaint superstition to frighten their children into good behavior, or to be turned into grist for their entertainment mill.”

“And the ulfr? Why are they excluded?”

Rend blinked, surprised that Skinner would even bother to ask such a question. “Because that would be bestiality!”

“All out for Wolfcane Lodge!” Sunder crowed as the Volkswagen came to a halt.

As Skinner emerged from the microbus he was surprised to see a wide selection of automobiles arrayed along on the gravel apron. Everything from fuel-efficient Japanese imports to a '59 Cadillac that could have passed for the Batmobile was gathered in the parking lot.

“Looks like we're the last to arrive—as usual!” Rend said with a laugh as he clapped Skinner on the back. “C'mon we better go ahead and get you cleared!”

The doorway to the lodge was flanked by towering carvings of rampant, snarling wolves fashioned from black walnut that faced one another, so that visitors had to pass between their upraised claws. As Skinner entered, he cast a nervous glance at the guardians' faces, forever frozen in angry snarls.

The central lobby looked like a cross between the foyer of a hunting lodge and a rustic cathedral, with a high, vaulted ceiling that seemed to disappear into the smoke that escaped from the vast natural stone fireplace that occupied an entire wall. Roughhewn staircases fashioned from split logs connected the lobby to the east and west wings of the lodge.

The interior of Wolfcane Lodge wasn't much different from that of the dozens of ski resorts in the area, except for the fact at instead of having taxidermied elk or mountain lions for decoration, they used humans. One of the ‘trophies' was an older man dressed in the long black robes of a judge, a gavel held in one hand and volume of the New York State Municipal Code, circa the 1930, in the other. Skinner squatted on his haunches and squinted at the brass plate at his feet:
JUDGE CRATER
. There was no need for him to read the plaque attached to the squat, jowly, man dressed in an early Seventies business suit. He'd seen pictures of Jimmy Hoffa before.

“Rend! I was wondering when you'd finally make it!” exclaimed a man tricked out in Nazi regalia as he strode across the lobby to greet them. As he drew closer, Skinner was shocked to realize the stranger was wearing what appeared to be an authentic Gestapo S.S. uniform, not merely an elaborate costume.

“Fenris! It's good to see you, cousin!” Rend said warmly as he clasped the Gestapo officer's hand.

“Same here, my young friend! And who's this handsome young fellow?” the Nazi asked, flashing a toothy smile. “Skinner, I'd like you to meet Colonel Fenris,” Rend said.

The Gestapo officer clicked the heels of his highly polished jackboots and delivered a Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” Fenris broke into laughter. “You should have seen the look on your face, my dear boy! I swear, even after all this time, it's still guaranteed to drop jaws!”

“Rend! You handsome dog! There you are!” This was called out by a man dressed in the flowing red robes of a Roman Catholic cardinal approached them with the determination of an ice cutter plowing its way through the Arctic Circle.

“Amadeo!” Rend took the cardinal's hand and kissed his ring. “And how have you been keeping yourself, Excellency?”

“Well enough, my pet,” the cardinal replied, pushing back his broad-brimmed hat to reveal a tangle of dark curls and a carefully maintained goatee that made him look like a picture book devil. “And yourself? Are you still traveling with those wretched brats?”

“Yes, I'm still running with Jag and Jez.”

Amadeo rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Honestly, my boy! I don't see what you find so attractive in those hellions!”

“Jag's my friend, Amadeo.”