Wild Blood (24 page)

At a gesture of the coup-stick held by the medicine woman, a dozen coyotero, male and female, young and old, emerged from the cave dwelling that ringed the upper tiers of the pueblo.

“Are those actually bows and arrows?” Jag laughed in disbelief.

“Hey! Losers!” Ripper shouted, waving his gun at the standing archers. “This ain't Cowboys and Indians!” He spun around dropped his trousers, waving his naked ass back and forth. “Try hitting this, you flea-bitten savages!” When his taunts failed to inspire a volley of arrows, he smirked and yanked his pants back up. “What a bunch of wussies!”

There was the twang of a solitary bowstring, followed by an arrow striking Ripper in the chest, just to the right of his heart. The drummer looked down at the feathered shaft jutting from his sternum and yawned. “Is that the best you wimps can do?” As he pulled the arrow from his chest, the look of contempt on his callow face became a grimace of pain. “Ah! It burns!” he squealed, his voice abruptly rising in pitch. “Make it stop—!” He fell to his knees as he clawed frantically at his shirtfront, revealing a pale, hairless chest. The flesh where the arrow had been was grotesquely swollen and oozing pus, as if in the terminal stages of gangrene. Upon seeing the dreadful, suppurating wound, Ripper stared in horror at the gleaming arrowhead affixed to the projectile he held in his hand.

“Silver!” he wailed. “The arrows are tipped with silver!”

The other vargr leapt into action, firing at the archers as they ran toward the ladders that lead to the cliff dwellings. As his running mates rushed past, Ripper reached out a trembling hand, but they all ignored him, save for Sunder

“Sorry, cuz,” the werewolf said with a shake of his head, then hurried after the others.

As Jag and the other vargr neared the closest ladder, a shaggy figure emerged from the shadows to block their path. The ulfr growled and raised its hackles.

“Trust a mongrel to run with a half-wolf,” Jag sneered as he raised his gun.

“Stop!”

Jag raised his head to look in the direction of the shout and saw Skinner standing on the uppermost tier, peering over the railing down at him.

“You want me? Well, here I am! Now let the ulfr go!”

“Where is the Wolfcane?” Feral called out.

“I've still got your damn stick!” Skinner replied, holding up the Wolfcane so they could see it. “Now let Fella go!”

Jag jerked his gun-sight from the half-wolf's head and fired in the direction of the renegade, but Skinner ducked and the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the canyon walls.

“Fool!” Feral bellowed as he backhanded his son. “You could have hit the Wolfcane!”

Jag wiped the blood from his mouth, glaring at Feral with his solitary eye before turning back to shoot the renegade's pet—only to discover the half-wolf had used the distraction to once more disappear into the shadows.

“If you want the Wolfcane so damn much, you're going to have to fight me for it,” Skinner shouted down. “Mano a mano. If you win, I'll go back to the lodge and you can do to me whatever you like. Meet me at the top and we'll settle this once and for all,” he said, motioning to the ladders.

Growling under his breath, Feral shoved his gun into his waistband pocket and clambered up the ladder, followed closely by the others.

The canyon top was a flat and unsheltered expanse, save for a solitary Joshua tree that stood framed against the desert sky and its countless multitude of stars.

“I am here!” Feral barked.” Show yourself, renegade!”

Suddenly there was the sound of gunfire, and Feral whirled about to see Sunder standing on the edge of the canyon top, shooting down onto the tier below. “Lord Feral!” the werewolf shouted. “They're taking down the ladder!”

“Great work, graybeard!” Jag snarled at his sire, snatching away Feral's weapon before he had a chance to react. “You maneuvered us into a trap! You should have remained home, grizzle-chin, and left this to me!”

“I will have your ears for that!” Feral growled, his finely tailored clothes ripping themselves to shred as he cast away his human semblance. “How dare you challenge me?”

Feral and Jag fell upon one another with foam-drenched fangs, snarling and snapping like pit bulls in the ring. Jez clamped her hands against her ears to try and muffle the sound of ripping fur and crunching bone. “Daddy! Jag! Stop it!” she screamed, “This isn't the time!”

