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Wolfheart
You would think I’d be asleep before my head met the borrowed cushion, but here I am, hours after the bears left us alone, still staring at the tent roof, leather sucking in and out with the force of wind, swirling outside. I seem to be alone in the clutches of insomnia, although Curt has been tossing and turning all night, drowning in muffled groans.
The chorus of snuffles, snorts and heavy breathing tells me the rest of the pack are getting their hard earned rest, only waking to take their turn at standing guard, stepping over their Alpha on the way out. He’s lying beside the tent opening, directly in line with an icy draft and must be freezing but, apparently, it’s where he feels the Alpha should sleep. Thankfully, someone threw two extra blankets over him during the night and he’s now snuggled down, leaving only his eyes and forehead visible.
Mind you, I’m staggered anyone can sleep given the appalling noise coming from Dulcis. It’s less snoring and more concrete demolition. A particularly loud trumpet, followed by a sudden intake of breath, makes me sit bolt upright with concern, wondering whether she’s suffocating.
Curt’s eyes open and he peers up at me. “She’s fine. She takes after her mother. She was silent as a wolf and snored like an avalanche as a woman.” He struggles to flip over, so he can talk to me properly. “I used to wonder if she was part bear.”
I lay back and turn my head towards him. It feels good to almost be laying side by side. Hmmm. That’s ominous. Get a grip, Edi.
“Do you still miss her?”
Fabulous. That’s hardly the question to ask if I’m getting a grip... but I really want to know.
He settles on his side, resting his sore hip on a strategically placed cushion. “I was too angry to miss her,” he admits. “I was angry with everyone, especially myself.”
“And now?”
“I’m just tired.”
From the sigh accompanying that word, I get the idea it’s more than physical fatigue. A stray strand of grey hair flops into my eyes and I rake my fingers through my unruly mop.
“Have you ever thought about going home? Returning to the pack, I mean.”
His gaze leaves mine as he ponders. When he finds my eyes again, I could swear that gaze has turned watery.
“Nothing has really changed,” he whispers, massaging his thigh. “This is why I couldn’t be Alpha. I can’t lead the pack.”
“I get that. But why can’t you stay with them?” I ask. “Is it so hard to watch your brother lead?”
He snorts and turns onto his back. “Hardly. I felt bad about leaving him to it.”
“Well then, why can’t you go back and help him? And to hell with how it’s always been done.”
“Honestly?” he says, glancing at me.
I roll onto my side, my head coming to rest inches from his. “Of course.”
“I like living in my lodge,” he admits, “and I don’t want back in the village.”
He pauses and I sense there’s a... “But?”
“But... maybe I’ve been too... isolated.”
He looks away from me, staring up at that tent pole. There’s nothing up there; believe me, I know.
“You’re allowed to say you’ve been lonely,” I tell him. “I know I have. There’s a difference between peace and quiet, and deathly silence.”
His forehead crinkles and he opens his mouth, only to close it again.
“You can ask whatever it is you want to ask,” I tell him.
“Do you want to go home?”
I have to think about that one. Do I? It would be easier, more comfortable, less dangerous. Do I want to go home? I understand the world I grew up in, but does that make it my home? I’ve never felt like I fit in there but, then again, do I fit here?
“Edi?”
He’s so close that his speaking of my name feels warm against my lips.
“I don’t really know where home is,” I admit. “Not yet.”
He smiles and mischief lights up those eyes, smoothing the savage wrinkles of time. “This isn’t your story then?”
A warm flush reaches my cheeks and heats behind my eyes. “My what?”
“The book? It told you to tell a story, right?”
“Right. And?”
“This isn’t the story you wanted? Not your big dream in life?”
I force a nonchalant laugh. “Not exactly, no.” A flash of disappointment in his eyes makes me wish I’d said something else. “The book was supposed to be gifted to a girl I know, back in my world. Krystal. That’s her name. She didn’t want it, but I can’t see this being her dream, anyway. Maybe I screwed up the magic and stopped you getting your Chosen One. The description sure sounds like her, down to the sparkly talons.”
“You don’t like her much, do you?”
That’s a nope. I can feel the frown welded onto my face like a mask.
“The feeling was mutual,” I reply. “She had no respect for me at all. All she wanted from me was tea.”
“Tea?”
“It’s a hot drink. My people swallow gallons of the stuff.”
“I’ve made you hot drinks,” he offers. “Don’t you like me?”
“Not the same thing.”
His eyebrow rises at me.
“It’s not,” I insist.
“And she gave you the book.”
“She dumped something she didn’t like on me, in the guise of a present. It wasn’t out of the goodness of her heart. If she has one.”
Curt beams at me.
“You can laugh,” I mutter, “but she wouldn’t have had much time for you either.”
“I’m not surprised,” he replies. “My Alpha status got left up the mountain.”
