Devoncroix Dynasty - The Promise Part 1

THE PROMISE.

by Donna Boyd.

Prologue.

And so, human, we meet again. I have begun a tale that left you curious, uneasy in the way of one who has suddenly been given reason to question all he holds true and to recoil a little, in dread and distaste, at the answers. You look over your shoulder more now, don't you? You stare long and hard at patrician faces behind bulletproof gla.s.s in dark-colored cars, and when by chance the occupants of those cars turn their gazes to you, you look quickly away, heart pounding, knowing. You see me now, watching you from the shadows, and it thrills you and terrifies you to know I am there. I have always been there, of course, the gleam of my eyes in the darkness alert and predatory, the set of my mouth amused. And you have always known it, in that deep visceral part of you that once stalked the savannah, hunter and hunted, that burrowed into the b.l.o.o.d.y skins of its prey for warmth and shook its sticks at the face of evil. But until now the knowledge was an easy thing to ignore. Until now you never saw the eyes. Who am I, then? What power have I over you? I am the tall fellow with the striking features and the long hair who strides before the cameras to accept the Academy Award. I am the designer with the Italian flair who changes the face of fashion. I am the voice you hear on the radio whose pounding rhythms and twisting melodies have the power to control the beat of the human heart. And those, my dears, are just my hobbies. I am the face glimpsed behind a tall window backlit with the glow of computer monitors and nothing else. I am the silent bidder in the back of the room, the voice on the phone that closes the stock market for the day. I am the reason your flight was delayed two hours while my private plane was restocked, and it should not surprise you to learn I am also the owner of the airline whose name you cursed while you sat waiting on the runway. My apologies. More pressing matters called at the time. You have seen my photograph, blurred and hazy, on the front pages of newspapers around the world. I was the one in the background at the summit conference, turning away from the camera at the site of the airport bombing, bent over the computer keyboard when the Mars probe landed. I am your investment banker, your communications expert, your jeweler, your engineer. I am all this, and more. You know this, and instinctively you shrink from the knowing even as your curiosity-ah, that lovely curiosity which is the curse and the boon we both share!-draws you forward. Poor human. The worst is yet to come. We've kept our distance, you and I, all these years, and, through a mutual history that's emblazoned with blood and glory, we've come to an uneasy peace. In your memory, we are only shadows in the dark. But in ours, you are much, much more. I have come now to restore the balance.

