The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

Mort, after some agonizing reflection, saw absolutely no reason why he should be the husband of record here, and neither did she. It was agreed that Reuben would drive down to San Francisco on Friday and marry Celeste in a simple legal ceremony at City Hall. No blood test or waiting period was required by California law, thank heaven, and a small “prenup” was being drafted by Simon Oliver that would guarantee a simple no-fault divorce settlement as soon as the child was born. Grace was taking care of the money involved.

Celeste and Mort had already moved into the guest bedroom at the Russian Hill house. They’d live with Grace and Phil until the baby came into the world and went to live with its father. But Mort didn’t want to be around for the wedding.

Yes, Grace admitted, Celeste was angry, angry at the whole world. Prepare for some ranting. She was angry she was pregnant, and somehow Reuben had become an archvillain, but “We have to think of the baby.” Reuben agreed.

A little dazed and angry himself, Reuben called Laura. She was fine with the marriage. Reuben’s son would be his legal offspring. Why not?

“Would you consider going with me?” asked Reuben.

“Of course, I’ll go with you,” she said.

10

HE WAS AWAKENED in the middle of the night by the howling—the same lone Morphenkind voice he’d heard the night before.

It was about two a.m. He didn’t know how long it had been going on, only that it had finally penetrated his thin chaotic dreams and nudged him towards consciousness. He sat up in the darkened bedroom and listened.

It went on for a long time, but gradually became fainter as if the Morphenkind was moving slowly and steadily away from Nideck Point. It had a tragic, plaintive quality as before. It was positively baleful. And then he couldn’t hear it anymore.

An hour later when he couldn’t get back to sleep, Reuben put on his robe and took a walk through the corridors of the second floor. He felt uneasy. He knew what he was doing. He was looking for Marchent. He found it an agony to wait for her to find him.

In fact, waiting for her was like waiting for the wolf transformation in those early days after he’d first changed, and it filled him with dread. But it soothed his nerves to make a circuit of the upstairs hallways. They were illuminated only by the occasional sconce, little better than night-lights, but he could see the beautiful polish on the boards.

The smell of floor wax was almost sweet.

He liked the spaciousness, the firm wood that barely creaked under his slippers, and the glimpse of the open rooms where he could just make out the pale squares of the undraped windows revealing the faint sheen of a wet gray nighttime sky.

He moved along the back hallway, and then turned into one of the smaller rooms, never occupied by anyone since he’d come, and tried to see out of the window into the forest behind the house.

He listened for that howling again, but he didn’t hear it. He could make out a very dim light in the second floor of the service building to his left. He thought that was Heddy’s room, but he wasn’t sure.

But he could see precious little else of the dark forest itself.

A chill came over him, a pringling on the surface of his skin. He stiffened, keenly aware of the wolf hair bristling inside him, nudging him, but he didn’t know why it had come.

Then very slowly, as he felt the prickling all over his face and scalp, he heard noises out there in the darkness, the dull crash of branches, and the sounds of grunts and snarls. He narrowed his eyes, feeling the wolf blood pulse in his arteries, feeling his fingers elongating, and he could just barely make out two figures beyond the end of the shed, in the clearing before the trees closed in, two wolfish figures who seemed to be pushing and shoving at each other, fending one another off, then gesticulating like human beings. Morphenkinder certainly, but which Morphenkinder?

Before this moment, he was certain he knew all the others by sight when they were in wolf coat. But now he was not certain at all who these two were. He was witnessing a violent quarrel, that much was clear. Suddenly the taller of the two threw the shorter Morphenkind against the doors of the shed. A dull reverberation went up from the wood as if it were the surface of a drum.

A high angry riff of syllables broke from the shorter figure, and then the taller figure, turning his back on the other, threw up his arms and let loose with a long, mournful, yet carefully modulated howl.

The shorter figure flew at the taller one; but the tall Morphenkind shoved him off and again appeared to lift his head as he howled.

The scene paralyzed Reuben. The transformation was coming over him fiercely now, and he fought desperately to stop it.

A sound interrupted him, the heavy tread of feet just behind him, and he started violently, turning to see the familiar figure of Sergei against the pale light of the hall.

“Leave them alone, little wolf,” he said in his deep gravelly voice. “Let them fight it out.”

Reuben shuddered all over. One violent chill after another passed through him as he fought the transformation and won. His skin felt naked and cold, and he was trembling.

Sergei had come up beside him and was looking down into the yard.

“They will fight it out and it will be over,” he said. “And I know there is no way with those two but to leave them alone.”

“It’s Margon and Felix, isn’t it?”

Sergei looked at Reuben with undisguised surprise.

“I can’t tell,” Reuben confessed.

“Yes, it’s Margon and Felix,” said Sergei. “And it doesn’t matter. The Forest Gentry would eventually come whether Felix called them or not.”

“The Forest Gentry?” asked Reuben. “But who are the Forest Gentry?”

“Never mind, little wolf,” he said. “Come away and let them alone. The Forest Gentry always come at Midwinter. When we dance on Christmas Eve, the Forest Gentry will surround us. They will play their pipes and drums for us. They can do no harm.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Reuben. He glanced back down at the clearing beyond the shed.

Felix stood alone now facing the forest, and raising his head he gave another of those plaintive howls.

Sergei was leaving. “But wait, please tell me,” Reuben insisted. “Why are they fighting over this?”

“Is it so disturbing to you that they fight?” said Sergei. “Get accustomed to it, Reuben. They do it. They have always done it. It was Margon who brought the human family of Felix into our world. Nothing will ever divide Margon and Felix.”