Archive of Our Own

Prologue

We see a purely black backdrop, the color and consistency of charcoal. Then, like tiny falling stars, grains of red sandstone sprinkle down against the blackness, forming a picture, a painting, in the shape of a man and a woman.

The deep resonant voice of an old man, Albert Hosteen, begins to narrate:

When I was a boy, my father told me a story about the very First Man and the very First Woman.

He told me that when the First Man and the First Woman came to this world, they created a dwelling and lived together happily. But there was one cloud covering the sun of their happiness. First Woman wished for a child, but she could not bear any.

Now fine white gypsum showers down on the dark canvas and begins, grain by grain, to create the outline of a skulking canine figure.

So Coyote, the trickster - who was always scheming - went to see the great Wolf Spirit. Coyote played a trick on the Wolf Spirit and stole away his cub - a beautiful white wolf cub.

The trickster brought the cub to the First Woman, telling her to put the small wolf underneath a basket for three sunrises. Lifting it only each day to slip a dish of milk to the hungry pup.

At dawn on the fourth day, First Woman removed the basket and under it there sat a beautiful human baby.

Now grains of sand sprinkle down on the painting to form three colorful human figures, two big and one small. Hosteen continues:

The First Woman and the First Man were delighted with their daughter; they raised the girl until she was a young woman.

Having completed these depictions, the unseen artist forms a face with a long muzzle and sharp ears - a wolf.

That was when the great Wolf Spirit discovered Coyote's trick, that his lost cub was living disguised as a human woman. The Wolf Spirit ran across the sky and down to the little house.  Furious, he howled out a challenge, making thunder ring through the air. He demanded his cub be returned to him or else he would lay waste to land where the first humans lived.

The young woman saw no choice, so she left the only mother and father she had ever known to live with the great Wolf Spirit in the sky.

Now the painting shows a lovely charcoal sky sprinkled with sandy stars.

The First Man and the First Woman missed their daughter with bitter sadness, for they never saw her again. But one day, as the sun was setting, a beautiful white wolf appeared at their  door with two wolf cubs ... and two human children.

Now the invisible artist painstakingly creates four tiny canine forms underneath the large shape of a white wolf. Finally, the painting is complete.

The two human children remained with the First Woman and Man. They became powerful healers, taking their power from their grandfather, the Wolf Spirit. However, they never forgot their wolf brothers and would often return to the wilderness to see them ...

Now, the scene changes, to the outskirts of Los Alamos, New Mexico, in the year 1999. A car pulls up to a small house squatting there against a majestic backdrop of red-and-gold mountains. Hosteen, a very old man with long white hair, appears on the porch, flanked by his son, grandson and his grandson's wife and children. 

The car door opens and a tall man with dark hair, Fox Mulder, exits. A petite woman with reddish-gold hair, Dana Scully, climbs out of the opposite side. Mulder opens a back door and carefully lifts a girl of about ten years old out of the back seat. 

As the trio, Mulder carrying the child in his arms, approaches Hosteen's porch, we get a closer look at the lanky girl with curling chestnut locks. The child's eyes, like Scully's, are a brilliant blue, but their irises show no white around them and her pupils are large and black. They are wolf eyes.

Hosteen greets them all warmly, smiling like an old friend. Then he reaches for the little girl. Scully stiffens. There is fear in her face, not of Hosteen, of course, but a mother's fear of some uncontrollable danger to her child. Mulder gently touches her shoulder to reassure her and then comforts the fretting child with the gentleness of a father.

The girl looks to Mulder and Scully for reassurance and, at their tender smiles, the child allows Hosteen to come closer. Curiously, the girl reaches out to pat his snowy hair. Hosteen chuckles appreciatively. 

His voice continues to narrate:

So when the FBI Man Mulder and the FBI Woman Scully came to us with their daughter I knew something that they had yet to - That this child was a descendant of the wolf. And that she, like the girl in my father's story, must someday return to the wild to live with her brothers...

Feet that make no noise; eyes that can see in the dark; ears that can hear the winds in their lairs, and sharp white teeth, all these things are the marks of our brothers…

-“The Hunting Verse,” The Jungle Book

The Beginning

Spring, 1998

Mt. Hood, Oregon, February 27, 6:45 p.m.

The geese are the first to feel it, the magnetic pull of Spring. They land and stand flat-footed on the glassy lakes surrounding the old volcano, waiting for the ice to release its hold on the water.

The bears are next, waddling from their dens under the earth to sit crossly in the snow and snap at any animal unwise enough to come near. For them the thaw can’t come soon enough.

From the tiniest snail to the mightiest buffalo, all the animals under the volcano sense the coming Spring; everything seems to be holding its breath.

The wolves feel it too. Winter is their season of plenty. It brings deep snows in which their prey, the bison and deer, flounder, making easy targets.

Spring is their time of hardship. The herds give birth to their young which, along with their nursing mothers, are forbidden for the wolves to take. Still the wolves howl in celebration. This Spring is a time of jubilation. For Spring is the time of pups! And wolves love nothing more than pups.

