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  His father had ordered him to leave, but his mother would care for him, he was sure. And if not his own mother, if she fell sway to the same repulsion as his father, then one of the other females father kept, one of the childless ones would certainly show pity on this freak.

  Pity. That was all he was worth—someone’s pity.

  Dolnaraq rolled over in the hay weeping. It was not supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be stronger, more able. He was supposed to be admired not pitied. Maybe he should die. Maybe he should refuse all food, take no essence whether human or animal, and allow himself to waste away. It would be painful, yes, but not so long lasting. He was already weakened, in need of essence. The process of becoming a molt had drained his system. In many ways he was already depleted. Surly, it would be a simple thing to die. Then his father would truly weep. He would realize what his rejection had done and he would fall to his knees in anguish. Perhaps he’d even take his own life. This thought heartened Dolnaraq. He only wished he could be alive to witness it. Maybe he could hold his breath, pretend to be dead, make his father realize how wrong he’d been, then Dolnaraq could “awaken.” His father would be so thankful Dolnaraq was alive that he would hug him and care for him.

  Or maybe he would curse him. Maybe he would rather that Dolnaraq did perish. Then he wouldn’t have the embarrassment of a freakish pup.

  Nothing made sense. Nothing was right.

  But then came the raid. And everything changed.

  * * * *

  The pack from the north attacked on the night of the smallest moon. The minimal light granted them cover as they swept in from three different points of attack. Reyaqc packs attack one another for various reasons—food stores, supplies, better positioning relative to humans and prey, sometimes to replenish their stock of females and youth, or other times simply out of pure savagery.

  The commotion began well after sundown. Shouts and footfalls as reyaqc raced back and forth about the clearing, growls and shrieks, the sounds of struggle, the gasps of the dying. Dolnaraq knew the sound of a raid. There had been many in his short lifetime. This was part of the reyaqc life. He also knew that even a pup such as he was expected to defend the pack. If he was old enough to hunt, he was old enough to fight.

  Dolnaraq closed his eyes. It would be an easy thing to simply lay here and allow one of the raiders to come by and kill him. There would be no prolonged starvation, no pleas from his mother to reconsider. What of the others? What of his mother? Already he could see the females gathering armfuls of food and supplies and carrying them further back into the depths of the cave. The females were doing their part. Dolnaraq should do his. Perhaps he would die in battle. Then his father would be forced to be proud. Yes. Die in battle. Die a hero. Maybe even a freak could be a hero.

  It was not an easy task to rise from his bed as his muscles curled into tight balls of pain. But Dolnaraq used the cave wall for support and gradually attained an upright position. The first steps were particularly painful, but with each his muscles seemed to loosen. He hobbled some, his left leg remaining numb and twitchy, but he found he could move about in a slow uneven gait.

  The scene beyond the cave was a mass of confusion. The northern pack had seemingly swept in from all sides, catching Dolnaraq’s clan off guard. Already, bodies littered the cold snowy ground, many slashed open with entrails leaving streaks of red upon the pristine white. To his left a young female was thrown harshly against an ancient oak. Her head made a sharp cracking sound with each of three successive strikes. When she finally fell limp, the northern reyaqc bent to clutch her right ankle and then dragged her into the darkness. Directly ahead, two northern reyaqc—both molts—descended upon Mynig, the pack chieftain. These reyaqc had the sharp claws of mountain cats. Mynig did not cry out, nor attempt to flee. Rather, he bit and clawed until finally succumbing in a heap on the bloodied snow.

  Most of the northern reyaqc were molts. But not molts such as Dolnaraq had become. These were fierce creatures, many with full long canines and razor-sharp claws. How had they done this? Why had they become amazing while Dolnaraq had become foolish?

  He knew the answer to this.

  In these more savage packs, those who did not achieve some level of strength or usefulness were simply slain and then consumed by the pack. In this way, at least, they contributed something to the well-being of the many. If Dolnaraq were found by these, he would be murdered. He’d be devoured. Dolnaraq now realized he didn’t want to die, that whatever he had become, he still had reason to go on. But could he? Could he go on? The pack was under siege and Dolnaraq was still weak and uncoordinated from his ordeal.

