Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel

Wolf

A Military P.A.C. Novel

By

KL Mabbs

Acknowledgments

This book is dedicated to the people in my life that help. 

But, to be more specific: to Angela
, for being a friend, an editor, and a mentor, at different times in my life. To the people in the writing groups I've attended, especially Writers Ink and West End Writers. Each person helped me to become a better writer.

To Rebecca, for once believing in me.

To Laura K
., for her perceptions.

Edited for Chica
go style by Angela Pietrobon

Title: Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel

Author: KL Mabbs

© 2012

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
([email protected])

The characters in this book are fictional, with no relation to anyone living or dead.

The Navajo religion is rich and varied. I'm sure I don't do it justice.

However, that shouldn't detract anyone from its sheer beauty and spirit.

Wolf cover picture copyright Monty Sloan of www.wolfpark.org
with his kind permission. His work captures the essence of the majesty of this divine beast.

Cover design by KL Mabbs.

Any mistakes in this manuscript are mine.

Prologue – Faelon

Her instincts drove her
, up into the valley where he lived. There had been others, but she had never stalked them like this one. She followed the ridge up onto the mountain where the human lived. Innately, he seemed a better choice even with the fear that rippled across her fur.

Soon, the musky scent of a buck, and the plant her sire had shown her before he died, told her she was in the right place. While the prey odo
ur smelled right, there was no beginning or end to the aroma. No spoor to show an animal had ever travelled to this spot. The plant smell was sweet, like spring blossoms, but there were no flora in the depression of earth covered with snow. The man’s scent was here though, lying under all the others.

She knew what he looked like. The fur on his head was dark, and short, like a newborn cub's would be. His flesh, under his odd fur, was the
colour of young bark. His eyes were the brown of wet stone glistening in the morning light. They reflected his strength.

She knew his scent.

It was why she was here. A need moved her, one so fierce that the beat of the earth beneath her was almost drowned out.

She looked past the fur of her shoulder, back along her flank, lifted her hind leg, and hesitated. Her instincts told her it was the right thing to do. Her sire’s teachings told her it was the right thing to do.

She stepped down.

Steel jaws snapped shut. Bone crunched under the pressure. Fur peeled back from the flesh of her hind leg, pink newborn skin showing past the ragged edge of her wound. A howl split the evening. Silence descended on the forest around her. Mice stilled. An owl in the trees above her hunched down, a shiver running through its wings. Then, soft mewling from her throat was the only noise echoing through the mountains. More pain than she had ever felt coursed through her limb. Not even the stag last summer had left her feeling this way. She licked at her wound and the slow trickle of blood that flowed
, trying to heal herself in the way of her kind.

S
he tasted something bitter. The plant her father had shown her, the one that affected the Naklétso.

It left her tongue numb and her mind dizzy. When she remembered how, she turned, instinctively trying to sink her teeth into the jaws that held her hind foot. Her body
, though, confused her. It was now too long, and her tail no longer balanced her. She twisted again, unnaturally, and gnawed at the cold metal that held her in place. The fur that should have covered her limbs was gone and the snow that spread over the terrain was colder than she had ever known it. She could smell her blood, but the bright stain of it on the snow was new to her sight, confusing her even more. Then the pain took her, more than from any other wound she had ever had before.

She lost consciousness.

Chapter 1 Michael

Michael
followed the wolf tracks, his brown eyes quick to survey the area and then return to the path. They were easy prints to track in the snow. They showed a wolf bigger than the one that had gotten his packhorse last winter. Much bigger. Before losing it, he had tracked the other wolf’s unique pad prints for days. The scars that made up the paw pad had been deep and unique, not easily forgotten. This one had no scar tissue in the track, as if it was too new, but the size belied that theory. From the depth of the pad, it had to be male, weighing upwards of eighty kilos. An impossible size for a modern wolf.

He heard the hoot-hoot of the Great Horned owl that ranged in the area and knew then that the wolf he tracked was nowhere near. He continued to follow the trai
l, watchful as he passed the snow-laden evergreens, so as not to dislodge the load they carried. The cold enhanced the pine scent rather than dampening it, and he breathed it in, filling his lungs the way a lover takes in perfume during a kiss. Michael slipped his snowshoes through the terrain with practiced ease. His own weight, one hundred and twenty-five kilos, sunk him centimetres into the soft landscape, and his two-metre height had him crouching if he got too close to the trees. He kept his rifle hung in the crook of his elbow, ready to shoot if he needed it. A small pack rested on his back.

The wolf tracks followed a trap line. It was old, one he and his father had used it when he was young. It was peaceful then, before the concerns of an energy-starved world. It always was here. Now, most of the line sat empty, but a few of the snares on the ridge in front of him were near where the wolf had ranged last year. He had baited it with that in mind and the scent he had poured over it was designed to hide a human’s aroma with a mixture of musk and flora natural to the area. The tracks he followed led in that direction. If the wolf had gotten away with his riding horse
last year as well, he would have been stranded here in the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains. A packhorse was one thing. Hell, the wolves needed to survive too. But, to return to civilization, he needed at least one horse.