Truman, a husky male the color of red earth, leads the chorus. The pack's leader, he’s led his wolves through their land in the volcano's shadow for many seasons. His canyon-deep voice sings out above all the others of his pack until every animal, from the great bear to the tiny chipmunk, gives pause to listen. They know Truman is the undisputed King of the forest.

His mate Nesta, a rangy cream female, slides her voice up the scale until it rings out beside his in a clear silver note. Their adolescent sons, Darius and Shadowpad, both night-black, sing out in pitches somewhat below their parents. And, finally, little Seth, a rime-grey orphaned waif,  contributes his own high-pitched voice. For he has only just learned to howl.

Finally, the pup song ends with an abrupt yap from Truman and the wolves fall to frolicking - bowing, false-charging, chasing tail-tips, scuffing up the snow in their play. They lick each other's chins and cheeks and rub their tails against each other to mark one another in the collective scent of their tribe. Wolves respond most strongly to messages of scent instead, like humans, to sight and sound. And this scent message is crystal-clear: We are Rose Hill Wolves!

Truman stops the romp with a sharp yap and all the wolves come skidding to sit in a semi-circle around him. Tails wag and teeth flash in wolf “smiles.” These messages, clearer than any spoken word, tells of their mission. It has been the mission of all wolves since the world began: They would cooperate to hunt, survive and raise their young.

Feelings of goodwill prevail among Truman’s packmates … except his eldest son, Darius, who slinks away to sit sullenly apart from the others. Ignoring him, Truman prances up to his regal mate to tease her. Growling playfully, he mouths her muzzle before sliding the side of his head along her flank.

“Hullo in there little pups!” Truman exclaims. “Are you ready to come out and join us? There are – yes!” He makes a great show of listening intently. “Two pups! Two feisty little girl pups!”

“Get off of me, you great oaf!” Nesta lets out a snippy bark, but her orange eyes gleam with love for her mate. “And how in the Goddess’ name can you tell?”

“That’s not what you said to me two moons ago,” Truman teases and Nesta leaps up, ears pricked. The alpha pair face one another, tails waving in play. “And an Alpha King can always tell what his pups will be,” he adds, pawing at her face affectionately.

“I thought they were wolves,” Darius drawls sarcastically over his shoulder.

Truman quirks an eyebrow at his son. “Don’t you want a sister, my son?”

“Not particularly …” the black wolf replies. He yawns and his white teeth shine brilliantly against his dark face. “The last thing we need around are some drippy girls.”

“I’d like a sister!” Seth pipes up.

A yearling cub, Truman and his boys found the scrawny thing shivering in the snow at the beginning of winter. Nesta fusses over him like one of her own and Truman is benevolent to the poor scrap, but Darius bullies him mercilessly when his parents’ backs are turned. And Shadowpad, as in all things, follows his brother’s lead, his hazel eyes watching Darius’ every move - just as they are now. 

“Who asked you, runt?” Darius snaps at the small grey pup, lunging at Seth with teeth exposed.

Seth squeals and stumbles back to hide behind Nesta. Truman lifts his great head to stand over his son. He growls softly, one single fang shining like a star. It’s a warning: Back off. An Alpha King doesn’t usually show force. His presence is enough to get the point across to unruly upstarts. And it works – Darius lowers his ears and slinks away. But he rumbles mutinously as he stalks off.

Truman watches him go, his rust-brown mane bristling slightly. Darius has always been high-spirited. Difficult. The alpha has to keep a watchful eye on his eldest son.

Shadowpad, as always, glances nervously between his father and brother, then hurries off after Darius. Smaller and slighter than his sibling, Shadowpad’s pelt is truly black – unmarred by any light fur, so black it reflects purple tones. Darius is the color of summer smoke off a wildfire with a darker facial mask and “saddle” just like Truman’s. His eyes are orange-gold, the color of a dying sun.

“Where are we going, brother?” Shadowpad asks as he catches up.

Darius rolls his eyes, but he’s secretly pleased. He just feels braver and stronger when Shadowpad’s at his side. They’ve been inseparable since they were two feisty pups wrestling around in their mother’s womb.

“Hunting,” Darius answers shortly.

***

The two travel single-file through their father’s territory under the volcano at a trot, the younger brother looking like Darius’ shadow. Shadowpad’s nostrils expand; he can smell green things curled up under the snow and icicles are starting to drip down from the firs, but Spring seems timid to arrive, like Winter is still holding it back in its icy grip.

Darius does not stop to sniff the air. He strides forward with intent. Shadowpad, however, balks and whines anxiously; he’s feeling the nervousness all pack-wolves feel when they approach the edge of their territory. The line marked with the invisible warning of their father’s scent and harsh visible scratches comes into sight. Shadowpad has been taught his entire life not to cross it. Wandering is for lone wolves, wretched emaciated vagabonds that Truman sends off with snarl-barks and howled warnings. Drifting isn’t for an alpha’s son, a prince like Shadowpad.

“Darius, we’re very close to the edge …” Shadowpad swallows. “The … towns.”

