Wolf: A Military P.A.C. Novel (20 page)

Chapter 38 White Bear Dying

White Bear Dying filled the bowl in front of him with the ashes of the dead. Then he took the fine sand that was used to draw the painting that would hold the concept for his Curse. It used three different colours of sand, so he repeated the procedure, each ritual adding to the danger and the rewards. The wind howled through the cave at his back, but the shelter of hides draped around his area kept the unruly spirit at bay. He was careful not spill any of the fine bone ash; uncontained in a ritual, it was a curse waiting for a victim. With all the courage and knowledge that the Yeii gave him, there was a point in the ritual where he could stop this—and not. He told himself this was just practice.

To learn the form.

He watched his son through a small parting in the hides. He danced an old ritual, a knife held in his hand, as he played at slaying an imaginary grizzly bear; he was the hero of the tribe.

White Bear smiled. He laid out the spell in his mind, the boundaries it would need, drawn in the sand and conceptualized in the painting. Then he clea
ned the area in front of him, the rock that would be the ‘iikááh. A deep breath steadied his hand. He started the ‘iikááh: the place where the gods come and go.

Ł
izhiní Sals—black sand—made the border, to hold the spell. The left side was left open, to let the gods in. He scooped more of the dark colour into his fist, careful not to let any leak from the bottom until he was ready to relax the muscles enough to draw a fine line. He let it fall, a thin stream of sand and bone dust, the remains of his grandfather.

A
Ł
izhiní outline appeared, a human, someone he knew and wanted punished. The leader of the tribe that sought to outlaw him for the knowledge of Skinwalking. For just knowing. Rage trickled into his awareness, disturbing the trance he held. Sand flowed unevenly as his muscles reacted. The wind picked up. He clenched his fist, stopping the flow of sand.

His heart beat faster as he noticed the fine black dust escape his barriers and drift into the world. Then breathed a sigh of relief. It was too little, too small an amount to curse anything in the land before him.

He eased the breath back into his body and found the trance state he had lost so easily. He needed more control. That is what practice did. The First Man, Etsáy-Hasteén, and First Woman, Estsá-assun, understood that. They directed his hand.

He returned to his spell
.Ł
igaii Sals—white sand—gave a soul to his creation, a beginning, the purity he needed to call it into being. Doklizh Sals—blue sand—showed the life force of his victim, a place for the growth of the curse to take place.

Another figure grew into place under his hand, a grizzly bear. The curse under his hand took shape, the bear seen to be ravaging the man outlined in th
eŁ
izhiní Sals that represented the underworld.

White Bear Dying smiled a
t the simplicity of form that had grown under the soft whispers of the Yeii. He knew if he sealed the edges once the power of the Yeii had filled the sand painting the curse would come to life. He wiped his hand through the fine grains of sand, the wild chaos building there, waiting for completion. Waiting for the Power of the first Man and Woman to flow and take hold in the real world.

Outside, his son wiped the trace amounts o
fŁ
izhiní Sals from his cheek, continuing to play the hero from the myths of the Diné. Soft sand slipped under his smooth leather moccasins.

The edge of the plateau looking out over the land.

The wind howled, as if the spirits would rip away the world and leave it clean once more.

No humans, no Skinwalkers to punish the pale skinned, and especially no Witch that revel
led in the voice of the First Man and Woman.

White Bear Dying pulled his furs tighter to himself, glad for the warmth of the huge animal under his buttocks. This horse had been a good companion over the years. It was getting on in age, like himself; soon it could roam in the pastures of its ancestors, in the wild meadows that dotted this land, harsh as it was.

He had stopped to rest for the night. This hunt might be his last and he didn’t know when he would return or even if he could. Once he changed again, into the predator he could become, he may not be able to find the strength to leave the form. Once he could have, but that was before his son had died, before the corruption of this power took hold of him.

It was the grizzly bear he would wear this night, after the rituals were over and he could hunt down Michael and his mate.

