Page 3 of Blacktail

“If White-Eye still lives, she might have some fight in her.”

“Precisely.” Hate stood, gave Pounce a quick lick to flatten the fur between her ears, then walked over to nibble a bit at the field mouse. “Everyone had your fill?”

“Yes, Father.”

Hate took a leisurely step out, heading toward the forest, then snapped around. He leapt at Pounce, growling playfully. Mostly playful. Pounce did not show fear. Hate clawed at her—not as fast as he might have, but not slow, either. She ducked the strike, then sprang onto her father’s back and swatted at his ears. They spun through the snow, laughing.

Watching this, Guile purred, a little. He’s a shit husband. But he really is a good father.

That night when Hate went to the stream, he motioned for Guile to follow him. They walked in silence. Guile drank first, her tongue flicking in and out of the icy water while Hate stood watch. Then he took his turn, drinking only a little. When he was done, he turned to face her. “I will be gone most of the night.” His tone was grave.

“Ah,” she said. “Is it time?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll stalk stories first, then…perhaps.”

“Stories?”

“The little morsels who live up there have a gift for gossip. One of them must have seen what happened the other night. By now the news of it will be all across the mountain.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. Stay here and look after the kittens.” He dipped low, rubbed her with his shoulders. “Tell me, my love: Have you ever eaten wolf?”

“No.” Guile purred. “Can’t say that I have.”

Hate slipped into the woods, heading north. He didn’t look back, but as he disappeared into the grove of spruce, he swished his tail and called back over his shoulder: “I’ve heard that puppy meat is very tender.”

iii

The snow stopped shortly after dawn. The sky remained gray, though. A faint disk of white sun glowed behind towering clouds. Hate didn’t mind. He liked things gloomy.

He hadn’t gone far before he encountered the first of the scent poems that marked the boundary of the wolf lands. He sniffed it idly, sighed. When marking his own lands he would usually keep it simple, something like “Mine. Leave or die.” The damn wolves, though…they always had to make a production of everything. It was even worse than their singing. This one said,

White-Eye

forgotten daughter

alone and childless

mate of none

claims these lands.

None other may hunt here.

Yup, Hate thought. That’s wolves for you. Why get to the point if you can whine first? He sniffed closer. This mark was old—last winter or thereabouts. Last he’d heard, White-Eye was still mateless. But she had borne a litter in the spring, a male and three females. That, in no small part, was why Hate had not been sleeping well, why he had been looking up the mountain when the gunshots rang out. White-Eye alone was bad enough. But with a pack behind her…a young pack…

No. Hate cut the thought off, listening to his father’s voice. The weak flee from their nightmares. The strong chase their dreams. Or something like that—Father had always been big on platitudes. Anyway…it looked like the pups weren’t going be a problem.

When Hate first came to this patch of forest, he was young, cocky. Not content to take his share of the rabbits and leave well enough alone, he challenged White-Eye for the mountain one fine spring day. White-Eye subjugated him, leaving a shredded right ear that flopped when he walked. For a while he thought he might lose an eye as well, but in the end it healed. Sometimes on cold nights when he couldn’t sleep, he lay and wondered about that day. Why had she not killed him?

He didn’t know.

At any rate, he had not tried her again. Instead, he comforted himself with the knowledge that White-Eye was the last of her kind around here and, for all he knew, everywhere else. She would not live forever. He could afford to be patient. He had guile, and Guile as well. Eventually the mountain would belong to them, to their kittens.

But now…it seemed he had miscalculated the degree of White-Eye’s desperation. The rumor was that she had lowered herself to mate with a house dog, some mongrel slave who’d been drawn to the wild lands by the scent of her estrus. As far as he knew, though, no one had ever caught scent of the father. Perhaps she ate him when it was done. Before the kittens came, Hate occasionally had similar thoughts about his own mate.

But if White-Eye was cold enough to murder a mate…why had she let him live?