The towns are an alien territory; they belong to those two-legged hairless beasts named humans, a dangerous pack to be sure. More deadly than the bison or the bear. Wise wolves stay away.

“Thanks, private,” Darius growls, not glancing back. “Any more reports?”

They’ve come to a massive old Douglas fir. The giant tree makes the two wolves look like black ants crawling underneath it. Its small pod-shaped cones litter the ground at the brothers’ feet, for the tree’s great sweeping branches have sheltered this spot from the snow. Shadowpad luxuriates for a moment in its relative warmth on his cold paws. But he glances around nervously, his back fur rising. From his whiskers down to his nails he hates this feeling of fear. An alpha’s son shouldn’t feel it.

Shadowpad’s eyes follow the horizon. The sun is setting and the blue Cascades reflect its light in their golden peaks. The sun itself looks like a bloody eyeball in a nest of fire. The young wolf shivers involuntarily. The human beasts make fire. Somehow. Same as lightning from the sky.

How do they do it? Shadowpad wonders silently. He sees the strange hard cold human lights begin to twinkle down in the towns, which nestle against the curve of the river like a still swarm of fireflies.

Shadowpad remembers when he was a small pup and Truman took him and Darius to see the towns for the first time. Shadowpad had thought the stars had fallen down into the dark path of the river.

“What do they do down there?” he found himself murmuring aloud.

Too late the sound dies in his throat as Darius turns his burning gaze on his brother. “Why should we care what those dirty salamanders do or think? They’re as spineless as they are furless, toothless, hiding inside their unnatural walls all night, afraid of the dark,” he growls. “If it wasn’t for their Red Flower and gun they’d be nothing more than prey …”

Shadowpad knows his brother is troublesome and headstrong, but he’s shocked by this. The first lesson they, like every other wolf whelp, learns is that there gods, who rule in heaven, wolves, who rule on Earth. Then there are humans who are the most deadly of demons. A wolf who walks as a shadow when man is in the forest might just live to an old age.

Before Shadowpad can answer a silhouette appears against the glare of the setting sun, trotting towards them from the direction of the towns. It’s a wolf. A stranger. Broad-shouldered. Hoary white except for its black ear-tips and a smudge on its long snout. And big. Shadowpad flinches nervously. As big as Truman. The stranger’s smell hits him suddenly, telling Shadowpad what he already knows – a male. A male who walks without fear or hesitation, not cringing like a loner. An Alpha King.

The wolf comes closer, ears pricked. He’s detected the brothers before they have. Can we fight him? Shadowpad wonders nervously. Perhaps he and Darius working together … He glimpses the white wolf’s powerful jaws and bulging neck muscles and feels a stab of fear in his belly. They should run back to their territory, get Truman and Nesta.

Then Darius steps forward. He greets the large male with a nose-touch, ears slightly back, bushy black tail out with the tip hanging down in a relaxed greeting. Shadowpad’s eyes go wide. Darius knows this stranger! This trespasser on their father’s territory!

Shadowpad can’t even force out a squeak as the great white wolf turns his yellow eyes on him. “And you must be the illustrious Shadowpad. Darius talks about you a great deal,” the stranger rumbles in a deep voice.

The young black wolf finally manages to spit out a response, but he thinks he sounds more like a strangled squirrel, not a proper wolf.

“T-That’s a loner, brother! On our father’s land!” he yelps.

Darius’ ears are plastered back and he shuffles his paws in the snow in embarrassment. Through a fog of bewilderment he realizes this is the first time he’s seen Darius so shy.

“Stop acting like a yellow-bellied marmot, Shad,” Darius growls. “Dante isn’t a loner. And we’re on the border; in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Shadowpad knows he’s staring, the ultimate wolf taboo, but he just can’t stop. The stranger – Dante apparently – is big and sleek. His frosty fur practically glows with good health. Too well-fed for a loner. But where did he come from? Shadowpad wonders. And what does he eat? 

Truman’s pack is the only one in the volcano’s shadow and he wouldn't allow any stranger to hunt on his land.

Unless…

Shadowpad’s neck-fur stands on end and his legs quiver as several shapes appear in the dusky trees around them and slink forward, circling him and his brother.

Wolves!

***

How could they just sneak up on us like that? Shadowpad thinks, his brain a scatter of panic.

He’s a young wolf, sure, he’s only seen two springs, but he’s certain he could have scented such a large pack.

Many more than in ours! he muses, glancing around nervously at them all. As many as seeds on a dandelion head. All healthy, strong-looking and well-fed. Shadowpad can’t run even if he had the presence of mind to do so. So many strong adults would outstrip him in the space of a rabbit’s hop. Fighting’s out of the question, even with Darius alongside him.

It’s over. An ambush. And how in the name of the Goddess will Aapa and Aaka fight off such a large pack of invaders without us by their sides? Shadowpad doesn’t spare a thought for little Seth. That runt is nothing more than deadweight. At least, that’s Darius’ opinion – so it’s Shadowpad’s too.

