Blacktail

Prologue Hate

Prologue

Hate

i

Guile snapped to her feet at the sound of the gunshots.

Her first thought was for her kittens, but they were safe and warm, sleeping in a pile of gray fuzz.

Pounce, the youngest, was snoring. She relaxed a little.

She poked her head out of the snow-covered deadfall where they made their den to call for her husband. “Hate?” she whispered.

Hate didn’t answer, but that might not mean anything. These days the charming young lynx of her courtship was only a memory. Hate mostly ignored her. Mostly she was glad of it. But right now the fear was still high in her—gunshots—and she wanted to take comfort in the scent of his shoulders.

She composed herself, stepped outside to look for him.

A cold pulse thrummed deep in her claws, her fangs.

The moonlight outside was bright compared to their den.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust. When she saw him, she jumped a little.

He was closer than she would have believed possible, but still, so still.

The falling snow lay thick over his back, the ruff of his neck.

He hadn’t moved in a long time. Is he hurt?

She scented the air but found no blood. He’s fine.

She sighed. He could at least have answered me. Miserable prick. “Hello, dear.”

Hate didn’t answer, only stared up the mountain. She followed his gaze but saw nothing. After a moment, hesitant, she tried again. “Hate? What is it?”

Hate made a thin rumble that might have been a purr. The sound did little to calm her. In Guile’s experience, anything that made her husband purr was bad news for someone. He did not answer her question. She did not ask again.

Hate padded around her, peeked into the den at their kittens.

When they did not stir, he poked his head in and sneaked a rough kiss on Pounce.

She had always been his favorite. It occurred to Guile that this might have been the first time he kissed one of his children—certainly the first time she had ever seen.

She pretended not to notice.

Hate padded back over to her, close enough to make her uncomfortable. It crossed her mind to dart into the underbrush, the shadows. She would feel safe there. But that would leave the kittens alone with him.

Then Hate kissed her, too, his tongue rough even through her winter undercoat.

Guile blinked. “Have you lost—” She cut herself off, paused. “Are you not feeling well?”

“Not feeling well? Not feeling well?” Fat snowflakes fluttered down in the moonlight. “Do I look ill to you? Hmm?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Guile said. “I didn’t mean—”

Hate swished his tail, the way you do when brushing away utter nonsense. “Think nothing of it! I’m well. I’m jolly!” His eyes flashed. “I’m positively grand. Thank you for asking.”

Guile swallowed hard. “A noise,” she said. “I heard a—”

“Yes. I imagine you did.”

“What was it?” Then, softly, “Was it a two-legs? A gun?”

“Yes. It was.”

She glanced at the den where their kittens slept. “How far?”

“Far enough.” Hate shook the snow from his shoulders. “We’re safe.”

“Have the men come to kill deer? Again? So soon?”

“No,” Hate said. “Not deer this time, I think.”

“What then?

“Wait for it.”

She waited, her nostrils flaring slightly as she sipped the night air. A few breaths later, the scent of blood rolled down the mountain in a warm cloud. She sniffed it once. Her brow furrowed. She sniffed again, deeper this time. “Can that—Is that wolf blood?”

Hate swished his tail. Yes.

“Do you think…?” she trailed off, the question unfinished.

Hate purred again and ran his tongue over his teeth. He was older than Guile, his teeth stained and yellow. In this light they looked black. His joy was a ghastly thing, always had been. But Guile had a thing for the naughty ones. Seeing those teeth, she felt a faint stir, deep inside.

“Do I think White-Eye is dead? Do I think that the mountain may finally be ours? Yes. I do.”

“Ah,” she said, careful to keep her voice neutral. Hate wasn’t much of a jokester, but he’d been known to brag. It could be hard to tell if he was serious or just flattering himself. “Really?”

Hate looked up the hill, twitched his tail. Really.

Guile followed his gaze, sniffed—blood—then looked back at Hate; the sharp yellow teeth of him, the ragged ear, the faint and fading scars under matted fur. Such a naughty fellow.

After a moment, Guile purred as well.

ii

Hate was not the name he was born with, but it suited him well enough.

His bad nature had been honed by a desperate life into something terrible, redeemed only lately by a rough affection for his kittens.

When he was young, his home fell before the boiling invasion of the two-legs.

First they cut down the trees. When everyone was near starved, men came back to drown the scents and secrets of his grandfathers beneath an ocean of black stone.

The snowshoe hares ran away or were buried in their burrows.

Then came gunshots.