He had found the cave one summer, years ago. Centuries ago, an earthquake had split the granite of the mountains into huge slabs, and twisted, they fell into the place wrong, leaving an opening. Wind and animals had tracked in earth to coat the floor. Overhead, granite blocks hung, like inverted stairs. Seeping mineral water had left crystals striated in the cracks and veins of the faulted granite. It held a natural hot spring that left a slight sulfur smell in the rock and the still air of the cavern. There was room in the back near the springs for a bed, and space for his rituals and supplies. Even fresh water. It was the same mineral base as the hot springs, but somehow in the earth, it had been separated and cooled before finding its way back to its tributary. He had taken the time to bring in a water testing kit several years ago. It was pure enough to drink, the sulfur content minimal.

He set out his tools for his first ritual. The blood he had gathered. Two sources of it: one was Michael’s, the other the black wolf that Michael had talked about. Not what he had perceived, at first, when he saw the brindle
-coated wolf drooling over a human body.

Had he always been this set in his ways? This blind
?

He didn’t answer himself, but continued with his preparations. He fell into the trance state so easily; it was second nature to him, now. Emotions didn’t take him out of it like they had many years ago when the black curse sand had taken his son from him.

His breathing slowed. His thoughts cleared, and the concepts that fueled his curses came to the forefront of his mind and the sand in his hand. With his other hand, he cleared the ground for his palette and spread a fresh layer of fine brown sand for his backdrop.

He relaxed the muscles of his fist and felt a thin stream of his black paint fall to the canvas that was his curse. His mind and hand being guided by the Yeii. He watched as the blood, bone ash, and sand mixture took shape. A symbol appeared, a wolf, caged in steel. Then the cave he was in was drawn and the black wolf was shown running to this place. Driven
, in fact, by the gods that White Bear Dying called upon.

So be it. He finished the drawing and sealed the power within, with a border of black sand not powered by blood, but with the purity of the bone ash. A dead man’s bones.

He shifted his position and started his next drawing, this time using the blood that he knew to be Michael’s. It was from before he had taken on the curse of the Skinwalker, but there was still enough power, enough of Michael in it to create this curse.

That drawing held a cave, too, and a cliff-side that held Michael’s death.

When he was done, he carefully draped a cloth over the sand paintings, and then placed a large piece of bark over top of that, to keep the pictures intact. If they were broken before they had a chance to take effect, he would lose the curse, and Michael and the other Skinwalker would be free to wreak havoc.

The next part was more difficult for White Bear.

He removed the deer furs he had been wearing. Prey animal. The ones that kept his temperament in check. Weak animals that he could break the hold of any time he had changed into them. They helped him to stay in character, along with the sacred bark; these were the only things holding his mind from the world of the Skinwalker.

The world he loved so much, and the power he wanted.

Craved like an addict.

Nude, his skin weathered, he took a bundle from the back of the cave and spread it out, reverently, lovingly caressing the dark brown fur with its golden highlights. Thanking the First Man and Woman for the gift they had bestowed on him. He drew it over his head and settled the cloak on his back. As soon as it touched his skin, he felt the power flow and ripple over his nerves. The hairs of his body stood up, as if he walked in a storm and lightning flashed over his head rarefying the air.

He pulled the cloak around himself, fastening the fur at his wrists, ankles, and stomach. This ritual had been set into place years before and little form was needed. He said the Diné word that would trigger the change. “Shash.”

It started slow, so slow it was just an ache in his old bones, more than age and the slight rheumatism that affected him. But it grew, changed, and became pain in moments. He could feel his limbs thicken, the bones taking on a new shape. Each
buildup of calcium, every bone that shaped into something new contained a scream waiting to take place. He held his breath and the howl for as long as possible. His flesh joined with the fur he was wearing, in patches at first, where it was touching him, and then more as his body filled out and expanded. His face elongated and his skull exploded in size, his lungs sucked air in with great gasps, and the shriek that rent the cavern echoed and reverberated through the forest.