Then he notices the strangers are wagging their tails, black lips pulled back in amused smiles. They don’t look very threatening … And Darius’ relaxed body language tells Shadowpad there is nothing to fear.

Feeling a little foolish, Shadowpad lets his thick black tail hang loose, but his green eyes track the strangers as they mill around him in the blue shadows of twilight. A lithe female, the color of the new moon, prances up to the two brothers.

“Hey, Theresa,” Darius says, trying to look nonchalant as usual, but Shadowpad doesn’t miss the spark in his littermate’s golden eyes when he greets the she-wolf.

“Darius!” she yaps. She brushes her muzzle against his and Shadowpad almost faints in surprise. She turns leaf-green eyes on him. “And this is your cute little brother, eh?”

Cute. Shadowpad would have bridled at that comment, but for some reason he doesn’t mind it coming from Theresa. It makes his paw-pads prickle in an exciting way.

Theresa skips back to Dante. She licks his chin and he mouths her nose tenderly. Shadowpad immediately drops his eyes. “Alpha Queen,” he murmurs reverently. This she-wolf is clearly Dante’s mate – the dominant female of his pack.

Theresa barks out a little laugh. “You’re funny!”

Dante blinks down benevolently at Shadowpad. “We don’t have alphas in our pack. We don’t believe in a hierarchy among wolves. In our pack all wolves are allowed to mate with whomever they like.”

Shadowpad can’t believe his ears. Wolf society is rooted in the pack – and the Alpha King and Queen at its head. A wolf’s service to his pack and his alphas is his sole reason to live. Nothing else matters. Without it, a wolf is no better than a coyote, or a lowly fox. Or an ignorant dog, a human’s pet and plaything.

Several more females dance up to Dante, pushing their noses into his thick ruff of white fur. Some romp up to Darius and Shadowpad, play-bowing, flirting and begging them to play. Darius swishes his tail enthusiastically, but Shadowpad holds back warily. Something just isn’t right here …

His indignation giving him more courage than he thought he possessed, he rounds on Dante.

“But you live no better than common dogs!” he snaps.

Several of the strangers turn to glare at the young black wolf and a big burly male the grayish-red of cedar bark steps up to Dante’s side, growling menacingly at Shadowpad.

“Easy, Cedar,” Dante soothes. The huge white wolf seems unruffled by Shadowpad’s challenge. “It’s natural to be wary of our way of life, young wolf. Darius was too – at first.”

Shadowpad cuts his eyes at his brother. But Darius lifts his chin defiantly and glares back.

“But let me assure you that we do not live like common dogs,” Dante says.

His smooth drawling tone is meant to placate, but there’s something about it that makes Shadowpad’s fur crawl uncomfortably, like his pelt is full of ticks.

“As a matter of fact, we have far better pickings than anything your alphas could ever give you,” a tan female with prominent facial markings adds, padding up to Cedar’s side.

“Baya’s right! And as much of them as you like,” another smoke-blue male chimes. “No waiting around for an Alpha King to eat his fill and then cringing and begging for scraps!”

Shadowpad bristles at that. Of course, according to wolf Law, he and Darius must wait their turns to eat after Truman and Nesta have, but that’s out of respect to the alphas and Truman is not a selfish leader. He always makes sure his family is fed as well, if not better, as himself.

Shadowpad begins to back off, tail creeping between his legs. “But … how?” he asks, his fur hot and cold at the same time. “But how do you live? Where do you hunt? You must live in the towns. And there is not any hunting there for wolves.”

“Maybe not for small-minded wolves like your alphas!” the blue-black wolf laughs, making Shadowpad’s pelt bush out in anger.

“Smoke,” Dante says in a good-natured warning, flicking the male with his tail-tip. He turns his yellow eyes on Shadowpad and Dante’s toothy smile widens at the young wolf. “We can show you if you’ll let us …”

Shadowpad feels his body drawing in on himself like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He hates the feeling, but he can’t help himself. A part of himself is curious about these strange wolves who don’t live in the forests or have alphas or live in proper packs, but his instincts are shrieking at him to run as far away as possible. The utter feeling of wrongness clogs his nostrils and clings to his fur like the stench of decay.

“OK,” Darius replies in an unwavering tone. His intense golden eyes are trained on Dante. Shadowpad sees no fear or timidity in his brother’s posture, only curiosity – and admiration for the big white wolf.

Shadowpad scuttles over to him. “We can’t!” he whines.

Darius lifts his lips in a snarl. “Why?” Usually, this would have goaded Shadowpad into submission, but he’s desperate, almost frantic, to get away.

“Into the towns? With these … Darius, they live no better than coyotes! We know nothing about them!” Shadowpad hisses.

Dante is listening, of course, but his smooth face is completely relaxed. Only his yellow eyes, burning with interest, give away any of his thoughts.

“You don’t know anything about them!” Darius rumbles.

“And you do?!” Shadowpad says. “How long have you …?”

“You sound just like Aapa!” Darius snaps. “Listen, come with us –” Shadowpad flinches at “us.” Yes, Darius had been sneaking off when the pack was slumbering, but his brother had always assumed he was doing some solo hunting. Now, the young wolf feels betrayed. He and his twin have always done everything together; why would Darius meet up with this … this band of loners (Shadowpad refuses to even call them a pack!) without even telling him?