There was a pained yelp, and the two combatants disengaged as quickly as they had started to fight. Feral crouched on the ground, clutching what remained of his right hand. Jag looked down at his sire and grinned, spitting out a mouthful of fingers. “You're past your prime, graybeard! You should never have come here!”

“I couldn't agree with you more.”

Jag spun around to find Skinner standing behind him, the Wolfcane held in one hand like a battle staff. “How did you get up here?”

“This pueblo is like an ant hill,” Skinner replied with a shrug. “It's full of passages, if you know where to look.”

Jag dove for his automatic rifle, which he had cast aside when he battled Feral, only to have Skinner swing the butt of the Wolfcane into his midsection, knocking him away from the weapon.

“I said mano a mano, brother,” Skinner said, dropping the Wolfcane onto the ground.

Jag roared and lunged at Skinner, his fangs snapping in the air like castanets. Skinner grabbed him by the throat while struggling to keep him at arm's length. They stood toe to toe, eyes locked, grimacing at one another.

“Don't make me kill you, Jag!” Skinner warned.

“Why—because we're brothers?” the other sneered. “I don't have problems with fratricide. Just ask Growler—or Rend, for that matter.”

Skinner blinked, taken aback. “You and Rend are brothers?”

Jag hooked his leg about Skinner's calf, throwing his opponent off-balance. He then snatched up the Wolfcane from where it lay on the ground and leapt atop Skinner's chest, forcing the staff underneath his chin and levering it back in order to expose his jugular.

“He was my demi-brother,” Jag grinned. “That's why he was so loyal to me. Not that it did him much good, in the end.” Jag lowered his face until his snout touched Skinner's. “Humans have a saying: ‘Blood is thicker than water'. It is true, you know. And it's much tastier than water, too. Rend should have left to bleed to death in that alley in Albuquerque, Skinner. That way Rend would still be alive, instead of dead meat. The same is true for your mother, the little coyotero bitch, and all the others. Because of you, they're all dead meat! What do you think of that, brother?”

Jag howled in pain as Skinner's jaws snapped shut on his snout, splintering his muzzle. Jag screamed in agony and let go of the Wolfcane to try and staunch the blood jetting from his mutilated nose.

“Jag! Watch out!” Jez screamed.

Jag turned to look at his sister as Skinner struck him with the heavy silver head of the Wolfcane hard enough to send cranial fluid squirting from his ears.

Skinner got his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. As he looked down at Jag, he felt no joy in standing over the vanquished body of his foe. He was alive. Jag was dead. That was it, nothing more. Suddenly a bullet zipped past his head like any angry insect, nicking the tip of his ear. He looked up to see Jez, her face contorted into a mask of rage, advancing on him with a Glock in one trembling hand.

“Murderer!” she screamed. “I'll kill you for that!”

Before Jez could squeeze off a second shot, a lithe, gray shadow emerged from the darkness, grabbing her from behind. Jez fought for control of the weapon, cursing like a drunken sailor at the top of her lungs. But then another gray shadow appeared and helped the first to first disarm, and then wrestle the angry werewolf to the ground.

“Fuck this,” Sunder muttered upon finding himself surrounded by a dozen coyotero warriors armed with silver-bladed knives. Spitting in disgust, he tossed down his weapon and lifted his hands in surrender. “I ain't dying for some stupid mojo stick.”

Changing Woman strode forward and stood before Feral. Standing Dog snarled at his murderer from atop her head. “You've grown careless in your old age, Feral,” she said acidly. “Living as a lapdog has softened your wits.”

“If you're going to kill me, bitch, get it over with,” the werewolf growled.

“Oh, I don't want to kill you,” she replied with a nasty laugh. “I plan on sending you back to your Bitch Queen bearing tasty pies baked from her wretched little whelps.”

Feral blanched. “Please—killing me would be better.”

“For you, perhaps,” she smiled coldly. “But I shall be gracious—far more than you were to me, under similar circumstances, twenty years ago. If you can take the Wolfcane away from Skinner, then you and your companions are free to leave.”

“Is this some kind of trick where you use your damned coyote magic to win?”

“I give you my oath no coyotero magic involved,” Changing Woman said solemnly.

“If you think I'm frightened by this mewling pup of yours, you're sadly mistaken,” Feral sniffed.