  Two reyaqc fell before Dolnaraq, scraping and clawing, causing the young pup to scurry to his right. All about him were scenes of carnage—limbs severed, throats bitten and ripped. Dolnaraq’s pack was not large, only comprising some forty members. Dolnaraq knew each corpse by name. He had spent hours with each dying soul. An older reyaqc, Narmon, called out from where he lay on the icy ground. There was a gash in his side, and he was trying to force his innards back to within his body. “Dolnaraq!” he cried in a raspy croak. “Help me to put myself back together! Help me put these in!”

  Dolnaraq stood horrified. What was he to do? Narmon was obviously beyond repair. How could he possibly expect young Dolnaraq to fix him?

  “Dolnaraq, please!” croaked Narmon one last time. But Dolnaraq fled with a quick hobble. Still, he seemed unable to outdistance the carnage. Everywhere, he saw those he’d known for the entirety of his existence falling to this superior force. There was nothing he could do, no direction he could turn.

  “Amazing.”

  The voice came from behind Dolnaraq. He spun around. Tresset stood before two males who were breathing their final breaths.

  “Amazing,” repeated Tresset, a broad grin on his pale round face, a look of shear awe in his milky eyes. “Can you see the strategy, Dolnaraq? Can you see how they swept in from the east, forcing our pack to retreat west? Then waves two and three, from the west and north, encircled us, cornered us against the caves. We were pathetic, with no plan, no countermeasures. But, these! These were magnificent. Our entire pack will have fallen within thirty minutes. It’s amazing.”

  The youth was enthralled, hypnotized by the battle. But he was also correct in his assessment. Dolnaraq could see that now. His own pack was doomed. Even now, they were down to less than half the number of the invaders. The only hope was retreat. It was not brave to die for dying’s sake, for this would only bring a greater victory to one’s opponent. No. It was time to flee. Dolnaraq didn’t know if this was logic speaking, or shear cowardice. But he knew it was right, that it was necessary.

  “Tresset,” he called. “Tresset, come. We must flee. Our pack has fallen. Come. Now.”

  “Do you see the discipline?” asked his friend. “Do you see it? Even those few who have fallen do so with grace, with superiority.”

  “Tresset, please. We need to go.”

  It was then that a large bear-like reyaqc fell upon Tresset. The youth went down with a panicked yelp, but no serious injury had yet been inflicted. Dolnaraq had no time to think, which was well, because had he had that opportunity he surely wouldn’t have leapt upon the brute, sinking his one long canine into the thing’s neck, clamping it there, pressing it deeper, deeper. Dolnaraq felt the things talons as it dug into his side. He released his hold, but the brute of a molt did no such thing. Now Dolnaraq was on the ground. Those claws raking at him. His own blood splayed across his foe’s gnarled face.

  Another joined the fray. At first Dolnaraq thought it might be Tresset, but the other youth was still on the ground, having scooted to the side after Dolnaraq had fallen upon the molt. Whoever it was, he’d somehow pressed himself between Dolnaraq and the other, and was now grappling with the larger reyaqc. Despite the molt’s injury to the neck, it was still a lopsided battle, and the outcome predetermined. The molt would be the victor.

  Dolnaraq moved to renew his attack
but the other shouted at him. “Dolnaraq! No! Flee into the forest! Flee!”

  It was his father’s voice. And it was soon forever silenced.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1897 – 1909

  The two young reyaqc had fled their native pack the night of the raid. Dolnaraq had witnessed his father’s murder. He stood horrified, nearly paralyzed with fear and fury. Tresset tugged at his younger companion, forced him to leave his dying father behind. Both youth had sustained minor injuries, and the pack they had known for the entirety of their short lives was no more. The surviving females would be carried off to the northern pack for sport and breeding. The adult males would all be slain and eaten, as would any youth old enough to hold revenge in his heart. Tresset had no desire to be consumed that eve.

