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What’s that appalling noise?
I sit bolt upright in bed, summoned from a happily racy dream by a demon gargling with battery acid.
“Urgh. Wings,” my waking wolf groans, thumping his pillow over his head.
I’ve heard more melodic dental drills. Wings won’t have any throat left at that rate. What on Earth’s the matter with him?
Wrapping my shivering nakedness in a woolly cardigan, so as not to give anyone a traumatising eyeful, I wander over to the windows and open one a few inches, treating myself to a narrow blast of ice cold air. A certain chubby gumwhat, squatting on the window sill, takes the opportunity to avail himself of a nice warm invitation and tries to squeeze through, wedging his bulk in the gap. He unleashes disgruntled chatter at me.
“Not my fault you’re so wide,” I argue back, staring him down. The chatter heads into enraged territory, his cracked buckteeth bobbing up and down in a blur. “Alright, fine.” I acquiesce, opening the window a few more inches.
“Cold,” moans a muffled voice from under the pillow.
The newly liberated Mr G vaults the side table and leaps onto Curt’s leg, wrapping himself around the warm limb.
“Edi,” Curt yells, in his ‘it’s all your fault’ voice, but he doesn’t push his new legwarmer off, so I leave them to it.
Meanwhile, the open window raises the volume of Wings’ horrendous rendition of ‘You are my sweet little snowball,’ the sequel to ‘sweet little feather.’ If anything, this song’s worse, with a lot more verses. It’s not even morning yet, sunrise barely a glow on the horizon.
“Go to bed, you mad eagle,” a disembodied voice hollers at him from one of the chalets, followed by a smattering of applause from the town’s folk. A few annoyed additions pile on the disapproval.
“You sound horrible, you old bird. Shut up.”
“We’re all trying to sleep. Everyone stop yelling.”
“Keep singing and I’ll come out there and strangle you.”
Unfortunately, the stream of verbal abuse meant to discourage the singer has the reverse effect. A clearly sozzled Wings staggers into view, now propped up and accompanied by an equally intoxicated Ursid, both barefoot and dressed in woollen pyjamas. I’ve no idea what the general’s singing, but it’s not the same words, or tune, as his feathered friend. It’s rare to find two tone deaf people in harmonised atrocity, but trust this town to deliver it. Normally I’d laugh, but they’re giving me a headache and I’m knackered.
Another mansion window opens and Adamo’s head pokes out, sporting the worst bed hair I’ve ever seen. I’d swear the ginger prince of bears has been plugged into a live socket and used as a drain cleaner.
“Ursid,” he croaks.
The general is so busy bellowing a counterpoint, he doesn’t hear his prince.
“Adamo, please make it stop,” Dulcis moans from inside their room.
“Ursid,” Adamo repeats, turning up the volume from one to five.
The wobbling bear swings around towards the mansion, slingshotting Wings into the air before slapping his bare feet back onto the snow.
“Hello, Princey,” Ursid sings, in base baritone, waving one hand. “Your hair looks like gulch.”
I don’t know what that word means, but I can guess, since Wings cackles like a naughty child. Adamo looks even more stunned than usual.
“Ursid,” he rumbles, moving up to an eight on the Richter Scale. “Stop singing. That’s an order.”
The bear peers at the eagle. They both look up at the prince and blow elongated raspberries until they run out of breath. Another window creaks open and Curt’s auntie, Yellfire herself, leans out to demonstrate exactly how she got the nickname.
“Wings, Ursid, get in this house,” she thunders, like the voice of God from the Mountain Top, “or I’ll feed you to Serpen.” They peer up at her, shocked into silence. “NOW. If you make me come down there, you’ll regret it.”
Weaving all over the carpet of snow, the duo vaguely make their way in the direction of the mansion’s front door, whilst windows slam shut around them. Wings opens his mouth to sing, then decides against it, swallowing the note.
“My feet are cold,” he mutters, squinting down at bare toes, trying to force them into focus.
“Me too,” agrees Ursid, as they stagger over the threshold and land in a heap inside.
As I crawl back into bed, snuggling up against Curt and resting a chilled foot on Mr G, I hear the door close below. Footsteps thump upstairs in uneven rhythm and bedroom doors slam, until it’s finally quiet.
Or it would be, if a certain squashed gumwhat wasn’t snoring its furry head off.