He crested the ridge, the trees here sparser than anywhere else in the valley. The elevation strained his lungs. His breath burst out of his body in a hot plume of fog, blurring his vision for a moment. The tracks led down to a dip in the terrain, a bowl
-shaped depression that acted as a shield for the wind.

A naked woman lay curled up in the snow.

Anxiety rippled through him, shock had his muscles clenching tight. She shouldn't be here; no one lived in the area, not close, anyways.

Michael stared. He could tell she was tall,
a metre and a half, and slim. She was built for speed, lean in hip and breast. The trap he had set and chained to the ground was at her feet. He was close enough to see the goose bumps that shivered over her flesh and the muscles that stood out in taut relief. He heard a low growl coming from the woman, and shook himself, staring at the pristine snow in the basin—the wolf prints led in, but not out. No boot prints or footprints scattered the soft powder, and it hadn’t snowed in days.

“That’s not
. . .” he rubbed a hand over his eyes, “ . . . possible.” But it was possible. He had seen the same thing here in the Canadian Rockies, his first winter after the Oil Wars, while searching for his father. Or had thought he had seen it, then.

He caught the eyes of the woman, yellow
-brown like dark amber. She glared at him. He felt it in his chest, as if she had pierced him somehow, driving a longing through him he didn’t understand.

The woman’s leg was in the steel jaws of his trap. Her ankle was swollen and bruised, the flesh still open where the steel had crushed her limb. And it was supposed to be the humane type. The leg didn’t look badly broken to his eye but it would be fractured at least. She couldn’t walk, that was for sure. Blood stained the snow, like a dark shadow in the late evening light. In an
hour, the last sunbeams that bathed this area would fade and the temperature would drop by twenty degrees.

“God! I didn’t mean
. . . .”

Why wasn’t she half frozen? Or showing signs of frostbite? But the only sign of the cold were her goose
bumps and pink extremities; a tracery of red veins showing in her hands and feet. Michael took a step towards her, and got another growl for his effort. He walked around her, slowly making his way towards the trap. “Are you okay? I didn't mean for this to happen. Let me help.”

She turned to face him, her teeth bared in a snarl. Perfect teeth, her canines looked sharp enough to pierce flesh.
Michael moved, eased the rifle off his shoulder, laid it on the ground, and motioned to the trap. He felt the scrutiny of her eyes on him, but her growl dropped by a few decibels. He inched his way forward and braced himself over the snare. He looked at the woman as he slowly brought his hands down to the release mechanism. Her shoulders tensed, her hands clenched the snow, a loud crunch sounding; a thunderstorm echoed in the confines of the hillside bowl. The anxiety he had been feeling rose, and the rank smell of his own sweat permeated the air. He pressed down on the release catch. A growl of pain pierced the night air and eighty kilos of solid fury flew towards him, her hands curled into claws, barely missing him as he rolled out of the way and came up in a crouch. He found himself facing a feral beauty, with a straight nose, strong jaw, and a look of savage fear on her face. She was on her hands and one foot, about to attack him again, her muscles taut, ready to spring. Before she could leap, he hit her on the jaw. A fast jab that he knew he would regret later. She dodged, his fist glancing off without effect. She snapped at it with her teeth as he drew his fist away. He threw another punch. Solid this time, and she went down. Unconscious.

Michael
had a lot of questions he wanted answered. How did a woman survive in the dead of winter with no clothes, and no supplies? And still look as if she could take him on in a fair fight? He checked her pulse. It was strong and steady, her skin radiating heat far in excess of normal. But it didn’t have the clamminess of a fever. Well, he wasn’t going to leave her.

He reset the trap
, pulled a Mylar blanket from his pack, and wrapped the woman up. Then he picked up his rifle and threw her up on his shoulder in a firefighter’s carry, and started back to the cabin. It was a slow klick to safety, but he didn’t focus on the distance. He watched his breath plume in the cold evening air, kept an eye on the waning sun, and step-paused to rest because of the elevation, his breath catching more than usual. His military training had taught him how to stay in shape, and since the war ended in ‘56, he’d stayed that way, as sharp as possible. The evening song told him he was safe, the owl over his head hooting, the other animals starting to move again after the disturbance in the bowl.

An hour later
, Michael crested the meadow that held his cabin, tucked under a natural overhang that kept the front and back doors clear of snow, the west side of the house piled high in snowdrifts. The heat of a well-banked fire kept the windows clear, the glass covered in condensation. The roof was always bare, a pulse of current keeping it clear for the solar cubes ready to catch the sun. A small-protected cave with a corral shared the shelter of the overhang.

This was home.

Inside the one-room cabin, he laid his charge out on the couch. He could have called on his P.A.C. unit, a personal adaptive computer, to help, considering its medical capabilities, but at least for now this was well within his range of expertise.