White Bear shook out his thick coat with a savage roar and stood in the cave, his head just making the four
-metre-high ceiling. He left the cave, his paws kicking up dirt, his twenty-centimetre-length claws leaving four deep furrows in the ground with every step. His mind settled into place, calming into the slow steady nature of the animal he had become. He had prey to hunt. Michael Scott would die, and Faelon and the black wolf—he had plans for them. No. It was the Yeii that had told him what was needed.

No one would have recognized the grunt that came from the grizzly bear as being laughter.

Chapter 39 Faelon

The moon crushed the world as i
t fell over the horizon, the darkness of the world losing hold to the sun. Faelon watched another symbol fall from her sire’s fingers. “These are the spells that let us talk to the Yeii. The spirit of the Grey Wolf People within us lets us change. You’ll need that one day to make more Naklétso.” He scrubbed his fingers over her ears and she turned her head into his hand, her eyes turning liquid amber in the gold of the morning light. “To find a mate. Maybe. The choice is yours, dear. But remember . . . ” He stopped for a moment, the light going from his eyes as he thought of something, a memory surfacing. “ . . . you have choices, more than being a wolf.”

Faelon touched the floor of her cage gingerly, her front paw barely
making contact with the cold stone with the metal lines in it before she pulled her paw back with all the speed at her disposal. Gerund wasn’t here right now, nor was his not-cub, but she checked the floor anyway. He could see her. She believed it was through the eye in the corner, so like a salmon's from one view, and it moved as she did. The Jacob unit on his wrist, so much like the teacher PAC, controlled the pain from the floor. They had used it several times in the last day.

Electricity. The word was there, in her mind. Not-cub had supplied her with it, and its meanings. Words became clearer as she thought of them. Electricity was how PAC worked, and the induction oven in Michael’s cabin, and all the other things not of her world. It was power, like the strength of her muscles, and the cunning of her mind.

Those things she understood.

She liked PAC, but this, electricity, she did not like. She didn’t like Gerund, either. He was a mean spirited animal, attacking for reasons that had nothing to do with food, or defen
ce. It brought him pleasure, too.

She dipped her paw to the floor again, still wary, but the arcing pain that paralyzed her body and changed her form unconsciously
was not there this time. She put her other paw forward and shifted her weight off the bed, three paws hit the ground, a fourth.

And still no pain.

She loped over to the water dish near the door of her cell. The whir of the fish eye couldn’t follow her here, its movement limited for some reason. She lapped the water up greedily. It came from one of the guards, the same one that had given her food. She didn’t think he had Gerund’s permission to give it to her, his wariness told her that much. It was also the only time she had smelled even a little fear from him, other than when he had first given her food.

Today he was standing outside her cave with another man. Harris, the man that had let his fear conquer him. The man she had given warning to stay away from Michael. He hadn’t listened. They hadn’t listened. By his smell, she could tell he didn’t want to be here. He smelled of fear, and every time she looked at him, he let a fresh waft of it into the close confines of the multi-caved area she was in.

It reminded her of prey. It made her hungry.

“Relax, Harris. You’re making me nervous
. The wolf too,” said Jared Oberi.

“It’s not a wolf.”

“No, it’s tech. You’ve heard Gerund, and the innuendos over the airways.” He settled a strong hand on the gun at his hip, and used the other to rub at the muscles of his neck. To Faelon, the muscles stood out as if used too much. How that was from just standing, she didn’t know.

“He didn’t actually say that, and the chatter is too imprecise.”

“I listen. It’s implied.”

“You didn’t see it change,” said Harris. His reedy voice almost squeaked as he said it.

“I’ve seen a woman in that cage, and a wolf. That’s not proof. Nor is the torn shirt, though it loans some credence to your statements. It’s damn cool if it’s true,” said Oberi.

“What does it take for you to believe? Her standing over your throat
?” Harris raised a hand to his neck. “As its saliva pools up on your collarbone?”

Jared laughed. “How do you stay a Merc?”