“Here you are again, though.”
He cringes at a wave of pain from his hip. “Here I am again. And about as much use.”
It’s my turn to smile, even if it’s a grim humour. “I know what you mean.”
“Edi, maybe this is your story, and it’s not over yet.”
Interesting thought. I wonder where I might be in my story? Towards the end of the middle, perhaps?
“I could say the same to you.”
That lock of hair drops into my eyes again, making me blink. Curt reaches out a finger and gently tucks the unruly lock behind my ear. Alright, it’s a massive cliché, but I don’t care; it feels good. His eyes seem huge in the dim light, curled eyelashes reminding me of the wolf within.
Is he leaning towards me? I daren’t move in case he’s only adjusting his face. Those lips might be a tiny bit chapped, but they look pretty juicy from this angle, even for an older geezer. I wonder what he thinks of me with my grey hair and no make up. Shut up analysing, Edi, and kiss him. I can’t remember the last tongue in my mouth not attached to me.
He looks uncertain so I give him an encouraging smile. I’m so nervous it probably comes across as a gargoyle grimace. Here he comes, sliding right up beside me. My eyes flutter closed in readiness. Wait for it...
Nothing.
My eyes open, just a slit, to see what’s keeping him and I get a widescreen close-up of a smirk. If he’s taking the piss, I’m going to knee him in the jewels. I’ve never been accused of having much of a poker face, so my thoughts must be obvious.
“Come here,” he whispers.
“Like where?” I snarl, right in his face, suspicion sprouting from a glare. “You couldn’t get a credit card between us.”
“No idea what a credit card is, but I mean here,” he replies, thrusting an arm under my shoulders and yanking me close. “And I don’t have mange.”
When he flips onto his back, my head bounces on his chest and my hip comes to rest... somewhere else.
“Nice pecs,” I mutter.
“Thank you,” he replies. “What’s pecs?”
I tap my palm against the offending muscles and he immediately inflates them. I want to snuggle, but I’m still craving that aborted kiss, so I lift my head. I’m about to throw caution to the wind and press my lips to his, when a hand clamps onto my backside and massages a big wad of bum cheek. I’d like to say my ageing feminist takes umbrage, but actually it’s more like shame and I freeze.
I never get to say, ‘Take your hand off,’ since my face beats me to it. The bum grip eases, although he leaves his hand in place.
“What have I done?” he asks, slightly tightening his grip around my shoulders and running his thumb up and down my arm.
I drop my head back on his chest to avoid those searching eyes and mutter into his pecs. “I’m not keen on my backside.”
“I am.” His fingers linger on a gentle caress before moving to my chin, tipping my face towards his gaze. “Feels lovely to me.” That hand heads back down south, circling from my waist to my thigh.
If you’re wondering whether I’ve turned to jelly yet, the answer’s yes, even given the dry desert effect of the menopause. Warm lips press against my eyelids which duly close with a satisfied quiver.
“You don’t get it, do you?” I feel him whisper against my lips. “How glorious you are.”
My heartrate revs up to overload territory and I can’t stop myself puckering in readiness. The softest touch of his lips on mine feels...
“We’re under attack!”
My eyelids ping open. “Of course we are.”
I must have said that out loud because a grin flashes across Curt’s face, just before it backs away from mine.
“Eagles!” hollers the bloke who just crashed into the tent and stomped straight on his Alpha’s dangly bits. I don’t know who’s yodelling the loudest out of the two of them. I barely have a moment to gather my wits and rearrange my underwear when the screaming starts.
Curt may have found his feet with impressive speed, but he’s now paying the price in pain, if his swearing is anything to go by. I’m hauling my coat back on when the side of the tent disintegrates as the pack scrambles out into the snow, straight into the middle of bedlam. I flip over and crawl on my hands and knees until I can grab a tent pole and haul myself up, joints creaking in unison with the listing tent. All that plodding through snow and bumping in carts is really starting to tell on this old body. I’m the last one out, avoiding the collapsing leather shell by inches, its material shredded into strips by monstrous claws.
I clamp my hands over my ears, blocking out the screeching of swooping, diving eagles, their wings spread across the night sky.
“Edi!”
Dulcis!
I swing round towards her cry, my view suddenly blocked by a huge hooked claw, coming straight for me. Flinging myself to one side gains me a mouth full of dirt, the wind whistling as the flexing claw whips past my leg, gouging a trench beside me. I scramble to my knees, getting a glimpse of my assailant as he swoops up into the night. That beak looks chipped to me. I knew that Broken Beak was shifty. I can’t spot Wings amongst the feathered hunters, but that’s not to say he didn’t draw them to us.