“Or go running back home to Mother’s milk!” Darius adds with a snarl, his golden eyes hardening. “Whatever you like.”

Shadowpad watches his brother stalk off to join Dante and the others. Smoke sneers and Baya rumbles her amusement, but their big white leader simply gazes at Shadowpad, the expression unreadable in his bright eyes.

When he can’t take it a heartbeat longer, Shadowpad tears his paws from the snowy ground and bounds after them. “Wait!” he woofs. “I’m coming!” A couple lopes bring him to his brother’s side. Darius rolls his eyes at him, but Shadowpad doesn’t miss the spark of relief in his brother’s eye. He’s happy Shadowpad is at his side as usual. One day he’ll be alpha and I’ll be his beta wolf, Shadowpad thinks. And whatever Darius faces, he won’t face it alone.

No matter what, Shadowpad muses nervously. He’s hemmed in on all sides by these mysterious loners and every step he takes brings him closer and closer to the towns … and those strange terrifying beasts known as humans.

***

Briar Rose Recreational Trails, Rose Hill, Oregon, 8:02 p.m.

“Come back here, Davy! I want to talk to you,” calls Elizabeth Reed, age nineteen.

David “Davy” Benson, age twenty, has chased a rabbit all over the forest it seems and has hemmed it inside a hollow log. The lanky boy with the shock of soft brown hair falling over his eyes hardly seems mature enough for the question he’s proposing to Eliza. It seems he’ll always be the rakish boy she met in the Fourth Grade at Rose Hill Primary. Or guiding skiers up and down the slopes of Hood Meadows, where she fell in love with him. The two have been working their winters there at the resort since they both graduated high school. Eliza has been saving for college.

The very tall girl – the tallest in her graduating class at Briar Rose Mission Secondary – with the long, long black hair suspected Davy of the same. True, she’s been firmly in love with him for almost two years now, but she never even entertained the idea that the brown-eyed boy with the easy laugh and devilish tilt to his head might be earning his paycheck towards something else. Something that very much involves her …

He turns to glance at Eliza, his brown eyes twinkling in that way that makes her stomach jump in a peculiar way. “You know I’ve got no business with a little piddling rabbit like this, ‘Liza,” he says. “I was only having a lil’ fun! If I’d of wanted a proper bunny I’d of brought my gun and got a hare for us.”

Eliza has no doubt about this. Davy’s the best woodsman, hunting and hiking guide around Hood Forest. Only his grandmother, Aggie Benson, is better. Aggie can coax a clever hare right into her arms if she wants, Eliza’s sure.

“Then stop tormenting the poor thing and come over here!” she chides. “I want to talk about what you were asking me earlier …”

“What’s there to talk about?” he asks. He isn’t smiling anymore as he saunters towards her, but even his serious face is full of devilment it seems. Eliza can’t help but smile. It’d be so much easier to really think about this if that boy didn’t keep turning her head with his charm.

“Well, a lot,” she responds. “For one …” she pauses, smiling shyly. “You’re going to haveta stop chasing rabbits if you want to be a respectable married man.”

Davy’s eyes fairly glow with happiness. In a joyful bound, he dashes to her side and clasps Eliza’s smooth chilly hands in his own warm ones. Smiling in delight, the young lovers embrace, oblivious of the many green-and-gold eyes watching them from the surrounding shadows …

***

Shadowpad cranes his neck to peer at the two humans and expands his nostrils to inhale their distinctive scent – a male and a female, both rather young. Adolescents like himself and Darius he guesses judging from their lanky frames and boisterous behavior.

But what are they doing here at the forest’s edge? And why does Dante insist on spying on them? And why aren’t the dumb creatures aware of any of this?

Goddess, he was taught that humans have poor senses, but these two seem to have no idea of how many wolves are watching them.

“How do they not know we’re here?” he wonders aloud.

“Humans are useless in the woods,” Darius replies with a snarl. “They couldn’t smell you if you farted right under their noses! Really what use is any creature that is so helpless? The stupid deer we hunt are smarter than them. They are only good for prey.”

Shadowpad gasps at this. The first wolf Law all cubs are taught is that there are predators and there is prey. And then there are humans which fit into neither category.

Dante, however, nods his approval at Darius, almost the same way an alpha wolf will when his cub learns an important lesson well.

Shadowpad starts to feel worse and worse. An awful dread is gnawing at his bones like a cougar’s fangs. The humans’ stench fills him with a fear all wild things feel in man’s presence. But there’s something else in the young wolf’s instinctive terror, something deeper and more insidious. Shadowpad’s gut tells him something his brain can’t comprehend:

That perhaps these young humans have something to fear from these wild wolves and not the other way around.

Darius’ eyes are trained on the humans as well, but there’s no trace of fear in his rigid posture and erect ears and tail. His breath comes in quick excited pants. He looks, and it causes Shadowpad to grimace to even think this, like he’s been here before, done this before. Stalking humans alongside Dante’s band.