So come with me now, human, to a place before time, where a creature moves low and silent along the edge of the forest. His eyes are narrow, slits of yellow light and his breath trails fresh steam on the cold damp night. For days he has stalked his prey, drawn by a scent, a heartbeat, a sound upon the night that struck his curiosity and raised his head from the hunt. When he began the journey his belly was full and he walked upright, climbing high trees to s.n.a.t.c.h birds from the nest and drain fresh eggs, using hands and long fingers to build shelter for himself and his mate. But then he caught the scent, and the heartbeat, and it resonated something familiar inside him, and he followed his curiosity. Now he travels on all fours with a tail for balance, and his body is covered with thick coa.r.s.e fur that protects him from the cold, and he can no longer remember the reason he began the journey in that other form. He has crossed mountains and swum rivers. He has fought off predators and outrun those he could not. Now his belly is empty and tight, his muscles scream for nourishment, and every heartbeat pounds out hunger, hunger, hunger... Hunger. It is an instinct stronger even than curiosity. The smell of smoke has led him to its source, and now he sees them, the spa.r.s.ely furred creatures with no tails, squatting on their haunches around the fire. He crouches low, blending into the forest, watching, his jowls dripping. The other predators have been driven back, deep into the shadows, by the smell of smoke and the fear of the fire. But he is not afraid. He has made fire himself, in that other form, that other life. He knows its warmth and its comfort. He is puzzled, in a part of his brain that is distant and separate from the hunger, that these creatures should know it too. He is puzzled by something else. The shape of their forelimbs, the four long digits on each and the shorter, manipulable fifth. Their longer, heavily muscled hind limbs and they way they sit upright, grunting into the fire. The noises they make, the features on their faces, the way they move... how like him they are. And yet how completely different. Their smell is rancid and sharp, which must explain why they have not yet caught his scent. Their eyes are small and round and must be half blind, because they have not yet found him in the bushes. Their ears, though much like his own in his other form, are apparently defective, for not one of them turns to follow the sound of his heartbeat, or the breath of the stranger who has come so close to their fire. The predator decides that the creatures, though they have a.s.sumed a form similar to his, are an inferior species and cannot pose a threat. They are prey. And yet they have fire, and he is curious. He leaves the cover of the shadows and creeps toward them. And just as individual destinies are so often decided in a fraction of a second, by the spin of a wheel upon random chance, so too is the history of the world, or the fates of species. The creature who crept from the shadows had the body of a wolf, but the reasoning to question why. He had the hunger of a beast and a soul that reached higher. The hominids who huddled around the fire might have looked at him and seen themselves. Instead, they looked up and saw monster. The creatures around the fire see him when it is almost too late. They begin to screech in terror, trampling one another in their haste to flee. A female s.n.a.t.c.hes up an infant and runs. A youth pauses to show his teeth and fling a handful of stones, then begins to scream again and run. The scent of their terror is intoxicating; the excitement of the hunt, the allure of the challenge, the rich life-charged odor of prey in its last, most intense moments. He is the hunter, and instinct commands he give chase. He allows the young and the agile to escape, but springs upon a lame one who has fallen behind, and brings him down in a single leap. Ah, the rush of hot blood into his mouth. Ah, the crunch of bone and sinew beneath his teeth. Ah, the raging beast of hunger within him that bursts free and tears at flesh, gulps soft tissues, buries itself muzzle-deep in the steaming corpse and gorges until it can hold no more. He is the predator, and his nature has been fulfilled. But later, sated and drowsy, he curls himself into a ball before the dying embers of the fire, and he dreams the dreams no other beast of the forest dreams. He remembers a shape, a form, a face, a hand with five digits, a covering of smooth skin, the absence of a tail. He remembers himself. And he remembers the creatures, so familiar and so strange, whose scents had lured him here. He looks into their fire, and he is sorry they are gone. That, then, so the legend goes, is how it began between us all those centuries ago. Predator and prey, a choice and a decision. And that is the way it might have stayed between us, except that something happened over the centuries, to both of us. And that's the story you have come to hear, isn't it? Because today we face another choice, another decision. And the action we take today, just as it did on that long-ago night before the fire, will determine the course of all the rest of the world. Come with me, then, to a city called New York, in a place called America, where a young werewolf mourns the end of an era. In his hands he holds the key to a dynasty, and in his head a secret that could change your destiny forever, and mine. Hear his howl of sorrow reverberate around the earth, feel his loss chill your blood. Watch now as he rises, and moves to the window, and stares out unseeing at a cold gray morn. He thinks the worst is over. He is wrong. The drama that began all those hundreds of thousands of years ago is approaching the final act, and the curtain rises here, in this room, on this night. When it drops closed again, neither you nor I, nor any other of our kind, will ever be the same. So draw closer to the fire, human, and make yourself comfortable. I have a story to tell you. PART ONE Born to run and born to prey we live and die in Nature's way: Killers all until we say, "I shall not kill today, my friend...

I shall not kill today."

-FROM A CHILD'S JUMPING-SONG TRADITIONAL WEREWOLF.

One.

