The Call (The Great North Woods Pack Book 2) Read online

  The Call

  The Great North Woods Pack #2

  © 2013 by Shawn Underhill

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Ravven @ Ravven.com

  Author’s Note

  This book is a sequel. It will make no sense if you have not already read book 1, Silver-White.

  “There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive.

  This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad in a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.”

  ~ Jack London

  The Call of the Wild

  ~1~

  A slinking shadow hung close to the forest floor. Moving effortlessly with the contours of the ground—dropping into the dips, skulking over the rises, winding between obstacles with almost serpent-like stealth—the shadow glided with soft-footed precision in the dark.

  To an onlooker this gliding shadow would only have been betrayed as something living by the glow of its eyes. Cunning and sly, a master predator in every way, the shadow was of a black wolf, and that black wolf was Erica—the newest and least experienced wolf of the North Pack. Moving with such apparent ease through the dark, no onlooker would have guessed that the she was navigating on the outer fringes of her control.

  Her new body was a vessel of wonder to her; her speed and stamina almost frightening in its potential. But on she ran, moving with cautious haste, learning her new form on the fly.

  Her senses—her night vision, her precise hearing and abundant sense of smell—flooded her conscience in a mad rush. Details hung in suspense before her mind’s eye. From the faintest of smells to the overall awareness of every tree, every stump, every clump of brush and every rock she maneuvered by, to every star in the sky peeking down through the trees, she was aware of the entire world around her all at once. It was information overload.

  From directly ahead came a single scent standing out among the rest. It pulled at her nose and turned her head like the pull of invisible reins. Before she could see this scent’s source she understood that it was death. And when she did see the cat several yards to the side—mangled and bleeding out—she stepped wide as it took its final breaths, abhorring the presence of death even more than the hated thing that lay succumbing to it.

  Focusing ahead once more, she resumed her hurried pace. She had longed for this moment—rushing through dark under the stars, finally a member of the pack, finally spending energy on something of significance. But the wolf Erica now knew wasn’t all fun and games; it was a fickle beast to control; it thrived on clarity yet pained itself greatly with the steady flow of sensory perceptions that made perfect clarity often impossible to her level of experience. And always present, mingling with the influx of animalistic senses, she heard the constant voice of her human conscience, softer and deeper down, blurring the new with its old input, its own sway—primarily fear.

  For nearly two years she’d been trained and prepared for the great change. Only now, with the dark woods rushing by her, did she understand clearly the necessity for such strict preparations. Even so, she understood also that preparation and education—even the best—had nothing on experience. “Experience is the most brutal of teachers.”

  Being the wolf, dwelling within it and being at the reins of its power and intensity felt more invigorating than she’d ever imagined. But stabilizing it, taming and controlling it, was no carefree endeavor. It was a beast; something living and breathing, possessing a will of its own, a savage tenacity bent on self-preservation, and a blurred, semi-conscious wisdom passed down through the centuries—instinct—burning in her veins.

  One fact she understood with precise human clarity above the flood of animalistic perceptions: only in time, only by living with the wolf would she truly be able to comprehend it, let alone fully control it. But time and patience were concepts the wild animal gave little regard to. So she ran on, a creature divided, moving south toward danger in spite of her misgivings, struggling to ignore a nagging accusation repeating in her head.

  Far behind she’d left her cousin—her best friend—after a foolish fight. She’d regretted the fight as it unfolded—not just the fact that it happened but the ease with which the rage poured out of her. And now, running alone with a mile or more between them, she regretted it with increasing sentiment. No matter how fast she ran and how much ground she covered, she could not shake the sense of guilt.

  Maybe it’s just you, flashed through her mind. All along it’s been you. This body is only a vessel, these outbursts mere expressions of what’s always been present. YOU.

  With a shake of her head Erica snarled, as if to threaten the thought and drive it away. She blazed forward until the awareness of the hunters she’d been tailing held her full attention once more. Only minutes had passed while she’d waged this internal battle, but as quickly as her body moved, the passage of time felt stilted somehow.

  They were close now, their movements just becoming visible to her night eyes through the trees. If she had been following only her nose she may have lost them in the confusion of mingling scents, but to her advantage she’d had also their sounds to follow. If she’d followed her nagging human conscience and her teachings, she would not have followed them at all—she would probably be babysitting the children in her grandparents’ great room.

  For Evie ignorance was a more viable excuse. But not for her. This knowledge gnawed at her along with the guilt.

  Now the sounds of the hunters swelled suddenly into an uproar. They were no longer chasing sounds, they were killing sounds. Loud and chaotic, in Erica’s mind they mingled and blurred strangely with recognizable voices and distinct words—an odd blending of humanity and savagery.

  Stopping near the wide trunk of an oak tree, she watched the scene unfold. Two of the fleeing cats had tired of their desperate retreat. Standing close together, they turned and faced their relentless pursuers, choosing to make their final stand before being run ragged by the superior stamina of the wolves. The four wolves had then slowed their own pace, closing round them in a stalking manner.