Dante and his wolves show no sign of fear either. Their eyes and fangs flash menacingly in the darkness. Their fur is up and their tails wag in anticipation … but anticipation of what?

What kind of wolves know no fear of human beings? Shadowpad wonders with a shudder. They look like wolves do in preparation of a … No. It couldn’t be.

Unconsciously, Shadowpad backs away. The blind terror is consuming him. He can only think of running away now. Then he bumps into Cedar, Smoke and another large female with a yellowish-white coat and tufted ears.

“Don’t run away so soon, little wolf,” she growls and Cedar and Smoke grin their approval. “You’ll miss the show.

“Sage is right, pup,” Cedar says, teeth gleaming. “And who knows? There might be some spoils for you as well.”

The two burly males flank him and all Shadowpad can do is sit down on his haunches and stare in horror.

Dante silences his wolves with a flick of his tail. He steps up to Darius’ side and murmurs to the young wolf: “Now’s the time, Darius. Prove to us you’re one of our own.”

***

“Now is the time of the putnar, the hunter!” Dante growls, yellow eyes flickering.

Shadowpad can’t take another moment of this. Slithering out from between Cedar and Smoke he flings himself in front of his brother. “Darius, stop! What are you doing?!”

He expects Darius to be angry, but the young wolf looks instead calm, even glad? His golden eyes are bright with anticipation. The slaver on his lips, however, causes a chill to freeze Shadowpad’s very bones. Darius is ready to hunt – hunt humans! The very thought makes Shadowpad’s head spin. The first wolf Law is that all the animals in the forest were made for wolves to hunt and kill – all except man. Man is corban, forbidden food.

“Get out of my way, Shad,” Darius murmurs.

Shadowpad’s brother, usually so headstrong, sounds almost in a daze. His eyes are feverishly bright and they don’t even glance Shadowpad’s way. They are trained on the two young humans still talking together in the glade, still unaware of the mortal danger they’re apparently in.

“You can’t do this!” Shadowpad says desperately.

“Why?” Darius snarls. And it is a strange comfort to  Shadowpad to hear the familiar anger seeping into the voice of his stubborn, strong-willed brother. Yes, Shadowpad can deal with this. But not some wolf utterly besotted with the idea of killing humans.

“Why?! Are you blind? Those are-”

“Humans?” And then Darius’ voice becomes smooth, sleek and calm again in that maddening tone that makes him, Shadowpad’s twin brother and his very best friend, seem like a stranger. “Yes, I know. And why shouldn’t we hunt them, brother? They are weaklings. Furless, fangless! Weaker than a newborn cub and almost as blind and deaf.”

Darius lifts his head as Shadowpad tries to object. “Why should we wolves run away like senseless deer when man enters the forest? We’re naturally stronger than humans in every way.”

“Except for their gun and their Red Flower!” Shadowpad argues, his voice rising in panic. “Harm one hair on a human and the rest will come for us, burning our forest to the ground! Aapa says …”

“Aapa!” Darius growls in disdain. “And just what does our father know about living as a truly wild wolf? He feeds us these stories of the Goddess making wolves to rule over all the animals, but then he wants us to run like a squirrel when a human sets foot in the forest.

“No …” Darius’ growl deepens to a sinister rumble, like thunder before a storm. “This is how it should be. Wolves over all …”

Darius pushes past his brother. Shadowpad whirls around to chase him, but a heavy paw cuffs him over the head. Shaking his head to clear it of stars, he looks around to see Dante standing over him, watching him with a smirk. Forgetting his fear of the massive wolf, he tries to fling himself up at him, but Smoke and Sage pin down the young black wolf with amused growls.

"You! You made him think this way!" Shadowpad, uncaring that Dante can rip him to shreds - with no mention of his followers - snarls at the white wolf.

"Did I?" Dante says with a smirk. "Listen, little wolf, every wolf walks his own trail. No wolf can be owned by another. We're not common dogs," he drawls smoothly.

Shadowpad's hazel eyes widen, his breath coming in terrified pants. Fur standing on end, he swivels his head around to watch Darius trot out of the underbrush right into the glade where the two humans are standing ...

***

Eliza clutches the tiny pendant in her palm. It's a grey whale, Eliza's very favorite animal. Davy can't afford an engagement ring, but this is twenty times better. It reminds her of the amazing week last year she and Davy spent in Depoe Bay whale-watching. It was quite possibly the happiest time of her life - so far, she thinks with a smile.

"It's better than any ring!" she exclaims, kissing him.

Davy, inhaling the sweet scent of her raven hair, smiles back, bringing both her hands to his lips.

Then they both look up in surprise to see a young man coming there way. Eliza hadn't even heard the undergrowth crackle to herald him. Feeling some instinct tug at her gut, the girl takes a step back, squeezing Davy's hand. Why hadn't they heard this stranger approach?