Skinner stepped forward, holding the Wolfcane between his extended arms at waist level. He glanced down and saw that the staff was wrapped in a nimbus of blue fire.

“The Wolfcane is vargr! It belongs with those who boast pure, undiluted vargr blood! No half-breed is going to keep me from it!” Feral stated angrily, grabbing the Wolfcane with his uninjured hand and trying to yank it free of Skinner's hold. Skinner dug in his heels and struggled to keep his grip of the Wolfcane. Feral might be old, but he was definitely strong.

Father and son stood snout-to-snout, glowering into one another's faces. Every muscle in their bodies stood in full relief as they battled one another for control of the Wolfcane. Skinner was close to exhaustion, and he knew that if he faltered even the slightest, Feral would wrest the staff away from him everything would be over for him. He closed his eyes and focused his concentration, calling upon the magic that was his birthright.

“Are you actually praying, traitor?” Feral sneered from between bared fangs. “What god could possibly reward a mongrel freak like you with their grace?”

Even as the words dropped from Feral's lips, the head of a giant blue wolf flickered into being above Skinner's own, superimposing its fearsome features over those of the young vargr.

“I would,” said the Great Wolf.

A massive electrical charge surged up Feral's arms, welding his hand to the Wolfcane. The silver head pulsed, its ruby eyes glowing like a bonfire, and for the first time in his life, Feral knew what it was like to look into the eyes of a wolf and know fear.

The Great Wolf opened wide its jaws and grabbed Feral about the head and shoulders, shaking him as a she-wolf would a troublesome cub. There was the smell of ozone and frying flesh, followed by what sounded like the shrieking of a dog. When the great Wolf finally let go of Feral, he dropped to the ground curled in upon himself like a dead spider. His fur was now smoldering and his eyes had been baked white, like egg custards.

“Daddy!” Jez shouted.

He shuddered and jerked like a cheaply made windup toy as he whined like a kicked dog. Jez tore herself free of her captors and threw herself onto her father's steaming body. Sobbing hysterically, she cradled Feral's head in her lap. “Daddy, can you hear me?”

Feral opened his mouth to reply, but could only groan as his tongue had exploded and his teeth were shattered.

Jez looked up at Changing Woman, tears of hate rolling down her cheeks and matting their fur. “You promised no coyote magic!” she said accusingly.

“And I kept my word,” Changing Woman said as she knelt beside Feral and sliced his ears from his head with her ceremonial dagger. “What you saw was wolf magic, child. Your totem spirit has turned its face from you and chosen a new prophet.”

Jez abruptly jumped to her feet, throwing her arms about Skinner's neck. “I'm not mad at you for killing Jag and hurting.

Daddy, Skinner! I swear! I'll be the queen soon, and you can help me get rid of Mama!” She babbled madly into his ear. “You can kill her for me and I'll take over and we can do as we like! It'll be wonderful, Skinner!”

“That's not going to happen, Jez,” Skinner scowled in distaste as he peeled her arms from around his neck. “Get her away from me.”

A pair of coyotero warriors stepped forward and pulled Jez away, pinning her arms behind her. As they began to drag her away, Jez began to struggle. “No! You can't do this to me! Skinner—I'm pregnant!”

“Let her go,” Skinner said, motioning for the guards to set her free.

Changing Woman raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain that's wise?”

“Did I stutter?”

The warriors glanced at Changing Woman, who nodded her head, then stepped away. Jez stood before Skinner with her eyes downcast, shivering like a whipped dog.

“Go on! Return to your mother!” Skinner barked. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“What about Daddy?” she asked meekly.

Skinner stared at Feral, now blinded and crippled by the force that birthed his race millennia ago. It was difficult to believe that this pathetic creature was his father. No, not his father—his sire. Feral had provided the seed he had grown from, nothing more.

“Take him with you, if you want,” he replied.

Jez didn't wait to be told twice. She quickly helped what was left of Feral onto his feet and led him away, whispering to him in the same breathy, cheerful voice reserved for children and the hopeless.

“What about me?” Sunder asked flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

“You can leave with Jez, if you like,” Skinner replied.

“That's the problem,” the werewolf said with awry smile. “I don't like Jez.”

“All who desire to live in peace are welcome to join us. That includes you.”