He found a shirt that would keep her covered
, and a blanket for after he tended to her wound. Then he proceeded to raise her ankle and put an icepack on it. The injury looked less severe in this light. In the morning, when the swelling had gone down, he would see about a splint.

Michael
went to the sink and poured water for her, and found some food in the fridge for when she woke. He carried them over to the side table. By the time he set the plate down, her breathing had changed, the rhythm of sleep gone. Her muscles tensed again. He had only enough warning to back away before her weight left the couch, the icepack slipping to the floor as she pushed him to the ground. The glass clattered off the wooden floor. Teeth brushed over his throat and her knee drove into his jaw as the woman leapt over him. Michael ignored the pain and rolled to a crouch, ready. He found her turned towards him, her eyes locked on his.

Dominance games. He had played them in the Oil Wars; he knew what they meant between soldiers, and commanders. What submission meant when predators fought.
Michael didn’t think symbolic play existed here though. There was a purpose to this stare.

Something important.

The feeling in his chest came, the same as before, in the clearing—a need driving through his lungs like a hot bullet. Her eyes reached into his soul, testing him. He didn’t dare look away, knew he couldn’t, or the being in front of him would rip out his throat.

Or worse, ignore him.

He felt the need sink into his gut, and then lower, setting everything on fire. He saw the woman’s eyes flare gold, her breath caught in her chest; her pulse pounded in her neck, her pink skin flushing red.

The clock on the wall hung in suspension, time frozen. Michael couldn’t look away, saw the amber of her eyes sharpen, the flesh of her nose crinkle up, and her mouth widen, showing her clenched teeth. On anybody else, it would have been a smile.

She blinked, long and slow. So much submission in such a small gesture—no, it wasn’t submission. It was something else, but he couldn’t put a name to it. She lowered her head to the water and drank, greedily, lapping it up off the floor. Her hips were raised and she rested weight on both her hands and feet. That shouldn’t have been possible. Her leg had healed enough to hold weight.

Then she looked around, her eyes growing large, confusion setting in, and a growl loosening in her throat.

“Easy, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her ears swiveled towards him even though she was still searching her surroundings. From his crouch, Michael reached forward and took the empty glass, slowly raised himself up
, and walked the three metres to the kitchen never turning his back on the creature. He took a deep breath, the longing he felt grounding itself, waiting. He filled the glass again. She was watching him. He crouched again, set the water down, and stayed still.

“Look here.” He waved his hand, her eyes tracking it. Wary still, but he had her interest. Flexing his fingers, he picked up the water in an exaggerated motion and slowly raised it to his lips and drank.

“Your turn.” Michael set the glass in front of her.

She raised her hand, looked at it as if it didn’t belong to her, and knocked the glass over with a fist. “Your turn,” she said. It was mostly a growl
, but Michael understood it.

“I’ll be damned.” He let himself fall over onto his backside
, and wiped his hand through the short rift of his dark hair.

She turned her head to look at him
, quizzically. She sniffed, raised her head. Her hair cascaded off her shoulders and around her face. More like fur, its base was black with the brindle look of some wolves, a rich mixture of greys and browns, splattered with white; it scattered down the middle of her back like a mane.

His shirt didn’t cover her well enough.

He put his hand on his chest. “Michael.”

She put her hand to her chest, noticed the cloth, now, pulled at the shirt, and then ripped it off as if it were paper. A growl followed her actions.

“Shirt.” He pulled at his own.

She looked at the shreds of cloth on the floor, her nose scrunched up in disgust.

“Not buying it, eh?” Michael’s eyes strayed, briefly, and then returned to her eyes. He got up, went to the plate of food, and held it out. “Food.” He picked up a slice of roast and small piece of bread and ate them. Then held the plate out for . . . “Faelon,” he said.

Did her skin just ripple? And her eyes flash? Michael didn’t know for sure, the reaction had been so fast.

Boyen would have liked the Irish reference though, and he couldn't stop thinking of her as the wolf he had expected to find in that trap. “Here, eat.” Michael pushed the plate in her direction. She hesitated, and then pulled the plate to her lap. The meat held her attention for the next few minutes while he stared. Faelon was leggy, long limbed. And she held herself with an unnatural grace. He kept trying to hold off the suspicions intruding into his mind.

Here in the Rocky Mountains, the First Nation legends took on a new meaning. That first winter, he would have sworn a
n Aboriginal man had shimmered into the form of a grizzly. It was so real he used the idea for his first book,
Shaman’s Curse
. Mostly he knew it was a trick of the light, something kicked up by the Aurora Borealis. But Faelon didn't look Aboriginal and some part of him was less convinced of visual trickery with every feral movement she made. Tales of untamed children aside, something was special about her. It just wasn’t likely that she could have survived in the wilderness for the twenty years of age she looked—not this way. She was perfect, undamaged, ready.

The meat finished, Faelon rose to her feet in one smooth movement.
Michael found her precise motion scary, his heartbeat changing. Excitement coursed through him when he realized just how long the curve of her leg was as it met her hips. God, what was she?