* * *
Having had next to no sleep, thanks to the bear, eagle and gumwhat circus, I greet the bright shiny morning, spearing through a gap in the curtains, with very little enthusiasm, particularly since the time to face the impending serpent apocalypse is now upon us. Personally, I haven’t a clue what we’ll do, but I’m hoping General Ursid’s battle prowess will regurgitate some ideas, him being hungover or no.
I fling open the curtains, flooding the freezing cold room with eye-watering sunshine. Curt groans and Mr G chatters, covering their faces with hands and paws.
“Too early,” Curt moans, dragging himself off the bed, Mr G still attached to his leg. “Get off you little...” He trails off as he heads for the fireplace, now just a pile of cold ash. The gumwhat takes the opportunity to scramble up the bed linen and crawl under our discarded blankets.
“Don’t light the fire,” I tell Curt.
“It’s cold.”
“I know, but we need to go downstairs soon. I want some breakfast before the meeting.”
“Urgh,” mutters Curt. “Can’t we have one more day without...”
“No,” I reply, cutting him off.
He grins at me.
“What are you smiling at?” I ask.
He points at his shoulders and torso, miming what I’m wearing. A glance in the mirror reveals a naked, saggy old girl busting out of her woolly cardigan. His eyebrows waggle up and down.
“It’s way too cold in here for that,” I point out. “Get some clothes on before everything shrinks.”
“Bath first,” he insists.
Not for the first time, I thank the Good Lord for my beloved wolf as he staggers up from the kitchens with another bucket of hot water and pours it into our tiny bath before scrambling in, half falling on top of me to protect his gammy hip. Covered in warm water he leans back against my breasts and I wrap my arms around him, experiencing a perfect moment of steamy peace. Time stands still and my grip tightens, desperate to keep the world at bay.
“I wish we could stay like this,” I tell him, running my fingertips over his wonderful wet biceps.
“Water will get cold,” he replies, ever the pragmatist. He flexes a bicep, making me giggle.
Towelled down and wrapped in warm woollens, I head along the corridor to find a more fragrant Curt peering through a window at a town coming to life. Granted there’s more groaning and head holding than normal, following last night’s overwhelming celebrations, but the pups, cubs and mini snakes toss snowballs at one another in a display of childish unity. As for the adults, I can already spot a change in body language from last night’s all out joy. I suspect the celebration was all the more robust because of the spectre of incoming serpents. One final dance before the storm, as it were.
The bears, including Mama, Friddie and their feral cub, Beetus, are all back in the homes they painstakingly built, which was something Alpha insisted upon, once they returned, drowning out the objections of our southern wolf guests. The upshot of that edict meant all the wolves and snakes squeezing into the other housing, resulting in a few unfortunate incidents (such as punch ups and biting matches) and an upsurge of wolf fleas. Some magnanimous bears opened their doors to alleviate the crush, but others were less inclined to quickly forgive their summary eviction.
I suppose we Furtletooths are lucky to have a room in the mansion, especially after our lodge burnt down. We’ve thought about building more houses, but Ursid advises against widening the defence area, at least until after the meeting takes place. After Gulid’s hysterical reaction to the possible cat news, we run the risk of fear spreading like wildfire, destabilising an already shaky alliance. Dodgy stomachs and headaches will have to be endured; the meeting must take place today, before the shifters turn on one another about more than fleas.
“It’s time,” says Alpha, limping down the corridor towards us, wincing as he leans on a crutch. His damaged knee remains subject to Mama Bear’s robust ursine physiotherapy, whether he likes it or not.
“A community meeting. My favourite,” Curt mutters, grimacing at his brother.
Alpha frowns back. “Plan on staying for all of it, this time?”
Curt pouts and looks him up and down. “Shall I carry you down the stairs?”
“You get yourself down,” Alpha shoots back, “mangy limp leg.”
He heads for the first step before his brother can trip him up.
“That bang on the head needed to be harder,” Curt replies.
“Now, now, boys,” I add. Not that the mutual insults aren’t fun. Nearly dying brought them even closer together, which makes me and their eagle nanny very happy. I’m slowly following the two limping wolves downstairs when I hear Yelena’s dulcet tones.
“How do you move then?”
“Muscles in my body and my scales,” a young girl replies, making a slithering motion with her hand. “I can rear up too, like Uncle.”
“Can you now?” Yelena replies, with a smile. “And bite?”
“I can,” Sospa tells her, with a shrug, “but it doesn’t do much.”
“Yet,” Yelena adds, eyebrow raised. “One day, it will.”
Sospa grins in response.
