Page 9 of Blacktail

“And no one knows why?”

Hate considered. “Perhaps it is to shame us?” he said, taking another step. “To keep us in our place? Perhaps they simply don’t care.” He was within pouncing range now.

The wolf rumbled, perhaps in agreement. Or perhaps not. Either way, it wasn’t a very puppyish sound.

“Do any other wolves yet live?” Hate asked. “Your father?”

“No,” the pup said. “Only me. I’ve called and called, but no one answered. I think…I think I am the last.”

“What a pity.”

With that, Hate sprang. The wolf reacted immediately, spinning to face him. In the split second between leap and touch—after it was too late to make a difference—Hate understood that he had been played. Badly.

He wasn’t ignoring me at all.

But it was even worse than that. The wolf’s ears and feet were too large for his body, true, but the shadows of the rising moon had made a true gauge of measure difficult. He stood in silhouette to deceive me, Hate realized. He’s enormous.

He was quick, too.

The wolf pup lunged to the side as Hate leapt. Hate was able to twist enough that he didn’t face-plant into the snow—thank god for small mercies—but he ended up snagging the hindquarters instead of the neck.

Still, it wasn’t a complete loss. His claws drew ragged wounds down the wolf’s haunch. It yelped, high and puppyish. It was a sound of play. If Hate had been one of his litter brothers, it would have been the signal to break off. But I am not your brother. Hate pulled himself in close, sank his jaws into the wolf’s hip.

The wolf yelped again. Hate could tell that the bite stung a bit, but what he heard wasn’t quite a scream. Not yet. The pup bucked instinctively, wildly, all play gone now. Hate had expected this, but the little beast was amazingly strong. Hate had felt terrible strength like that before, but he couldn’t immediately recall when. Astonishingly, impossibly, it bucked him off.

Hate tumbled across the clearing and came to rest against a stand of holly. He’s as strong as White-Eye, Hate thought, a little dazed. Stronger, even? He got his feet under him, stood. Surely not. He shook himself off, looked around the clearing. But where did he—

It might have ended then. But by instinct or perhaps luck, Hate thought to spring away a bare instant before the little wolf landed on his back.

They regarded each other. Hate hissed. The fur of his neck and back stood on end. The wolf turned away. That was his best chance, and he failed. He knows it, too. The pup looked instead at the body of White-Eye, now partially covered by snow.

Hate, hissing ball of murder that he was, could not at first understand this. Then it came to him. Oh. The little fellow wants his mother to save him. Oh my. That is simply too delicious. He leapt again.

This time, instead of dodging, the wolf shifted to face Hate’s strike. He stretched his neck out, caught Hate’s foreleg in his jaws. If the wolf had been only a little larger, Hate’s leg might have been broken. Amputated, even. But though his jaws were strong indeed, his baby teeth were too small to sink very deep. Hate snatched his foreleg back. There was only a little blood. But the pain was bad.

The wolf growled at him, not at all puppyish. Hate answered with a yowl. What came next was swallowed by black rage.

Hate—who was mostly his mother’s son—fought as well as he ever had. He told himself things like fresh meat and little Pounce will know the taste of wolf. He evaded the snapping jaws, punished each attack. He nipped the wolf’s muzzle with needle teeth, raked his claws down the plump little puppy belly, bit deep into the impertinent little shit’s leg.

But a mortal strike eluded him.

Hate had expected a pup’s clumsy gawkiness—and yes, in fairness, there was some of that. Not much, though. Each new wound stirred the little monster to a fresh fury. Worse, it never made the same mistake twice.

It went on for a long time.

Eventually they broke off, each of them exhausted, panting, bleeding in a dozen places. The clouds were gone now. They circled each other in the clearing under the light of the moon. Distant stars glimmered on the snow. Panting, they puffed clouds of white mist. Hate looked down. A trickle of his blood fell, disappeared into the snow.

The pup watched this in silence, utterly still.

I could die here, Hate realized. I really could. The thought carried no real fear. Still panting, he turned his eyes to the moon. Really? Like this? It wasn’t a prayer or a plea, or even fear. Mostly he was just surprised.

Use me as You see fit.

Hate stopped circling. He backed away a step, limping. He flicked his eyes back and forth, scanning for the break in the brambles through which he had entered. Or, really, anything.

“Don’t.” The wolf’s growl wasn’t quite full-throated, but no one would ever again mistake him for a puppy. “You wanted this, not me.”

Hate knew he was quick, even with the limp. And the wolf was hurt as well. A spot in the underbrush caught his eye. I could leap over that, he thought. I could be gone into the woods. But the wolf would have to—