“I do tech, computers, surveillance, I only took the field work for the pay spike. And that was supposed to be recon. Plain and simple.”

“You should be drooling over her then.”

“As if.”

The door down the hallway clanged open. Faelon turned and jumped for the bed, her leap taking the guards by surprise as much as the opening door had. None of the pain she had expected followed her. She turned, facing the door of her cage, waiting for Gerund, her tormentor.

Footsteps sounded, and the door at this end of the hallway opened. Gerund Hillman stepped into the barracks.

Jared wondered how such a slight man could have the presence this little twerp did. His stature was small,
one-point-six metres. But his eyes, they could stare through concrete, and his voice was caustic enough to boil flesh from most people.

Why the wolf listened to him
. . . well, it didn’t actually, now that he thought of it. She was careful of him. There was a difference.

But he had seen a woman in that cage yesterday. Now there was a wolf. If it wasn’t true
, then Gerund was insane, and Harris too for that matter. The supernatural had been debunked enough fifty years ago that ghosts, and the proverbial goblins, had been explained. All that left was Jesus, and he hadn’t shown up to claim any of the misfits that had poured out of the woodwork.

But micro circuitry and molecular computers could explain a lot,
and throw in some Nano-tech and everything could be explained.

“How’s our guest, Oberi
?”

Jared studied Gerund with the practiced eye of a professional soldier. He was in a good mood, today. He stood easy, almost casual, like a snake that’s just eaten a mouse without getting bit
ten in the process. “She seems fine, sir. Hungry, maybe. Doesn’t much like her cage though, from what I can tell.”

“Harris, get it some food.”

Definitely in a good mood. He hadn’t wanted to feed her after this morning’s interrogation. So he’d heard. Rumours flowed in this atmosphere.

“Sir, yes
sir.” Harris rushed away, glad to be gone. Just as well, Jared thought, the man smelled of sweat and just a hint of urine. Foul enough in here with the tech’s waste products. Nothing breaks down completely, Jared guessed. Still, he thought she was damn neat with them.

“It’s not a her, Oberi. Don’t forget that. It’s tech.”

“Threatens well . . . for a machine.”

“I don’t hire chicken shits
, Oberi.”

“No,
sir. Just geeks that smell.”

Damn, the man actually smiled. “Harris isn’t used to his machines talking back to him.”

“Yours does, sir.” Jared pointed to Gerund’s arm.

“Yeah, P.A.C. ware. New on the market, but only for business concerns.”

“Pricey?”

“Your salary for a year.”

Jared swallowed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll shut up now.”

“Good idea.”

Gerund walked over to the cage door, slid his arms through the bars, and rested his elbows on the cross supports. Well, he did have the floor hardwired to his computer.

“What did Michael call you?”

All he got was a growl for his trouble.

Jared found himself liking this machine. She had a damn good character. She disliked the boss just fine.

Jared smiled, sure that Gerund couldn’t see it from where he was.

“Personal pain doesn’t seem to work for you. Let’s try something new.” Jared heard the sharp click of a gun slide loading a round. He couldn’t be serious.

“If you don’t start answering my questions, I’ll shoot Sergeant Oberi here.” Gerund turned to Jared as he said it. The gun aimed at his head, not at his chest where the standard military vest would stop a fifty-calibre round, though it would break bones. Jared stilled. His hands away from the gun at his hip. His brown eyes turned to steel though.

“Sir?”

“Does a machine have morals?” Gerund said.

“I
. . .” Jared shut up. He knew his boss was an asshole and wasn’t willing to take this argument on. Not with a gun in his face. Does a wolf have morals? God, he hoped so.

Jared felt the blood creep up into his face, his skin flushing hot as he watched Faelon. Saw her change. Good God. Holy Cow. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Michael calls me Faelon.”

Gerund turned around, his body movement showing his gun being shoved into a shoulder holster.

Jared stared. He couldn't help it. As a wolf, Faelon was large, beautiful, and feral. As a woman, she was more, lean, stunning, and her gold-coloured eyes . . . Homeric tales came to Jared’s mind. From the body language of Gerund, and the glint in his eyes, other thoughts came to his mind, things best left unpublished.