13:43 Greenwich Mean Time November 23, 1998 In London, the Westminster chimes began to toll out of synch and out of tune for the first time in the one-hundred-forty-year history of the most famous clock in the world. A computer failure was blamed for the unexpected shutdown of the underground, and the BBC was off the air for an entire four minutes. No explanation for the missing time was ever offered. In Beirut, electrical power flickered and went out, and in Iran, thirty-six oil pumps suddenly ceased production. In Moscow, three windows in St. Basil's Cathedral exploded outward, and a crack appeared in a three-hundred-year-old mirror. In Paris, in Rome, in Tokyo and in Hong Kong, traffic jams of monumental proportions resulted when traffic lights ceased to function. In Geneva and Lucerne, millions of dollars in transfers were lost when banking computers shut down. St. Mark's Square was deserted in the middle of the day. Ships at sea cut their engines. Planes in flight bowed their wings. Around the world, humans turned away from meals uneaten fighting a sudden wave of nausea; they awoke from their beds, shuddering in a cold sweat; they broke off in the midst of a sentence and stared, helplessly, into a pit of despair they could not understand. They would later recall a cold chill, a stabbing pain behind their eyes, an electrical p.r.i.c.kling at the base of their necks as around the world the howl went up, too loud and too high for their ears to hear yet releasing with it all the depths of agony a soul can know: He is dead, he is dead... In the Park Avenue apartment, Nicholas Devoncroix turned from the window and back into the room where the bodies of his parents lay lifeless on the bed. After the accident their remains had been brought here, away from the prying eyes and probing questions of human officials, so that their children might have a few moments to say their goodbyes before the preparations for cremation began. Nicholas had not been in time to say goodbye, of course. Alexander Devoncroix had died instantly beneath the wheels of a fast-moving vehicle in the dark depths of Central Park, as had the bodyguard who had flung himself before the automobile in an attempt to save his leader. Elise Devoncroix, Alexander's mate for over one hundred years, had died of separation shock and grief only moments after her spouse. The driver of the vehicle, presumably human, had not been found. Nicholas went over to the two wolf-formed bodies on the bed. His hand shook as he touched the silver-gray fur of his father's neck, cold now, lifeless and dull. He was a magnificent figure even now, devoid of breath, robbed of power. His body was over six feet long, his head ma.s.sive, his muscles lean, and for the viewing he had been arranged so that his injuries were not visible, and his demeanor retained its dignity. But Nicholas knew that if he lifted his father into an embrace, the corpse would sag limply in his arms, loose bones and organs sloshing beneath their fragile capsule of skin; fur would deteriorate beneath his touch, and his hand would slide into a cold open wound on the back side of his father's neck. Their bodies deteriorated very quickly after death. In only another hour or two they would begin to rot. Anguish clenched Nicholas's throat and burned his eyes. "Father, why?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Who has done this to you?" And he could almost hear the walls of the room echoing back, You have, my son... You have. Alexander and Elise had been on their way to see Nicholas when the death vehicle burst out of the night, and the reason they had crossed Central Park so urgently in the middle of the night in wolf form was to try to stop their son and heir from making a mistake... what they believed was a mistake, and what he insisted was their only salvation. The last twenty-four hours between Nicholas and his parents had been filled with threats and recriminations, challenges and anger. And he had been too late to say goodbye. He looked at his mother, near the same height as his father but lighter, her pale fur longer and silkier, a portrait of delicate strength and regal bearing even in death. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to fling himself upon her and bury his face in her fur and inhale the sweet soft fragrances of pine resin and mother's milk, of silk and pearls and hearth fire and power... but those scents were gone now and the fur was cold. Alexander and Elise Devoncroix, leaders of the pack for over a century, were no more. It was a blow. But the pack would survive. He, Nicholas Antonov Devoncroix, would make certain that it did. Slowly Nicholas straightened up, letting his hand linger for just another moment in the air above his mother's head, and then he dropped it to his side. "I am sorry," he said softly, thickly, "for all I have done. For all I must do." Nicholas Devoncroix was thirty-eight years old; young for a species whose elderly were still sound at one hundred fifty years. He was the youngest son of the family that had