  The Siberian night was cold and harsh, with bitter winds that sliced through the flesh, and a deepening snow that made movement cumbersome and wearying. They spent the first night beneath the roots of a large tree that had been partially uprooted in some time past. The tree base, angled like a shed as the massive trunk leaned against adjacent trees and offered some small protection from the elements. The hole, left where it had stood, hid them from scouts searching for escapees such as themselves. It was a miserable night with Dolnaraq weeping for his dead father and for his mother, who by now had likely been dragged across the cold hard ground by some lusty molt. Dolnaraq was as bitter as the Siberian freeze.

  Tresset had surely lost family as well. No, he had not physically witnessed his father’s death, but surely the event had occurred. The forces of the northern pack had been too fierce, too well organized for any to have survived. And as for his mother—one of his father’s numerous mates—well, she would have done to her what all females had done to them. As such, she would certainly soon bear Tresset a new brother or sister—only this pup, he would never know. Such was the way of the world. There was, he must admit, some small pang for the female. She had defended Tresset against his older brother—a pup born of another female—and had eventually driven the older one off when he’d become too cruel to the slight and fragile Tresset. She’d tended to her pup’s every need, and given freely of herself.

  These thoughts of family lost did not occupy his mind, nor did he ponder his own dilemma—that he and Dolnaraq were now on their own, responsible for their own survival in this harsh, bitter land. No, what drove Tresset’s psyche were the scenes of battle. The strategy. The quick, decisive attack. The flanking molts. The way the northern pack had descended as if from nowhere, forcing his people into indefensible positions. There was a genius in the assault, a subtlety even within the fierce, grotesque brutality of it all. Tresset wished he could talk with their chieftain, sit beside him, learn of his strategy, and absorb his skill and ingenuity. This meeting was never to be. Tresset would eventually learn strategy, but the path was one he could not have yet imagined on that harsh, miserable night.

  * * * *

  Tresset led as the two reyaqc pups took to moving about the wooded lands of the Siberian wilderness, avoiding other reyaqc packs for fear they’d be seen as spies and executed on sight. Though the younger Dolnaraq often complained of proximity to the troublesome humans, Tresset made sure they always stayed within a two day’s walk of human settlements as there was the ongoing need for essence. It was his duty, after all, to look after his younger, more timid companion.

  Dolnaraq continued to draw from foxes as well as human beings, and with each infusion, became less the freak and more the molt he had dreamed of becoming. Tresset became a molt as well, choosing the fierce mountain cats as his sustaining species. On occasion they came upon one of the wandering gypsy tribes that dotted the region in the early nineteen hundreds. Some of these clans were most receptive, having lodged reyaqc gypsies before, while other groups cursed them as werewolves or vampires, chasing them off with torches and shotguns. Neither of the pups cared much for these foul-smelling humans, but living briefly with a traveling clan offered a respite from the continuous grind to survive. It also gave Tresset a chance to question humans and learn of wars and strategies previously unknown.

  In this manner they moved about Eastern Europe, from Siberia to Belarus, through Poland, and eventually into Germany, traveling about the northern parameter near the Baltic Sea, nearing cities and towns such as Rostock, Lubeck, and Kiel. This time was a transitional one for the humans, a time of growing industrialization and of political unrest, but the two young reyaqc cared little of this. They were not of the people. They were of themselves alone. None else mattered.

  One night, as they hunted the streets of a tiny German village, the two decided to split one from the other. This was not uncommon. Nearly naked, and resembling beasts as much as they did men, they were prone to draw attention. At least separately they were less obvious, able to blend into the surroundings, to flee with no concern for the other. As well, should one be captured or injured, the other would still be free to initiate rescue. This had been Tresset’s strategy. Even now that they had each seen over twenty winters, Tresset was still the strategist between them.