Bugger, here comes another one. I leg it towards the nearest shelter, which happens to be a certain shattered wooden cart, still lying smashed against the dented tree. I scramble underneath, taking another layer of skin off my knees, the runners preventing those claws from getting at me, for now. That eagle takes off again, leaving me be. There are far too many easier targets amongst the people, most of whom have already changed into bears or wolves, snapping and snarling as the eagles divebomb.
Those eagles have a massive aerial superiority, yet they don’t seem to be actually taking advantage of it. Nobody fleeing amidst the screaming chaos has been badly wounded or carried off in those massive claws. Swoop after swoop, claws shredding the tents frightens and enrages their victims, but does little else. It hasn’t occurred to them to drop missiles from the sky? What are they up to?
Peering through the cart’s runners, I spot Alpha tearing a chunk out of a passing wing, surrounded by a posse of wolves, whose gnashing teeth keep probing claws away from their leader.
General Ursid just gave a grounded eagle an eye-jangling uppercut that had it flying off in a wobbly line.
Just when I think our allied pack is winning this sudden skirmish, an all too familiar, diddly little bear cub pounds his way across the snow, Mama in horrified pursuit. She roars as an eagle dives straight at them, rising up on her hind legs and swiping at the wings with savage paws. She’s too far away from the terrified cub, who freezes at the sight of eagle eyes zeroing in on him. Her claws frantically catch the edge of the wing tip as it flashes past.
A flurry of fur and flying teeth whip in front of the exposed cub, clamping down on the bird’s claw. Dulcis shakes her wolf head from side to side, worrying at the bird’s leg. He squawks in agony and thrusts his razor sharp beak at her face, puncturing her nose. She lets go and howls in pain, paws swiping at her bleeding snout.
I’m out from under the cart and running before I realise what I’m doing, hearing myself hollering, “Dulcis!” whilst brandishing a broken wooden slat.
Those bird claws flex, about to spear her body, when Broken Beak swoops down and smacks his compatriot in the face with his wing, as though giving him a hefty backhander. The eagle squawks, comes to his senses and backs away, limping on that mauled leg.
Mama Bear thunders in at full hulking speed, leaping onto her cub and nearly flattening him in her haste to shield his furry body. The slapped eagle takes flight like a jump jet, circles around and dives at Dulcis. I sprint towards her, yelling, but it’s too late. Those massive claws clamp around her wolf’s body and sweep her into the air.
A ginger bear launches himself up in an impossible leap, paws straining to reach the eagle’s wing. Outstretched claws hook a single brown feather which flutters to the snow beside the distraught Adamo, whose bear roars at the retreating bird. Hanging from those claws, Dulcis snaps at the bird’s feet and squirms, but the eagle has too strong a grip. The last sound I hear before she flies overhead and disappears into the night sky is her whining in pain. A droplet of blood plummets through the darkness and splashes onto the snow beside my right foot.
I’m standing, staring up like an idiot, neck cracking under the strain, when Broken Beak comes in to land like a 747, missing my head by inches, aiming straight for the exposed Adamo. The loss of my girl truly brings out the menopausal rage and there’s nothing more lethal than a pissed off middle-aged woman.
I was rounders champion when I was ten and can still swing like a pro. That bloody bird gets the full force of the wooden slat smack in the beak. If that beak wasn’t broken before, it is now, not to mention it’s well and truly lodged in that plank. He wobbles, cartoon birdies tweeting around his head, desperately scraping at his face, trying to prise off the plank. General Ursid thunders up to Adamo, sliding the last few feet and crunching into his side with such force that ginger limbs tremble. He bellows at his charge until Adamo’s eyes cross.
A heart-rending, plaintive howl echoes across the ruined camp; Alpha recognising the loss of his baby. My heart’s too busy harmonising with his grief to notice Broken Beak finally extricating himself from the plank and coming for me. Curt growls a warning, racing towards me, jaws wide open, jowls flapping. He lunges, aiming at what’s directly behind me.
He’s too late.
Broken Beak wraps his claws around my body from neck to toe and I feel the prison bars tighten, crushing my ribs as I rise into the air. I would scream from the agony, but all the breath squeezes from my lungs and I suck ice cold air through clenched teeth.
Curt makes a valiant attempt to save me, launching himself up off that wounded hip and clamping his teeth onto a dipping wing. Broken Beak continues to rise, Curt dangling beneath, drawn upwards by the sheer strength of the other wing. The eagle shrieks in anger above me, scraping his wing on the treetops to dislodge his unwelcome guest. A wadge of feathers rip from their moorings and Curt plummets, crashing through the trees, tearing off branches before landing with a thump on that wounded hip. His reverberating howl of agony makes me cry, despite my own pain.
Hope fades as Broken Beak soars upwards into the frozen night and the camp shrinks beneath my dangling feet. Curt spits out a mouthful of feathers and peers forlornly up at me. I stare down at his mournful face, fixing him in my memory as the night swallows me whole.