ruled the pack undisputed for almost a thousand years, and as such he had been groomed from the moment of his birth for the position he held today. Born into a world of virtually unlimited privilege and wealth, he had nonetheless spent the first year after his weaning fighting his eleven brothers and sisters for his meals, defending his sleeping s.p.a.ce and his running s.p.a.ce and his playthings and even the attention of his teachers and parents with his wits, his teeth and his claws. If he was not fast enough or strong enough, he went hungry and he slept on the floor; if he was not clever enough or aggressive enough or inventive enough, he was humiliated, scorned by his peers, and that was a punishment far worse than hunger, or even banishment from the fire. Most cubs learn to control their ability to change forms by age three; Nicholas had mastered it by his second birthday. He brought home his first killed deer at age five and he received the accolades of the pack. But he earned the thunderous approval of the pack and was named Champion of the Hunt when, on that same occasion, he added the trophies of his six older brothers, which they were not clever enough or fast enough to protect, to his own bounty. By the time he was ten, it was generally agreed that the future of the pack was safe in the hands of Nicholas Devoncroix. He held degrees from the world's major universities in the arts, sciences and humanities. By age twenty he had climbed Everest in human form, had won the Grand Prix and had composed and conducted a symphony. It was he who had designed the satellite communications system upon which pack security around the world was based, and had, as an incidental benefit, earned several hundred million dollars by selling various harmless bits of that technology to humans. He was a skilled negotiator, a shrewd financier, a brilliant engineer. He was frequently photographed with the world's most enticing females, both human and werewolf. He dined with human kings, presidents and diplomats. He had a villa on the Riviera, an apartment on the St. Louis and a ranch in the Hawaiian islands at which ministers of finance and chairmen of various international boards were frequent guests. When human factions went to war-whether they were nations corporations-at the inconvenience of the pack, he made peace. When greed or shortsightedness caused a division within the corporate pack, he made corrections. When crises arose, he made decisions. He made improvements, he made suggestions, he made deals. Most important of all, he made himself indispensable. Over the past ten years he had gradually insinuated himself into every area of administration of the pack and its hundred-plus corporate divisions. His personal number was on the Rolodex of every important CEO, investment officer, prime minister, king and president in the world, right next to that of Alexander Devoncroix-sometimes above it. A pack in crisis did not function well, and nothing would plunge it into confusion faster than sudden change. Every precaution had therefore been taken that the transition between a pack leader and his successor should be seamless. But there were some eventualities against which no precautions were effective. No werewolf could be prepared for the legacy left to Nicholas by his father. And nothing could prepare the pack for what Nicholas must do now. Nicholas made his eyes focus one more time on the inert forms upon the bed. "Au revoir, mon pere, ma mere," he said. "Je vous adore." And in English he added, "You have ruled well. I will protect what you have built in the best way I know. I swear it." He turned and left the room. Two Nicholas came out of the bedroom into a sea of silence. the most important werewolves in New York were gathered there, having rushed to the Park Avenue apartment of their pack leader the moment their senses felt the blow of his pa.s.sing. Others were coming-from Washington, Montreal, California, Britain, Sri Lanka, Baghdad; from all over the world they would follow their instincts home. They were confused, disoriented, shaken and uncertain, rudderless in a vast and empty sea. A hundred years had pa.s.sed since the death of the last pack leader, a hundred years of peace and prosperity and burgeoning power. Now suddenly, without warning, violence had struck down their leader and shattered the pack. They waited for a.s.surance that they were not alone. Nicholas looked out over the cathedral of a room filled with faces, all turned his way. A rich sensual chamber of scents and textures, of fear and sorrow, greed and ambition, anxiety and need... most of all need. So much need. They turned to him, those sleek well-groomed bodies in their Chanel suits and kid gloves, with their expensively coiffed hair and dramatically made-up faces, their eyes wide and their mouths pinched and their nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of him as he did of them... looking for weakness, looking for fear. He thought distantly, They are mine now. Mine to shepherd, mine to guide, mine to