Page 4 of Blacktail

Eh. Hate swished his tail, brushing the question away. Never mind all that. The only fact that mattered was the pups. Alone, White-Eye could live well enough off the meat that dwelled on her hill. She had no reason to challenge him. But with four more mouths to feed, she would inevitably invade Hate’s valley.

He remembered her tooth shredding his right ear, the sting of it. Hot murder boiled up from his belly. His claws thrummed.

Hate had learned much in the seasons since that fight. Sometimes he turned the prospect of a rematch over in his mind. White-eye still outweighed him, but she was getting older. Hate had been a yearling when they fought. These days he was in his prime…more or less. If they fought again, he thought the outcome might be different. But with four more wolves in her pack, however young and inexperienced, he could not hope to win. All that spring and summer he had waited for the inevitable, scenting the wind and hearing news of the litter’s growth.

He pressed up the hill, moving slowly, striving for absolute silence. He was far inside the bounds of White-Eye’s lands. He wasn’t worried, exactly, just…cautious.

Hate froze in his tracks, then bent, sniffed at the crusty snow. Rabbit dung. Perfect. From there he cast about in rough, widening circles, careful not to let the crust of snow crackle under his paws.

There was nothing to the south or west, but not far north he found another pile of scat, then another. Their den must be close. He scanned for a tree to climb. That elm should do. He circled around, approaching from the underbrush. The ground there was thick with stones. With care he was able to avoid leaving tracks in the snow. At the base of the elm, he found another of White-Eye’s scent poems:

the breath of my puppies in the morning air

I am the mother of hunters

Hate purred. Not anymore, you’re not. He surveyed the tree with a practiced eye, crouched back on his haunches. He leapt up perhaps twice the length of his body, wrapped his forelegs around the trunk, dug his claws in. His hind paws scrabbled against the bark—a few flecks fell away—not as quiet as he would have liked, but it might have been falling snow. He flowed up the tree like an oiled nightmare.

He settled in about two-thirds of the way up the trunk. There, against the snow-covered branches and shadows, his light gray fur was more or less invisible. He had a good view of the trail below and a clear line to pounce without impaling himself. Perfect.

He didn’t have to wait long. The old bullet lodged in his hip had hardly begun to throb when he heard two rabbits whispering to themselves. This surprised him a little. The bunnies around his den didn’t chatter after they left the burrow. Perhaps these two were emboldened by White-Eye’s passing? Perhaps. But the forest canopy around here was thick, even in winter. More likely, they just weren’t accustomed to murder dropping down on them from the skies above. White-Eye probably wasn’t much of a climber.

“…never thought I’d be grateful to a two-legs, but…”

A goodish breeze sprung up, rustling the branches, cracking the ice. Hate missed whatever came next. When he could hear the rabbits again, they were much closer. One was male, one female. A couple, then? Did he marry her, or is she just convenient? Probably the latter. He sniffed, offended. Like most cats, Hate was a bit of a prude. He found the promiscuity of rabbits shocking.

“…I know that. I’m not saying it’s not a good thing, but don’t forget that there’s still the puppy to contend with.”

“Which? The one that’s always bouncing about?”

“No, no. She’s dead, too. The other one. The male.”

“He survived?”

“So I heard.”

“Damn. It would have to be him. How did he manage it?”

“I heard he was off stalking when it happened.”

“Alone? He’s not even a half yearling yet. What was he after?”

“A deer.”

“A deer? Hmm.” The rabbit rose onto his hindquarters, nostrils flaring. “Precocious little monster, isn’t he?” Seeing the rabbit sniff, Hate worried he might be too close. But life and death are often decided by a stir of the breeze. This time, luck was on his side. The breeze carried his scent downwind of the rabbits.

“Well,” the male said, relaxing, “that’s good news, too. The sooner the furry little bastard can start killing deer, the sooner he’ll stop filling his belly with rabbits.”

“Good point.”

“Say, that reminds me—are you pregnant at the—”

Hate sprang down from his branch, landing a scant whisker’s length from the chattering male. He shot out a forepaw, pinned him to the ground. He grabbed for the female as well, but she scrambled away, trailing pellets of dung. Hate heard a series of cracks as she bounded through the woods. Eh. One is all I need.

The rabbit trembled beneath his paw, his black eyes wide.

“You are right to fear me, little one,” Hate said, but in truth he was a little disappointed. He had looked into a great many dying eyes. He did not reckon this one’s fear to be so great. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Lord Hate,” the rabbit said quietly. “I had not thought to see you so far north. What brings you here?”