The wolf matriarch and the miniature serpent sit opposite one another at the wooden dining table in the main hall, tucking into an array of cereal, bread, cheese and dried fruit offerings. The Southern Alpha of Alphas, affectionately known as Big Wolf since I inflicted the nickname upon him, sits nearest the roaring fire with an extra blanket draped over his skeletal body for good measure. He still struggles with his health after the mould poisoning, courtesy of his murderous younger son, but Mama Bear reckons he's no longer in danger of imminent passing, which is a relief to us all. He drops his spoon into an empty bowl with a relieved sigh, only for Mama to fill it up again, splatting another helping of what looks like porridge.
“Eat,” she commands, sprinkling chopped fruit onto the paste. “You need to build your strength and get some weight on.”
He peers at his mate for back up, but Audira returns a pointed stare, waving at him to get on with it. The Alpha Alpha Heir, known as Primus when his granny isn’t around to insist on convoluted titles, laughs at his father’s gastric distress.
“Do as you’re told, Father,” he says. “We can’t have skinny Alphas.”
“I’m still strong enough to bite your tail,” Big Wolf replies.
“Less talking, more eating,” Mama insists.
“Good morning,” Audira chirps, catching sight of me lurking behind the limping wolf brothers. “Congratulations again on your mating.”
“Thank you,” Curt replies, grabbing a bowl and piling up the food until it sways precariously and slides, like scree down a mountain.
“I don’t think the serpents are coming to kill us this morning,” I tell him, straddling the chair next to him. “You don’t have to shovel it all in at once.”
“Fun having a mate, isn’t it?” Big Wolf laughs.
“Eat,” Audira orders, doing a credible imitation of Mama Bear.
“Have you done your exercises?” asks the matron herself, glaring at our Alpha as his backside lowers into his seat.
“Can I sit before you start on me?” he replies, leaning his crutch against the table. She gives him the squint eye. “Yes, I have done my exercises. My knee duly hurts, thank you.”
She pushes his head forwards and presses around the healed scalp wound.
“Ow.”
“Seems better,” is her verdict.
“It was until you poked it.”
“Don’t scowl at me. I’m trying to help you, moaning wolf.”
“I know, Mama,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze. “Please don’t give me any more Mould Throttler. I’ll cry.”
“Now you know what it’s like to limp,” Curt mumbles, his mouth leaking breakfast.
The front door opens, admitting Serpen and Anguis and an icy blast of snowflakes.
“You’re up early,” I observe, watching the snakes disrobe layers of fur.
“We needed a walk, after last night’s indulgence,” Anguis replies. His eyes meet mine. “Congratulations, once again.”
“Thanks,” Curt grunts, before I can answer.
Serpen slides into the chair next to Sospa. “I wondered where you’d got to. I expected to see you outside, throwing snowballs at the wolves.”
“I’m telling Nana Yelena about snakes,” she splutters, chomping on a huge chunk of cheese.
“I think Nana Yelena knows all about us,” Serpen remarks.
Yellfire gives him a sideways glance. “Not everything.”
A door opens on the corridor above and Adamo emerges, having straightened out his messy red hair. Dulcis hooks her arm in his as they promenade along the balcony and head downstairs. Adamo takes one glance at her father’s thunderous expression and drops her arm. She hikes it back up, gripping his limb in a vice and staring down her annoying parent. Alpha isn’t even close to accepting his precious daughter’s pregnancy and the ginger prince is in constant danger of being whacked over the head with his crutch.
“Morning, Auntie Edi,” Dulcis announces, ignoring her father’s muted growling. “Uncle Curt.”
“How are you feeling?” Mama enquires, before I can draw breath to answer.
“A little queasy,” Dulcis admits, “but better than before, thank you. Daddy, eat your food and stopping glaring at my mate-to-be.”
Alpha makes a grumpy noise and rips into a slice of bread as though it’s his enemy’s throat.
Mama hands Dulcis a cup. “Juice. Sit and eat.”
“Just the sozzled choir to come, then,” I observe, spreading butter on a thick, warm slab of doughy bread.
As though summoned by my words, two damp, shuffling wrecks arrive from the back rooms, most likely having dunked their sore heads in the large bath near the roasting kitchen. I’ve never seen the fastidious eagle look this dishevelled and I nearly choke on my bread.
“What do you look like?” Adamo laughs, despite being elbowed in the ribs by Dulcis.
“At least they’re not in their woolly pyjamas,” I add, with a fetching snort.
“Please don’t shout,” Ursid grumbles. “My fur aches.”