Stranger. Rose Hill is a small town and for someone born and raised there, Eliza knows every soul in it, especially the other kids around her age. This guy looks to be about seventeen or eighteen. Which makes him a tourist. But what tourist would be wandering around in the woods after dark? Eliza has dealt with tourists her entire life and she knows they don't stick their noses outdoors unaccompanied by a guide when the sun goes down.

Let alone walking through the forest without making a sound. A woodsman like Davy would have heard him a mile off.

"Howdy!" Davy calls. He's friendly and trusting, just as he's always been. Davy doesn't meet strangers. He meets friends he's yet to make, as his Grandma Aggie says.

"Hi ..." the stranger replies.

As he steps closer into their circle of yellow lantern light, Eliza can see his shock of silvery-black hair, haze of stubble and the dark thick hair lining his forearms. He's lean, skinny even, but there's something about the ripple of muscles under his shirt that makes her believe he'd win in a fight.

His eyes cause a shiver to pass through her. Perhaps it's a trick of the lantern light, but his pupils are too wide and black and his irises are an eerie golden-green with amber flecks.

It's two against one, Eliza thinks. And he's shorter than me. We could beat him in a fight.

"You lost?" Davy says, still talking in a cheerful tone. "We'd be willing to help you find your way back."

Eliza realizes her fiance is a bit nervous too by the way his palm's sweating, but his genial voice could charm any stranger, she believes.

And it appears to work. The boy smiles at them, his tense expression relaxing into one of relief and gratitude.

"Thanks ..." he says. "Name's Darius by the way."

"Well, Darius, we're happy to help!" Davy replies. "'Liza and I both know these woods like the back of our hands."

Darius fixes them with those weird eyes of his and his reply comes out in a strange snarling sound. It makes Eliza's skin crawl. It's her imagination, she's sure, brought on by the darkness and the sudden shock of this stranger, but the sound makes her think of something neither animal nor man.

"Oh, I'd wager I know these woods far better than you two ..."

He takes a step forward and the black hair on his arms thickens into a dark pelt, his face lengthening into a long snarling muzzle. Only his eyes don't change in the hairy wolfish face transforming around them. His shoulders broaden and rip through his shirt as he seems to grow taller and tower over them.

Eliza and her lover look on with stunned helplessness as a baying breaks out all around them and several more dark, hairy, stalking shapes - which appear as neither animal nor human - slither out of the shadows and circle and press in all around them.

~*~

I’m fine.

This was the mantra she repeated to herself. When life became too overwhelming. Too much to bear, threatening to engulf her like hungry waves eroding a shore or decay eating up a once-living thing.

There wasn’t any meaning behind the words really. Because what? How was she, in fact, fine? Fine for someone who had suffered multiple traumas? Fine for someone who had survived a life-threatening abduction? And an inoperable cancer only to bury her only daughter – and be left with the knowledge she could never have another? Or fine for someone who couldn’t bring herself to confess her feelings for her partner, though she would and had taken metaphorical and literal bullets for him?

I’m fine. 

But if she could say those two words. If she could keep telling herself she was still alive after all this … Then maybe she could make them come true?

It was childish and superstitious and she scorned such notions, but if those two words were the tether holding her to sanity itself, really what harm could they do?

***

FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C., March 1, 1998, 6:18 a.m.

Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully often spends her early mornings walking the corridors of the FBI Headquarters, deep in thought. It is quiet and still in the pre-seven-o’clock dim of the plain, flat, neutrally-toned halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Federal Building.

For this is Scully’s decompression time, the time she prepares herself mentally for the day ahead. (Not to mention in any small way her exuberant partner – Fox Mulder: sweet, enthusiastic, stubborn, but not always the contemplative type. Though even now she feels a twinge of guilt at thinking it.) As well as a time to reflect on her past and think of her future. Right now, the latter seems bleak. And Scully feels the tug of depression dragging at her like a stone tied to her, settling her at the bottom of the ocean.

She hopes work, as it always does, will force her anxiety out of her mind, but this time it’s not proving helpful. Emily’s cherubic face and bright blue eyes – Scully’s own eyes – flash through her thoughts. Memories of her little daughter constantly haunt her, but the early mornings are the worst – when Scully can almost smell the scent of Emily’s flaxen hair, can almost feel the gentle touch of her tiny hand in hers.

Mulder starts speaking almost before she’s walked through the door to their basement office.

“Wolf attack,” he says in that dramatic way of his that demands her stop and listen. Not “good morning” or “how are you?” Just jumping right in head-first the Mulder-way, thinks Scully. After five years of their being partners, she’s more than used to it.

Even so, it takes her a moment to register his words. To dredge herself up from the dark sea of her thoughts. “Excuse me?”

The lanky agent fairly jumps up from behind his desk. “Done by an animal but with all the cold-blooded intent of a human killer,” he explains swiftly, dodging around Scully like she’s a rock in a stream.

He has the slides ready, which has always secretly amused her. There are times she wonders if he makes them especially for her? It always causes a warm glow in her cheeks, but, as usual, she fights down those feelings – way, way down in her heart where she doesn’t have to worry about them right now.

