8. YOUNG VOLCANOES

 

The rout of wolves closes in around us.

“Call them off,” I order as we’re surrounded by the Wilds.

“Oh, darling,” Esrin responds. “They’re not ours to call off.”

Even with the armed guards, we’re outnumbered. More to the point, Amara and I are outnumbered. Whatever the arrangement between the Founders and the Wilds, we don’t factor in. I crouch and prepare to shift. A young and lean wolf with sand-colored fur and eyes the shade of a brewing storm comes at us. A flash of fur leaps up at him from where Amara is standing, but tiny. It doesn’t take long to register that it’s the young whelp who was ‘rescued’ from the tunnels beneath Manhattan. The attack is a surprise to every one of us and causes the circle of Wilds to pause as the pup leaps and nips harmlessly. It would only take one terrible bite — a horrible clamping down of teeth — to put an end to it. Whatever I do to intervene will be too late. The larger wolf transforms, laughing as he holds the furious pup out at arm’s length. A strange sound rises from around us that can only be described as the snickering of wolves. Some of the Wilds shift and their laughter becomes more natural and human.

“You near ’bout got bested by the ‘Flounders’ new lil’ soldier, Ben!” a girl says, unable to control her amused giggles.

She stands next to a laughing young man, both about my age.

“If you wanna win the Coinneachadh it’ll take more practice than that,” the guy adds between chortles.

They speak with something akin to a New England accent. All menace is gone from the situation and I breathe a sigh of relief. Several of the Wilds shift back into wolves and stalk away, the excitement over. ‘The Wilds’ is an apt name for them. Not just because of their surroundings. Their hair is long and unkempt, skin covered in nicks and dirt, but they have no other visible markings like tattoos. It’s as though they haven’t a care in the world about their appearance. They’re ... wild.

“Aw, go on!” the one named Ben calls back at them. His long, sandy blond hair flops around face as he holds out his still snarling attacker. “Who’s this ankle biter belong to?”

When nobody answers he gently tosses the pup toward us and the little one runs to hide behind Amara while barking defiantly from the safety of her shadow. Amara frowns, gently trying to push the whelp away with her shoe. The two jokers begin to lose interest and amble away.

“You oughta put some drawers on, Ben, afore you offend her ladyship,” the guy remarks as a parting shot, noisily turning up leaves as he walks away.

“You don’t hear me balking,” the girl says, tossing Ben a lascivious look over her shoulder.

“Yeah but nobody ever accused you of being a lady,” Ben throws back with a wink. His eyes are heterochromatic, like Mila Kunis’s, only one is dark gray and the other pale blue.

The other joker chuckles and she shoves him hard enough that he stumbles. “Shut your gob, or I’ll give you a good larrup!”

Laughing, the guy shifts and playfully bounds away. The girl does the same and chases after him. Esrin pulls up the collar of her jacket, ignoring the exchange as if they were speaking a different language. There’s an air of distinction about the Founders, Esrin in particular, as though for whatever reason they feel a responsibility to appear more civilized than the Wilds. Or maybe it’s just the awkwardness of never having mingled with their kind for very long. Either way, it’s suffocating even in the great outdoors. With a single gesture, Marrock strides off in the same direction and Esrin follows. Her escort moves with her, like moons to the gravitational pull of a planet. They all head deeper into the forest. Ben juts his chin toward us as I approach, as though noticing Amara and me for the first time.

“Who on God’s green are you?”

“They’re guests from the Old World,” Marrock’s voice answers from beyond the trees.

Ben sucks in a breath. “Is that right?”

I try to introduce myself and Amara, but Ben has no interest in the formalities of handshakes and making acquaintances.

“I guess it don’t matter who you are,” he says, staring at my extended hand. “You here for the Coinneachadh?”

“Not to compete,” I assure him. “Just to observe.”

He stands motionless as he contemplates the meaning of my comment. Not knowing what else to do, I follow the Founders. Amara walks with me with the whelp trailing at her heels. I glance around, hoping the parents are somewhere nearby. The ranger is working by the parked motorcade with some of Marrock’s officers to carry the full-grown, unconscious wolves from the back of the truck. Better that way, I suppose, for one so young not to be aware of what’s going on. At least the little one doesn’t have to make the choice to stay or die in a fight to leave. He’ll be indoctrinated into the Founders’ way of thinking soon enough. Suddenly Ben snaps out of his trance and quickly matches my stride.

“He needs a name,” he says, gesturing at the little one.

“I think that’s the job for his parents.”

He cranes his neck to assess the situation with the wolves that are being transported. “They’re not exactly fit.”

