Page 8 of Blacktail

Eventually he came to a new forest, the hill where White-Eye held her dominion. Hate lived in her shadow for some years. Sometimes, when the moon was right, he saw the white eyes of Car and remembered them.

Now, nestled in the elm tree next to the body of the insolent rabbit, he repeated Father’s words—but softly, to himself.

Use me as You see fit.

While he ate, Hate considered what he had learned of the wolf pup. The prospect of a more equal combat frightened him. Fear was nothing new, though. It affected his judgment no more than his hunger did.

The wolf is not wounded. He ripped a chunk from one stringy haunch, shredded it to bite size, swallowed. Every day I wait is another day for him to learn and grow. He buried his muzzle in the carcass, pinched out the liver.

Tonight. He tilted his head back. Warm liver slipped down his throat. Yes. It must be tonight.

With the decision made, his mind eased. He would kill the wolf. Or, well…not. Why worry? Sleep first, though. He climbed down from the tree, wiggled under a snow-covered bush. There he slept, content. He woke in late afternoon, well rested, with the rabbit’s soul coursing in his veins. He did not rise immediately. Instead he watched the sun sink, gathering himself, thinking of Guile and his kittens. Just before dark he rose and shook the snowflakes from his back.

Their den wasn’t hard to find. The two-legs had not eaten what it killed, and no other animal would touch the bodies while the pup yet lived. Even in the cold, the stink was everywhere. They had begun to rot.

Hate padded into the clearing. There he found White-Eye’s last pup standing over the body of his mother. The young wolf stood in silhouette, the setting sun behind him. Hate could not see his face, but his ears and feet were comically large. He won’t grow into those until next spring. At least. Seeing him, Hate relaxed completely. That’s what I was so worried about? he thought. That one is no hunter. Hell, he was probably still nursing when she died. Hate stifled the urge to purr. This will be fun. He cracked a twig under his forepaws. The pup jerked around, eyes wide.

“Don’t be alarmed, little fellow.” Hate’s tone was gentle. He arranged his tail high and straight, to show friendship.

“Who are you?” the wolf barked, or tried to, anyway. His voice still had a puppyish squeak. The was a note of fear in it as well.

“Your mother and I knew each other,” Hate said. “Old acquaintances, you might say.”

The young wolf sniffed. “You. I know you. She spoke of you. You are the lynx. You are Hate.”

“Some call me that.”

“My mother said I was not to cross the boundaries of your domain.”

“And you have not,” Hate said. “I thank you for your courtesy.” He dipped his head, low and respectful.

“And what of your courtesy?” the wolf said. “Did you not find my mother’s mark?”

Hate’s brow furrowed. Is his voice deeper?

“Of course you did. You could hardly have missed it. ‘This is wolf land,’ ” the pup quoted. He looked piously at the night sky. “ ‘None other may hunt here.’ ” Then, turning back to Hate, he said, “And yet here you are.”

“Oh…yes. That. Well. I would have asked your permission, Lord Hunter. I waited many nights. But you have not stirred from your mourning. No one has seen you.” Hate swished his tail. “We were concerned, you see.”

The wolf did not answer.

“I come only to pay my respects. Your mother was a savage fighter. The forest is poorer for her passing.”

“She did not pass,” the pup said. “She was murdered.”

“Hmm. As you say.” Hate hazarded a step closer. “Tell me, young hunter—”

“It didn’t eat her,” the wolf said, looking into the middle distance—contemplating, perhaps, the same spot as the dying rabbit. He seemed to have forgotten that Hate was there.

Hate didn’t mind.

“I can understand the killing,” the wolf said, “but why didn’t it eat her? You know more about them than I do. Can you tell me that?”

“I’ve wondered about that myself,” Hate allowed. His own voice was flat now—no friendly warmth, no mocking. It sounded strange to his own ears. It took him a moment to realize why: He was rarely honest when he spoke.

The wolf looked at him. From where Hate stood, the rising moon hung just over the little wolf’s shoulder. It looked close enough for him to bite it out of the sky.

Hate hesitated. Another lie rose to his mouth…but then he thought better of it. The honesty went over well enough. “They killed my father as well.” Sure enough, when he took another step, the wolf didn’t react. “Left him to rot, they did.”