  Just as the young wolf had drawn near, the four hunters had begun their methodic dissection of the cats’ defenses. First one struck, then another. With quick darts they moved in and away, snapping their jaws and dragging their fangs in quick slashes. The circle tightened. The cats were pressed closer, closer, swiping madly but unable to defend all sides. The circle closed tighter still, always closing, until it was no longer a circle. It was a pile of heaving bodies, tearing and thrashing in the throes of death.

  Erica cringed as their warm blood spilled, steaming in the cool night. Watching in fascinated horror, she felt repulsed by the sights and unnerved by their sounds. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not look away. The magnetic sway of the wild animal compelle
d her forward. The urge to join in the ancient ritual of vengeance burned in her veins, while the softer, rueful human buried deeper down held her reluctantly in place. Ugly, savage, disturbing as it was, it was a strikingly accurate depiction of the struggle for existence.

  Life left the cats quickly once the frenzy began. Erica marveled at the fear they had struck in her just a short time before. How quickly that fear gave way to aggression, then to nothing at all. So easily they seemed to die. Already their living scents began to change to that of a sour and desolate emptiness. They were nothing now.

  Abel, largest and fiercest of the living Snows, suddenly whirled his great frame about and stepped toward her. His dark face and shoulders were wet with blood, his eyes burned in his head as coals, and his rumbling voice had lost none of the deep rage since she’d first heard him speak. “I called fighters, not spectators!” he complained. “Move north while you can. I am no sitter for the timid and young.”

  “I can fight,” Erica growled, her whole being bristling under the sting of his accusation.

  Abel stalked slowly closer, sides heaving, his deep breaths steaming. “Can you?” he grumbled low.

  Raising herself up slowly to her full height, shaking with fear but too proud to stand down after her bold statement, Erica stood before him. “I can,” she insisted.

  Without as much as a sound of warning Abel struck her, knocking her back so that she rolled and landed yards back in a heap. Through the confusion of tumbling and the sudden ache from his massive body check to her shoulder, she managed once more to find her footing with animal-quick reflexes. She stood shaking, head low and turned to one side, her forelegs outstretched, cowering under the old warrior’s bloodstained fangs.

  “You have a fighter’s spirit,” Abel said with a panting laugh. “That much I admire. If I tore you to ribbons, you would not stand down.”

  “No,” Erica snarled, baring her own teeth. The hairs of her back and scruff stood stiff like a wire brush. Feeling as defiant as she felt confused and frightened, she growled louder still. “No!”

  “Young one, you were a wolf long before you turned,” he rumbled, then slowly lowered his lips over his teeth. Though he remained standing over her in a stance of superiority, he was no longer threatening her. Facing north, he seemed to lose all interest in her. With his head raised to full height, his nose began working sharply. His ears were pricked straight.

  Erica had just begun to relax when the crack of a distant gunshot sounded in the night, the echo rolling slowly towards them. A barrage of flashing images associated with that sound flooded her mind, and she felt instantly sick. Then, an even worse feeling set in. “Evie,” she whined with a high note of remorse in her muzzle. “She’s back there!”

  Abel moved closer, nearly pinning her to a tree. “Silence.”

  “But she was back there! Where it came from! We—”

  A second shot rang out. Every wolf stood absolutely still with stiff ears while the ebbing thunder rolled past them like an invisible wave.

  “The young Snow?” Abel said, still staring north.

  “Yes. My cousin. We have to go back. She …”

  Abel lowered his head, shifting his focus from the north to the young wolf before him. “Have we?”

  “She’s alone. We have—”

  “We do not and we will not,” was his cold rebuttal. “You are of the softest, most foolish generation I’ve yet to encounter. Have you not learned that we cannot contend with the bullet?”

  Erica could form no precise words in response to this callousness. Grief, worry, and guilt for leaving Evie alone descended on her like a falling sky. She whined and groaned and shook all over, but she could say nothing clear in her dismay.

  “Stop your fussing!” Abel ordered with a snap of his jaws.

  Erica quieted herself as best she could, but still she trembled.

  “She will have help,” the old Snow said after a pause—not in a comforting manner but as a plain matter of fact.

  Looking up at him quizzically, Erica felt a little jump of hope in her deep chest, but she dared say nothing to provoke his anger. Behind him, the other wolves resumed their grizzly work.

  “You came south against wisdom and sense,” Abel finally answered to her questioning gaze. “You cannot go north now, alone, with cats and hunters. And for us there are still more to hunt. Follow close. Keep quiet and from my way … and farther from theirs. They will claw your tender insides from your still-breathing hide, given the chance. Did you not witness the young she-wolf?”

  “I did,” Erica admitted quietly.