Work. Focus on the work, she tells herself and she’s as grateful as ever for this distraction. Who knew when she first joined the FBI it would become her crutch, her coping mechanism?

Scully focuses on the grisly photos flashing up on the projector screen, each one as gory as the last.

“Elizabeth Reed, age 19, was on a moonlit stroll with her high school sweetheart on the outskirts of Rose Hill, Oregon,” Mulder says. “She died of massive blood loss from wounds to her throat.”

“It’s hard to tell exactly how she died from the pictures …” Scully observes. “My God, Mulder, this girl was practically disemboweled.”

“And dismembered. Several of her body parts seem to have been carried away, as if by predation. Hers is the latest in a string of killings from southwestern Idaho to Washington State beginning around November. All targeting young women and girls ages fifteen to twenty-five. Serial killings …”

“You believe this to be the work of a human killer?” Scully sighs as she settles into their old dance that has been perfected over five years of their partnership – Mulder throwing out more and more outlandish explanations while Scully puts them out like small fires.

She’d be a liar if she tells herself a small part of her heart doesn’t enjoy it. Mulder’s always challenged her, the same as she’s challenged him. Instead of hurting their partnership it’s only made them a better team, and stronger friends …

“Violent overkill, plus signs of prolonged stalking by the killer and torture of the victim prior to death would point to something with premeditated intent,” Mulder explains. “Human intent.”

“Well, in nature, animals don’t always kill for food or right away, do they?” Scully rejoins. “Cougars, for example, stalk their prey, often over long distances and for extended periods of time.”

“These were wolf teeth marks, Scully.”

“I’m only proving my point. In the 1970’s there were incidences in India of wolves stalking and killing children and women. Biologists believed the animals felt threatened. They were protecting their young.”

“So tell me which wolf mommy or daddy leaves human footprints,” Mulder says. And the slide flickers to reveal tracks surrounding the trampled muddy snow around Elizabeth Reed’s remains. They are decidedly human tracks.

 “Mulder, don’t tell me your suggesting some kind of –”

“Weremonster?” he says, with that mischievous smile that makes Scully’s stomach twinge.

She tilts an eyebrow at him.

“We’ve seen something similar before, Scully,” he replies, talking faster now, excited. “Manitou, in Montana …”

“Well, you saw something supposedly. And if indeed there were such a thing.” She glances at his frown. “That begs the questions, doesn’t it? Whatever murdered Parker was in little to no control of its impulses.”

“And the human footprints?”

“You never thought Reed’s attacker might have used an animal to murder her? In some kind of disturbing revenge killing or ritualistic murder? I mean, we’ve seen that too, Mulder.”

“I don’t think you’re completely wrong there, Scully.”

Scully’s eyes, indigo in the dim light, widen in surprise at that. Mulder throwing her a bone isn’t something she’s exactly used to.

Another slide flickers up on the wall. An intricate mark – a symbol of some kind – is painted on a boulder. Scully suddenly can’t speak. A strong flash of recognition she can’t explain burns in her mind. But where? she wonders as she studies the complicated knotted design. Suddenly tired, and slightly dizzy, she involuntarily covers her face, massaging her aching temples.

“I don’t think any mother-to-be with a nesting instinct would do that, do you?” Mulder continues on. “And there’s an absolute absence of animal tracks around the scene. Now, unless, the killer decided to put booties on his attack dog, I don’t think …” he trails off, suddenly noticing Scully.

He immediately stops. He’s been very attentive to her moods lately, especially since Emily’s death. “Scully …” he murmurs and she almost winces at the tenderness in his voice. It’s a tone she doesn’t hear him use very often; but she’s noticed that he’s using it more and more when addressing her.

Perhaps it’s this gentleness, not only in his speech but practically glowing in his dark green eyes, that suddenly brings about an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. “It’s Emily. I’m sorry …” she says hoarsely, unable to look him in the eye or even raise her voice above a murmur. Her eyes prick dangerously.

“Scully …” he says softly.

“I …”

“You’re seeing her again, aren’t you?” Mulder says, his voice hardening slightly. He’s not being cruel, Scully knows. (She doubts he has a cruel bone in his body.) But there’s an unacknowledged but very present part in their relationship that demands him stop her pain any way possible.

Scully nods and this time a traitorous tear slithers down her cheek. She’s afraid to speak. She’s grateful for the darkness around them.

Mulder reaches for her. He’s saying something or other. The old refrain she’s heard so many times. It’s OK. Take some time off. You don’t have to go. That’s fine. But she’s only half-listening. She’s experiencing the now-familiar pull of his arms. She wants to bury herself against his chest and forget everything in his comforting embrace. But she can’t. She can’t.

“When do we leave?” she asks, pulling away from his touch. She pretends not to notice the injured expression in his eyes as she does.

He exhales. A tiny bit. No one else would notice it. But of course she does. “We can get a late flight this evening,” he says with an air of resignation.

“That’s fine,” she says.

“Scully-”

“I’m fine,” she adds, straightening and forcing briskness into her words. She heads out the door. “I’ll get my bag. I’ll meet you at the airport.”