“I won’t give you a round of ‘my little snowflake’ then,” Curt says. “Even if you deserve it.”
“Please don’t,” croaks Wings, easing himself into a chair as though every bone will shatter on impact.
Ursid peers at the table, heaving with food, and turns a putrid shade of grey.
“I can guess neither of you fancy anything fried,” Mama Bear remarks.
“There’s fried food?” asks Curt, dropping his spoon into his bowl with a splash.
“Coming up soon,” Mama replies.
“You eat that lot first,” I tell him and he thrusts out his lower lip at me.
“As for you two,” Mama continues, pointing at the ailing duo. “You need to eat something to settle your stomach.” She spoons some porridge and sets the bowls before them. They both stare at it as though presented with Mould Throttler. “Get on with it.”
“Can we have this meeting, so I can go back to bed?” Wings asks, dipping the tip of a spoon in the offending paste.
“Sospa go up to your room, please,” Serpen tells her. “You can take your cheese with you. I’ll come get you later.”
“Awwww,” moans the pocket snake. “I want to hear about the serpents and how we’re going to smash them.”
“You’re not smashing anybody,” her uncle insists. “And don’t be practising mesmerising anyone, either.”
Sospa sheepishly glances at Wings, but he’s too busy forcing porridge down his creaky throat to bring up the unfortunate roller skates incident.
“I need to know how to fight, Uncle. I’m your niece and a snake princess. I should be leading them.”
Yelena can’t help but grin, appreciating the feisty scrap’s nerve.
“Not yet,” Serpen replies, “and certainly not now, since I don’t happen to be dead. So off you go, or I’ll carry you up there and lock you in.”
“I’m not a child,” the child snaps, stomping upstairs in an attempt to stick her feet straight through the wood.
“Thank you,” Serpen calls.
He gets a titanic door slam in response.
“Reminds me of you,” Alpha tells his daughter, whilst stretching out his leg.
“I like her,” says Yelena, staring at Serpen. “Don’t ever squash her spirit. Especially not in front of others.”
“I’ve no intention of squashing anything,” Serpen replies, his sapphire gaze holding hers. “But she’s not listening to what we say here, nor getting herself hurt trying to live up to my stupid empire. It’s dead, even if I’m not.”
“Your empire may be,” Yelena shoots back, “but another one’s coming straight for us. Which begs the question, are we sure you’re trustworthy? If it comes to it, would you betray us all to save your snakes? Your grandfather and your father certainly would have.”
“I’m neither of them,” Serpen hisses, quietly.
“Not this again,” I mutter, poking Anguis in the arm. “You’re up, Ambassador. Convince her.”
“Thank you, Furtletooth,” he replies, before unleashing a smile that lights up the room.
Over his full spoon, Curt’s eyes dart from the beaming snake to me and back. I raise one finger and tip the spoon into his mouth, telling him to “Eat your breakfast.”
Serpen places a hand on his former ambassador’s shoulder. “I think the convincing falls to me this time.” Anguis delivers a swift nod and Serpen’s gaze takes in those sat at the table. “There’s very little I can say to convince you of our loyalty or honesty,” he begins. The room stays quiet, the odd munch and slurp excepting. “The history of the empire is violent, manipulative and built on lies. Even when the mould was destroying us, it took your kindness to save what remained of my people. Given my behaviour, you would have been within your rights to abandon or kill me, yet you’ve made me welcome here.” His gaze finds Yelena. “At least, until recently.”
“You gave me every reason not to trust...” says Yelena.
Serpen cuts her off. “I know. But we have returned. We’re grateful for everything, but now it’s your turn to need us. My snakes stand with you in alliance. You may not trust me, with good reason, but all I can give is my word. I will not abandon or betray you.”
The silence following that heartfelt statement feels strained and a little sad.
“We’re also rather lovely to look at and eternally graceful,” says Anguis, in the voice of an angel. He turns those emerald eyes on Yelena, batting ice blond lashes the length of my arm. “We make a beautiful addition to the alliance.”
Hmmm, he’s ladling on the charm. I’m not jealous. I’m not. Oh, shut up.
“Trust me,” the gorgeous snake continues, hissing in the mock undertones of a hypnotist. “You don’t want me to leave. Look into my eyes. I want to stay with you. You want me to stay.”
“Your charm doesn’t work on me,” Yelena tells him.
That smile seems to indicate otherwise. The old wolf once had a soft spot for snakes, if I remember rightly.
“I’ve seen it before,” she continues. “Too many times. But I grant it’s entertaining, green eyes.”