  Abel grunted deeply and then whirled around. “Follow and learn,” he said. “And do not fall behind. I am wary and short of temper, and haven’t the time or patience for caretaking. That is my brother’s game, not mine. Come!”

  Erica rose and slunk after him, listening from a few yards back as he deliberated with the hunters. Though fierce in their own rights, the other male wolves spoke as cautious servants to the old Snow. Time was an issue, they insisted. To track and fight what few remained or to commence with the disposal of the dead was the dilemma. Also the weather was changing, to which Abel instantly agreed. Rain would slow tracking and leave bodies still to be dealt with. Philip’s Brook was nearer than any river—a narrow but deep stream with a strong current and multiple sections of falls. For quick disposal, it was the best of options.

  “As you say,” Abel finally ruled. Under the churning foam, deep down in the dark, craggy pools between the jagged-walled granite slabs would be the resting spot of the slain.

  Erica crept up near the dark giant when the discussion broke up and the others moved off bearing their burdens. “What help has she?” she asked from his side.

  “She is dear to you,” he said in the nearest to a kind tone Erica had yet heard, though his focus remained fixed to the north.

  “She is.”

  “You feel liable for her?”

  “I do.”

  “Yet you are here rather than at her side, on this, a most dangerous and deplorable night for our kind.”

  Lowering her head, Erica said nothing. A barely perceptible whine escaped her nose.

  “My brother will find her,” Abel said.

  Automatically Erica’s head lifted again, her gaze fixed hopefully on the elder.

  “The young Snow has filled his thoughts for days and nights,” he explained. “I know him well; better than any. His spirits are high, his heart full.”

  “But he’s not here. What if she’s hurt? Those shots—”

  “He will find her all the easier then,” Abel cut her off. “Her blood is his blood, much as is yours. Dead or alive, he will soon find it. She will not be left to another’s hands, I promise you.”

  Questions raced through Erica’s mind. Thoughts ranging from despair to revenge flashed quickly by. “How do you know?” she finally asked.

  The elder wolf gave no reply. His attention was fixed, and silently Erica turned her head once more to the north, mimicking his posture, looking like a smaller version of the old brute. In time something tickled her nose, and her ears began to focus on a certain sound among all the small surrounding sounds of night.

  “Stand back,” Abel growled, lowering his massive head and raising his bloody lips from his fangs. His sides quivered as he began growling lowly.

  For a change Erica did exactly as she was told, precisely when she was told to. Standing on the stained ground several yards behind her great uncle, she heard the increasing sounds of dry brush breaking and heavy footfalls coming carelessly closer by the second. It was no skilled hunter; it was something in desperate flight. The unmistakable scent of living blood filled her head, and she knew for sure, even with novice senses, that it was something dying. Then from the dark her night eyes caught a hint of large eyes approaching—golden eyes glowing like two dull bulbs, flashing from behind trees, getting closer, closer, until they were almost upon them, seemingly unaware of the dark peril crouched waiting to
unleash his awful greeting.

  In a surge of fury Abel pounced, hurling his massive bulk in the direction of those golden eyes. Startled hisses and shrieks instantly cut the night. Briefly they fought before the eyes darkened behind the great wolf’s immense shadow. Then the screeches faded out, and within seconds of his arrival, one more cat lay lifeless.

  Turning his head slowly, the victor looked back on the young wolf with the blood of his latest victim running from his mouth. “You came with the fighters,” he seethed. “Come now and assume your role.”

  In a cringing, tucked-tail stance, she whispered, “What?”

  “Now!” he roared.

  Slowly, her feet heavy with reluctance, Erica moved forward.

  ~2~

  The shot from the 30.06 was like the roar of a tank’s cannon in Evie’s delicate ears. Standing squarely opposed to her enemy, consumed with only thoughts for defending against, or fleeing from him, it shocked her like electric fear—as a sudden clap of thunder apart from the warnings of clouds or rain. First there was the deafening boom that nearly made all four feet leave the ground at once. Then, following the boom there was a ringing ache in her ears, a muffling of all other sounds, and a slow-ebbing wave of smaller crackling sounds moving away through the trees in the dark. The shockwave of the blast rippled through her along with the movement of the sound, like a gust of wind had unexpectedly struck her and pervaded her entire body with its cold.

  Her body responded automatically without thought. The instant the shot sounded—though it felt as if she’d jumped—her legs buckled beneath her, her ears went back flat to her head, and her eyes were drawn to the dark place, high overhead, where the fire had briefly flashed from. Her heart was pounding as if she were running full speed, yet her perception of the world around her seemed to slow to a snail’s pace.

  It was no storm, no thunder clap; it was a gunshot. She understood this with a shiver, and within a second of that realization she became simultaneously aware of two more subsequent facts. No fresh pain stung any part of her; though shocked, for the moment she was unharmed. And the waning rumble of the thunderous shot was now drowning under a different sound—the closer sounds of screeching agony.