protect. In rather recent history, a tradition was established by a human monarch to a.s.sure his subjects of the continuity of the throne. To celebrate the longevity of this monarchy, a ritual announcement has evolved which is repeated upon the demise of each ruler and the ascension of the new one. But it has never had quite the power of the pack ritual from which it was derived so many centuries ago. They were a people of ritual. The words must be said. Nicholas stood tall and spoke loudly. "The leader of the pack is dead," he said. Not even a heartbeat pa.s.sed. From the a.s.semblage a single voice was raised, loud and clear: "All hail the leader of the pack," it cried. "May he live forever." The bitter dead smell of grief that issued from a hundred close-packed bodies transformed immediately into relief and triumph, power mounting and cascading like clear water through a sluice. "May he live forever," echoed the audience, and the words reverberated around the room with enthusiasm and fervor, May he live forever, for his life was their life, and without him they were nothing, a pack without a leader did not exist. All hail the leader of the pack. May he, and they, live forever. The first thing that happened was that Nicholas was surrounded by guards. Silent and un.o.btrusive and for the most part ceremonial, they had served his father and now they would serve him. In many ways they were as symbolic as groomsmen at a wedding, but their purpose was a deadly serious one. Never was a new ruler more vulnerable to attack and overthrow than in the first few days after the death of the old ruler, particularly if he was unmated. Though it was far more likely these days that the challenge would occur on the battleground of Wall Street than in a Park Avenue apartment, and that the weapons used would be margins and commodities rather than teeth and claws, the ritual persisted. They thrived upon ritual. Nicholas scanned the crowd until he caught the gaze of the one he sought: the owner of the voice which had first hailed him leader. With neither a nod nor a blink, with the simple communication of his eyes, Nicholas signaled his request. The other werewolf lowered his own gaze in acknowledgement. Nicholas made his way through the crowd, which parted for him respectfully, eyes following, hands moving toward him instinctively, just to touch him, to steal a whisper of his scent and take it home to those who did not rank a place in this room, to say when they were old that fortune had favored them and they had been here on this day, at this moment, when the old had pa.s.sed to the new. He left the guards stationed outside the door and entered the study. He closed the door and leaned against it, for he could go no further. His parents had been fond of the opulence of their Victorian youth, and all of their residences reflected the same. High molded ceilings, touches of baroque gold trim, mural walls, heavy draperies, enormous chandeliers, intricately carved woodwork, Carrara marble. This room was no different, for all that its function was far more utilitarian than any other room in the house. A ma.s.sive mahogany rolltop desk, decorated with baroque scrollwork and supported on legs carved to look like wolves' feet, occupied one corner. Built into it was a secure satellite telephone and a computer system from which Alexander Devoncroix could access any file in the world. Two gilded, five-foot mirrors on either side of the room concealed sophisticated video cameras and recording devices, and a bank of security monitors was hidden within a sliding panel to the left of the emerald marble fireplace. The twelve-by thirty-six-foot mural that covered two walls had been painted by Fragonard on special commission, and it depicted a palace in Lyons, France, its grand entrance guarded by two enormous stone wolves, its sweeping grounds and elaborate gardens peopled by beautiful men and women in artfully draped garments of gossamer and gauze, picnicking and bathing and playing musical instruments and gathering flowers; an idyll of peace and innocence. One had to look hard to see the wolves peeking out from beneath the shrubbery, sunbathing on craggy rocks, painted into the shadows on the lawn. The mural concealed nothing at all. Alexander Devoncroix had merely liked it. The brocade settees and overstuffed chairs had held heads of state and international financiers. Kings and king-makers had sipped tea from the gold-rimmed Limoges cups displayed in the mirrored cabinet, and toasts had been drunk from the Baccarat crystal that sealed the fates of nations. The room was filled with the scent of Alexander Devoncroix, the empire he had built, the history he had made, and for a moment Nicholas's knees went weak from it. It was no street accident that had killed Alexander Devoncroix. He had been murdered. And only Nicholas knew why. He pushed away from the door and crossed the room in three swift strides, tearing at the catch to the window, flinging open the cas.e.m.e.nt. He leaned out into the cold, breathing deeply.