“Kill a pack member for no reason?”

“Change back into a wolf and find out.” Gerund went back to resting his forearms on the cage door crossbar.

Jared’s hand quivered, as if it would move towards the gun on his hip. His eyes narrowed and his hand stilled.

She stayed as she was, noble, unembarrassed about being nude, as if she had been born that way. In that moment, Jared believed that. No one with that much presence could be just tech.

The other side of that thought left his worldview a little shaken. Forget the goblins; there were darker things in that anthology.

“So you have morals.”

Jared could see her searching her memory. “He not prey,” she said.

“He is your enemy.”

“Not attack.”

“Ah. I’m your enemy.”

She didn’t answer with words.
But the growl that left her throat was as rich and deep as any that had come from her when she was a wolf.

Gerund didn’t like it.

“Jacob.”

That was why the P.A.C. was worth a year of his wages. It would carry out commands that looked like telepathy. The hum of high voltage coursed through the cell.

Faelon screamed and fell to the floor, her muscles locking up under the voltage.

“Jacob.” The hum disappeared.

As fast as Jared had seen Faelon change, he still didn’t believe it as it happened again. One moment she was human and the next, she was wolf. Eighty kilos of muscle and sinew, that had no right to react that fast.

And Gerund didn’t see it coming. Faelon raised herself off the floor in a blinding leap that took her the
metre to Gerund. She didn’t bother going for his neck or his face. This was an intelligent animal. She closed her jaw around Gerund’s forearm. The one holding the computer that controlled the pain she had been receiving for the last day. Jared watched as her jaws clamped down with the same ferocity of a Pit Bull that couldn’t be shaken off. Her weight pulled Gerund as far into her cell as was possible through the bars of the door. Far enough that Faelon’s paws were on the floor and she was pulling back, wedging his shoulder between the bars of the door. Gerund screamed, as cloth, flesh, and computer tech was ripped from the bones of his arm. Blood sprayed the roof of the cell, the floor, and Faelon.

She gulped the bloody mess down.

Faelon changed, the contents of her stomach changing with her, fueling her through the process. Her body taking the tech and cloth as much as the protein from the flesh. Her red-gold eyes glared at the tiny man. She kicked him square in the face the way Michael had taught her. He fell backwards from the barred door and fell to the ground. The scream had died from his lungs to be replaced with mewling cub sounds. Pitiful whines that had no effect on her.

The other man, Oberi, stood stock-still. He had a tooth-spitter on one hip but he hadn’t reached for it. She crouched down and slid one leg through the bars; she eased her hips into place, sucked her ribs in, and pushed herself through the bars. Shaping her body as needed. She had learned much from not-cub when he had filled her body with his tiny filaments, when she was healing from the black wolf’s attack.

Harris walked into the open doorway with a metal tray of food. He stopped when he noticed the blood that he would have stepped in. The tray clattered to the floor.

“No
! No, not again!” The scream that he had been forcing down for the last day finally erupted from his throat. He ran.

Faelon had her eyes on Oberi now. “You enemy?”

“I have no wish to be, ma’am. Not on your life.”

Faelon looked at him, her head cocked as if she was listening to someone or something. Her nostrils twitched.

“No, your life.” She flowed into a wolf once more, ignoring Gerund as if he wasn’t worth her time, and left the room. In a few moments, he could hear shots fired and the screams of those who had become her enemy.

They didn’t last long.

Gerund still whimpered on the ground, bleeding out. Jared was tempted to leave him like that, but it was part of his contract that he help any downed company personnel. The boss could be loosely considered that much, even if he wasn't a soldier. He took a first aid kit from the wall, applied a tourniquet, and used the new skin foam—rumoured to be a by-product of combat tech—that had become a standard. He used the air injector to load Gerund up with anti-biotics and several regeneration drugs that would stabilize his condition.