The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

“Marrok!” cried Felix. And stepping up to the cauldron, he dipped his horn and drank. “Marrok,” said Sergei, “old friend, beloved friend.” And one by one all were doing the same. Finally Reuben had to do it, had to lift the horn and call out of the name of the Morphenkind he’d killed. “Marrok, forgive me!” he cried out. And he heard Laura’s voice echoing the same words: “Marrok, forgive me.”

Sergei gave a roar again and this time Thibault and Frank roared with him and so did Margon. “Marrok, we dance for you tonight,” cried Sergei. “You’ve gone into the darkness or the light, we know not which. We salute you.”

“And now, with joy,” cried Felix, “we salute the young amongst us: Stuart, Laura, Reuben. This is your night, my young friends, your first Modranicht amongst us!”

He was answered this time with terrific howls from the entire company.

The robes were being thrown aside. Felix had stripped, and throwing up his arms was becoming the Man Wolf. And opposite Reuben, Laura suddenly rose up naked and white, her br**sts beautifully visible through the rising steam from the cauldron. Sergei and Thibault stood naked, the wolf hair rising on them as they flanked her.

Reuben let out a terrified gasp. Waves of desire rose in him with the waves of drunken giddiness.

His robes lay at his feet and the cold air stole over him, awakening him and emboldening him.

They were all changing. Howls rose from all now irresistibly. The music rose in a deafening clamor. The icy pringling covered Reuben’s face and head first, then raced over his trunk and limbs, his muscles aching for one split second as they expanded into their glorious new strength and flexibility.

But it was Laura that he was seeing, as if there were no one else in the marvelous expanding universe but Laura, as if Laura’s transformation was his transformation.

A dreadful horror gripped Reuben, a fear as terrible as the fear he’d known the very first time when, as a boy, he’d seen a photograph of the mature female sex organ, that wondrous and terrible secret mouth, so moist, so raw, so veiled in tangled hair—awful as the face of Medusa, magnetizing him and threatening to turn him to stone. But he couldn’t look away from Laura.

He was seeing the dark gray hair spring out on the top of her head, as the hair sprang from his own, hair pouring down to her shoulders as the mane poured down to his. He saw the sleek shining fur sheathe her cheeks and her upper lip, her mouth becoming that black and silken band of flesh that was the same as his mouth, the gleaming white fangs descending, the thick bestial coat closing over her shoulders, swallowing her br**sts and her ni**les.

Petrified now, he saw Laura’s eyes smoldering from the massive face of the beast, and saw her rise to greater height, her powerful wolf arms lifted, her claws reaching for the sky above them.

Fear and desire pumped through him, maddening him infinitely more than the scent of the boar, or the pounding music, or the deafening fiddles and pipes of the Forest Gentry.

But the group opposite was in movement. Laura was shifting places with Thibault, and then with Hockan and then with Sergei and then with another and another until she stood beside Reuben.

He reached out with his claws and caught the wolf mask of her face in his paws, staring right into her eyes, staring, determined to penetrate the full mystery of the monstrous face he saw before him, hideously beautiful to him with its gray hair and gleaming teeth.

Suddenly she closed her powerful arms around him, stunning him with her strength, and he returned the embrace, his mouth opening over her mouth, his tongue plunging between her teeth. They were sealed together, the two in the glorious concealment and nakedness of the wolf coat, and the others were all crying their names: “Laura, Reuben, Laura, Reuben.”

The music was softening, boiling into an obvious dance, and in the dancing glare of the fire, Reuben saw the Forest Gentry closing in, Elthram and the others, with long garlands of ivy and flowering vine with which they decked Reuben and Laura, winding the ivy and vine around their shoulders. From out of the air it seemed flower petals were falling down on them. Petals of white and yellow and pink—rose petals, dogwood petals, the broken fragile petals of wildflowers. And all around, the Forest Gentry pushed in singing, and covering them with light, airy scentless kisses, kisses that had only the scent of the flowers.

“Laura,” he whispered in her ear, “Laura, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh!” He heard her deep bestial voice answering him, her words softened and sweet. “My beloved Reuben, wither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.”

“And I with thee,” he answered. And the words sprang out of his memory and to his tongue. “And thy people shall be my people.”

Horns of wine were thrust at them, and they took the horns and drank, and exchanged horns and drank again, the wine flowing out of their mouths, down their heavy coats. How little did it matter. Someone had poured a horn of wine over Reuben’s head and he now saw Laura anointed in the same manner.

He crushed his face against hers and felt the hot pressure of her br**sts against his chest, the heat pounding through the fur.

“And the hairy ones shall dance!” cried Margon. “ ’Round the cauldron.”

The drums took up the dancing beat, and the pipes fell into a dancing rhythm.

At once they were swaying, rocking, leaping, and rushing to the right, all of them, the circle picking up speed.

The drums described the rhythmic shape of a dance and they were indeed dancing, arms out, knees bent, figures springing up into the air, twisting, turning. Sergei caught Reuben and swung him around, and then moved on to Laura. Again and again, others came together then broke apart, the drive to the right around the cauldron continuing.

“ ’Round the fire!” roared the giant Sergei, whose rich bass voice in wolf form was unmistakable, and he leapt out of the circle and the others streamed after him, Reuben and Laura together pounding after them as fast as they could.

The great full circle of the enclosure was theirs as they raced full speed one behind the other.

The thumping speed of those passing Reuben prodded him on as much as the drums, Laura keeping pace right beside him, in his watchful eye, her flanks now and then crashing against his as they plunged forward together.

He knew the roars that cut the air, he knew the howls of Frank, Thibault, Margon, Felix, Sergei. He heard the strange high savage cries of the other female Morphenkinder. And then he heard Laura’s voice, beside him, full throated, higher, sweeter than his, and exquisitely savage as she roared past him.