I look around at the woods that are home to this pack, free from humankind, free from technology. Under different circumstances this whole setup would have given Arden some sense of validation, an indication that it can be done — living free of human interruption but not really free. The rangers who maintain these private game sanctuaries that make up the seven territories must work for the Founders too, like prison guards. It’s just an illusion of freedom. Another way of keeping the Wilds in check. Up ahead two wolves suddenly charge through the woods in an explosion of leaves and mud. Both are covered in wet earth and bring with them an entourage of spectators. If I’m to guess, it’s practice for the upcoming competition. This Coinneachadh is all about displays of physical prowess. Hopefully nothing as severe as battles to the death, but I wouldn’t put it past them at this point. These two appear to be in some sort of a mix between a race and a fight, and they’ve turned in our direction. One of the wolves leaps on the other a few feet from us. This sets the whelp off into a frenzy of barking again. Amara picks him up before he can run into the mix and get trampled. Gnashing teeth still come dangerously close.

“Hey!” I snarl, ready to shift.

Ben places a reassuring hand on my arm, slips into his other form and leaps directly into the fray. Within seconds he manages to get the more dominant wolf of the two in a stranglehold. His teeth grip the loose skin around the jowls, making it impossibly uncomfortable for the bigger wolf to move. The smaller contestant backs away while the spectators watch expectantly. In human terms, this would be considered a low move, but the animal kingdom plays by different rules. Despite the ferocious noises coming from his competitor Ben refuses to budge, holding him in place. I wonder what the limitations are to their rules. Does drawing blood cross a line? Is it like wrestling and this is akin to being pinned to the mat? After what must be a full minute, the once dominant wolf slowly relents. The snarling stops and he lowers into a submissive position. For good measure, Ben puts a paw on his throat before pulling away. The defeated wolf slowly rises, eyes averted, and scampers away. The rest of the group breaks into a play fight and disappears into the woods as quickly as it came. Ben tips his muzzle up at us, but there’s nothing cocky about the gesture, before he bounds off with the other Wilds. The gap between us and the Founders has widened significantly. They didn’t bother to stop when the pack of Wilds appeared. I barely see them far ahead where the tree line begins to open up, and I pick up my pace to catch up with them again. The trees thin until widening out completely into an open field that’s bustling with activity. A massive big top tent is in the process of being set up in the middle of the space, but instead of bright red and white stripes it’s painted in camouflage to blend in with the scenery.

“I didn’t imagine this was going to be a circus,” I say to the Founders.

“It’s precisely like the Circus Maximus, darling,” Esrin remarks.

I don’t get the reference and stare at her, confused. Motioning for me to follow, Marrock leaves the others to show me around. Crews have erected a number of poles, and are hammering huge tent stakes into the ground while another crew laces dozens of separate canvas sections together into one complete three-arc tent. All the workers are dressed in dark navy jumpsuits. I don’t imagine they spend much of their time in human form out here in the forest, but opposable thumbs certainly come in handy for this kind of work. The simple uniforms they wear are probably for the cold or maybe for the sake of the Founders.

“The Circus Maximus was the biggest stadium in ancient Rome,” Marrock explains. “Chariot races, gladiators, animal-baiting, that sort of thing. It was their version of reality TV. The rulers used the games to distract and control the masses. I’m surprised Rodolfus never mentioned it to you.”

I didn’t know Roul for very long, but I don’t say that.

“Sometimes the past is better left that way,” he muses, pausing to size up the rigging overhead. “Anyway, this isn’t a Barnum & Bailey kind of circus. You won’t see any clown cars or dancing bears. You will see blood spilled.”

In a way it’s no different than the room at La Pleine Lune, only on a much bigger scale. I still can’t imagine how this is going to work. As vast as this forest is, it just doesn’t seem big enough for so many werewolves.

“And the packs all just ... get along?”

“The Big Top can seat four thousand well enough. Let’s just say we leave ample space between the packs.” He turns to leave as the canvas is hoisted up. “C’mon, we got a cabin set up where you can stay the night.”

“That is unnecessary,” Amara says. “Outdoor sleeping arrangements are preferable.”

Marrock stops and faces her in order to make his point clear. “Esrin would consider it a great insult if you didn’t accept this particular hospitality. The Wilds are a lot rougher around the edges than you’re probably used to.”

I’m not about to argue. We’re better off staying indoors while the Wilds are worked up into a mass state of aggression. Also, I don’t want to unplug and go completely off the grid. I pull out my phone. Still no more messages. Everything’s fine is the only text I’ve received from Madison since leaving Europe. I’m starting to wonder if in trying to pull her out of harm’s way I somehow managed to mess things up and throw her directly into its path.