Hate knew gunshots well—their sound, their scent, and their feel.

One of them had killed his sister when she was no more than a kitten.

Another was still lodged in his hip. Hate was a great hunter, but against gunshots he was powerless.

So he came north, limping and bloody, to live in the shadow of the wolf White-Eye.

The two-legs had taught him of helplessness and grief.

From White-Eye he learned subjugation and shame.

It was a rabbit who had first named him Hate, shortly after he came here.

The name spread quickly among the prey beasts hereabouts.

These days even Hate didn’t remember who he used to be.

Still, he had survived.

Caution ran thick in his blood. The echo of gunshots, the whiff of wolf blood—they called to him. But he did not set out immediately. Just before dawn, his patience was rewarded. A scream echoed down the valley—a wolf. Young, he thought. Barely more than a puppy.

“Was that White-Eye?” Guile asked.

“No. Her voice is deeper.”

“One of her litter, then?”

“Very likely.”

Guile’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Hate said, tail wagging again. “From the sound of the little fellow, his mother isn’t doing so well.” He lay on his side and closed his eyes. A moment later he was asleep.

Guile watched as the sun came up. Hate didn’t stir. When dawn sparkled on the snow-caked branches of their den, Pounce yawned, stretched. Guile buried her nose in Pounce’s shoulders, taking a moment to savor the scent of her. Pounce smelled like love.

After a moment, with regret, she pulled herself away. Your breakfast won’t be killing itself, as her own mother used to say. But by midmorning she had caught nothing. When she returned, it felt as if her stomach were trying to gnaw its way out.

The kittens looked at her, wide-eyed—it wasn’t hard to tell that Mommy was In A Mood—but they had the sense to stay quiet. Anyway, what was there to say?

Guile thought Hate would move against the wolves that night, but he didn’t. Instead he hunted—a rabbit, a hare, a field mouse. Their kittens ate well. Guile, too. Whatever else you might say of him, he was good at killing things.

The next night was the same. But when he returned, his paws smelled of hemlock. Hemlock grew only on the mountain, inside the boundaries of White-Eye’s land. Guile wondered what he was up to, but did not ask. On the third morning, Pounce asked for her.

“Father?”

Hate cracked an eyelid. “Yes, child?”

“Why do you not go to the mountain? White-eye is dead, is she not? I smell blood. Wolf blood, I think.”

“Do you?” A father’s pride warmed his voice. “Yes. I believe you do. Soon you’ll be a fine hunter. Everyone will fear you.”

Pounce, still only half his height, rubbed her shoulder against his legs.

Hate crouched to look her in the eye. “But—and this is important—you must learn caution as well. There is a scent of blood, yes, but does it mean death?”

Pounce looked at her mother. Guile pretended not to notice. Pounce furrowed her brow, thinking. “We don’t know if she’s dead. White-Eye, I mean.”

“Very good,” Hate said. “Tell me, though. Why does it matter?”

“If White-Eye still lives, she might have some fight in her.”

“Precisely.” Hate stood, gave Pounce a quick lick to flatten the fur between her ears, then walked over to nibble a bit at the field mouse. “Everyone had your fill?”

“Yes, Father.”

Hate took a leisurely step out, heading toward the forest, then snapped around.

He leapt at Pounce, growling playfully. Mostly playful.

Pounce did not show fear. Hate clawed at her—not as fast as he might have, but not slow, either.

She ducked the strike, then sprang onto her father’s back and swatted at his ears. They spun through the snow, laughing.

Watching this, Guile purred, a little. He’s a shit husband. But he really is a good father.

That night when Hate went to the stream, he motioned for Guile to follow him.

They walked in silence. Guile drank first, her tongue flicking in and out of the icy water while Hate stood watch.

Then he took his turn, drinking only a little.

When he was done, he turned to face her.

“I will be gone most of the night.” His tone was grave.

“Ah,” she said. “Is it time?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll stalk stories first, then…perhaps.”

“Stories?”

“The little morsels who live up there have a gift for gossip. One of them must have seen what happened the other night. By now the news of it will be all across the mountain.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. Stay here and look after the kittens.” He dipped low, rubbed her with his shoulders. “Tell me, my love: Have you ever eaten wolf?”

“No.” Guile purred. “Can’t say that I have.”

Hate slipped into the woods, heading north. He didn’t look back, but as he disappeared into the grove of spruce, he swished his tail and called back over his shoulder: “I’ve heard that puppy meat is very tender.”

iii