  He moved through narrow alleyways, keeping low and to the shadows. Tresset was slight of frame and stature, yet lithe and agile, quick of movement to both strike and flee. There were two men ahead at an intersection. It was autumn of 1908, and both wore light overcoats and flannel caps to ward off the light drizzle and the seeping chill. They appeared to be in dispute. Tresset understood very little of the language, but their voices rose, each attempting to out-shout the other. They spat as they spoke and waved their arms in grand gestures of proclamation all the while reeking of the drink that inhibited their capacities. Tresset smelled the adrenaline surge and the alcohol seeping from their pores as each man struggled simply to remain upright. There were other smells as well—sewage and sex, meats and perfumes, horses and swine. All of the detestable odors of humanity. How foul they were, these “civilized” people.

  Stuttering something about “Abigail’s honor,” the larger drunk took an off-balanced swing at his companion. The other sidestepped the clumsy blow, but tumbled to his rump nonetheless. The big one, apparently believing he’d knocked the man to the ground, proudly crossed his arms at his chest, smiled stupidly down upon the other, and spewed useless verbiage. The smaller man, still seated on the damp cobblestone, kicked his right foot from one side to the other, tripping his gloating companion and sending him tumbling down. They rolled about, wrestling and punching and cursing. Tresset spat at the humiliating display. Would he be forced to procure essence from these pathetic creatures? Was that his lot?

  He supposed so. As dismal as these two might be, they were hidden away from the crowds, and in their current conditions, quite easy prey. As well, it had been nearly three weeks since Tresset had last received essence and he could feel the withering from within his limbs. His skin had become pale, nearly transparent, his features dull. Attack now, infuse the needed essence, then later, select another and then another, each with strong intellect and solid stature. Survive now. Thrive tomorrow.

  Now, one of the drunks was on his knees, vomiting onto the deep red bricks, his belly retching, and his throat gagging as he expelled the foul contents of his stomach in violent, splattering surges. Tresset moved as quickly as a mountain cat, slashing this one across the neck with his short but lethal talons, mercifully eliminating his misery. Then, kicking him aside, he clutched the other in his hands, jerking him to an upright position, and glaring into the clouded and confused eyes. His face was puffy and unshaven, lined with the deepening crevasses of approaching age. His eyes were bloodshot, with lids hooded and droopy. His lips were large uneven flaps barely concealing rotted teeth. The human stared down at his companion as death throes caused the lifeless form to shudder and squirm in the rank pool of vomit and blood. The human winced as the bed of tiny hollow spines emerged from Tresset’s right palm, penetrating the back of his neck even into the core of his spine.

  The electric tingle of essence raced through Tre
sset’s form, burning as it dispersed about his body. His vision blurred, becoming dark and red. His mind screamed a thousand different insanities as his muscles curled and cramped. The drunk shuddered and then vomited. Tresset pulled free of him, turning to stumble up the alleyway even as the now-unconscious man fell face-forward onto the unforgiving cobblestone, his two front teeth shattering upon impact.

  The agonized molt fought for clarity of mind. This was the most dangerous time, just after the infusion, while he was disoriented and nearly incapacitated by his body’s sporadic acceptance and rejection of the new essence. Tresset lurched as he made his way around a corner, righted himself and then staggered forward. A gas streetlamp flickered, sending flittering shadows across the moist stone surface. Tresset fought nausea, vertigo. He steadied himself with a flattened palm against a tiny brick home. His stomach buckled. He slumped to his knees, retched a dry heave. Then, clutching an iron fence, Tresset pulled himself upright. He could not allow himself to succumb this close to the still-warm bodies. Until he’d recovered, distance was his greatest defense.

  Sounds tickled his ears: laughter, giggling, a carriage drawing nearer. He heard the snort of a horse, and his glossy eyes perceived a lumbering form making its way up the uneven avenue. The recessed doorway of a small home was to his right. Tresset nearly fell into the tiny space, obscuring himself from the passersby. He considered rising again, but his body offered only sporadic quivers at his best efforts. His head lulled to one side, connecting with the hard stone wall beside him with a subtle thunk. It was only now, slumped and weakened, that he realized the drizzle had become a downpour. Tresset closed his eyes. Just a few moments. Just enough time to gather his bearings. Then he’d reunite with Dolnaraq and they could be away from this foul-smelling place.