Anguis bats those eyelashes again and, give me strength, she beams at him. I drop my spoon in an empty bowl with a ringing clang.
“Sorry. Spoon slipped.”
“I’d appreciate a promise from you,” says Yelena, ignoring my interruption and switching her gaze from Anguis to his king.
“If I can,” agrees Serpen.
“Don’t bite me again,” she tells him and giggles like a girl.
Big Wolf stares at his mother as though she’s an alien imposter from the Planet Fod. (There’s an idea for the notebook.)
“I give you my word,” says Serpen. “I will never fang another wolf.”
Alpha busts out laughing. “Well, I trust you. No idea why, but I do. And after what I’ve been through recently, I’m still happy to trust my poor wretched gut.”
“You sure that’s not the Mould Throttler gurgling?” I say. No-one thinks my joke is very funny, so I go back to grabbing more breakfast.
“My wolves trust your snakes,” Alpha continues, “and I couldn’t be happier that your bears are back, Ursid. Well, except for the crush.” He glances at Adamo and scowls. “And...”
“The fleas,” Curt finishes, knowing full well that’s not what his brother was about to say.
“We love the bears,” simpers Dulcis, gazing lovingly at her ginger prince.
“And we bears love you right back,” Adamo replies.
There goes Ursid’s eyelid and I think Alpha’s going to be sick. Ursid beats him to it by gagging on his porridge. “Sorry,” he adds, with a burp.
“Keep eating,” Mama Bear insists and the bear with a sore head growls at her, quietly.
“What about eagles?” mutters Wings, poking at his porridge as though it’ll crawl out of the bowl and smother him.
“What about them?” asks Alpha.
“You all love snakes. Wolves love bears. Bears love wolves,” Wings grumbles. “Everybody loves everyone. What about eagles?”
“We all love one eagle, at least,” Curt offers up, slapping Wings on the back, which does the old bird’s throbbing headache no good at all.
“And that eagle has a friend in me,” groans Ursid, holding out his hand. “Every inch of me aches, but it was fun while it lasted.”
“That it was,” agrees Wings, grasping his ursine friend’s fingers.
“I don’t love any of you,” states Yelena, before demolishing half of what looks like a four layered sandwich in one bite.
“Nice to hear, Granny,” Primus replies. “Thanks.”
“Except maybe you,” she capitulates, pointing the mutilated sandwich at him.
“Great. So now we’ve finished being fabulously trustworthy and loving everyone, how are we going to face these serpents?” I ask, seeing as that’s the whole point of this vaguely disturbing lovefest. “We don’t have to love each other, but we do need to form one defensive unit with a strategy. Any ideas?”
I sit back in my chair to admire the echoing sound of silence and tumbleweed rolling through the hall.
“Well, we better come up with something before spring,” says Curt, stating the bleeding obvious.
“What will they do, if they come?” Dulcis asks. “Do we know for sure?”
“Mesmerise you,” Serpen replies. “Possibly eat you.”
Lovely. I suppose I should offer a suggestion. “Look, if it’s the book they want, I should tell them I burnt it. They might go away.”
“More likely they’d kill you,” Adamo offers. Alpha glares at him.
“Doubt it,” says Wings. “Gulid thinks she’s part of their legend.”
“That could mean torturing her, sacrificing her to their gods, cutting off her head and then eating her,” is Adamo’s overimaginatively graphic offering. He catches the look on my face. “Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”
“At last,” mutters Alpha.
“I still think we should give them Edi and go south,” offers Yelena.
“Yes, thank you for your empathy, Mother,” says Big Wolf. “You and Prince Adamo been making friends?”
I spear her with my meanest scowl. “You really want rid of me, don’t you?”
“And you said I was the one without a sense of humour,” she replies, with a laugh. “I’m joking. Perhaps.”
“There’s nothing funny about being eaten by a snake,” I point out. “As you well know.”
Thankfully, the arrival of fried food puts paid to any more deliberations about serpents’ carnivorous habits. A delighted Curt has just piled a heap of rashers onto his plate when a wave of cheering sweeps across the town, accompanied by clapping and banging on chalet walls. Perhaps there’s some good news, for once.
Curiosity ushers them all over to the windows, blocking my view, so I open the front door. Curt, his mouth full of greasy rasher, peers over my shoulder at a familiar face, wings flapping as he lands in the middle of a circle of townsfolk.
“Told you he’d be back,” says Curt, spluttering half chewed rasher in my ear.