In a time before technology, werewolves had struggled to keep their secrets from others of their kind, whose hearing was on average five hundred times more acute than that of a human. But with the advent of radio a simple device had been fashioned which, by emitting an oscillating high-frequency wave, could soundproof any room from werewolf ears. This room was so equipped, and when Nicholas threw open the window, the contrasting roar of noise was as tangible and as forceful as a breaking wave; he actually gulped for breath with its impact.

Like bits of flotsam riding on that wave, voices gradually separated themselves from the thunder of traffic, the blare of horns, the buzz and burr of telephones, the crank of machinery, the chatter of humans.

"It was a human, you know, a human who killed him-"

"Dreadful irony, after he worked all his life to further the state of humanity."

"I never thought it was right and I don't care who knows it. Always knew it would come to a bad end, this human-loving-"

"It was an accident. Accidents happen every day, to humans as well as to us."

"He was Alexander Devoncroix! Such accidents should not be allowed to happen to such a creature!"

"At least he didn't suffer. Unlike a.n.a.lise, who lingered six hours when she was struck by that truck."

"Perhaps it's best to go quickly. But at the hands of a human..."

Cell phones chirruping all over New York, messages flying, speculation and rumor, information and misinformation. It would be the same in Rome and Paris and London, in Johannesburg and Frankfurt and Sydney and Seoul. Less than an hour had pa.s.sed, and already the details of the demise of the leader of the pack and his spouse had made their way around the world.

"Will you go to Alaska? But we must go, we're Devoncroix!"

"I heard only six to a family-"

"I had a meeting scheduled-"

"No, hold your shares, you fool! Haven't you ever met the young Devoncroix?"

"... air traffic will, of course, be rerouted for the next couple of days-"

"We should have instructions by noon-"

"... as strong a werewolf as ever I did business with-"

"No, cancel it, cancel them all, let the humans take care of it for a day-"

Nicholas drew in the sounds and let them soothe him, for even in chaos they were good sounds, familiar sounds. His people. His pack.

He stood there, leaning out into the rain, watching them scuttle by two stories below. His pulse steadied and slowed, his breathing grew more regular, and gradually his head began to clear. Umbrellas clashing, shoulders hunched, werewolves and humans surged together, eyes straight ahead, expressions intent, each a world unto himself. Cold rain splashed upon Nicholas's hands as they

gripped the sill, and soaked his silk cuffs. The window was only twenty-five feet from the pavement, not so far a leap for a werewolf as young and as strong as he was. For a moment he considered it: stripping off his clothes, springing through the window and, with a mighty cry changing in midair as his father once had boasted of doing, landing in full wolf form in the middle of Park Avenue and running, just running until he found some place open and green and running still with the wind in his face and the turf flying beneath his paws, running until his legs collapsed and his lungs burst, just running. He heard the door open and close behind him, and he spoke without turning. "I think it can be safely said that there are more of our kind in New York at any one time than in any other city on earth. Except perhaps London." He could hear the faint smile in the other man's voice. "Or Venice at Carnival." Nicholas closed the window and turned reluctantly away from it. The absence of sound from the street was acute and isolating, and it hurt his ears. "There was a time when one would have to look long and far to find those who were not our kind. A time when ours were the only voices on the planet and the sound of our song drowned out all other noises." Michel inclined his head in agreement. "The modern age has brought many changes. Not all of them for the better." Nicholas agreed softly. "Yes." There was a silence, respectful yet awkward, the first uncertain moment between two colleagues who realized their status, and therefore their relationship, had changed forever. Michel had been Nicholas's personal a.s.sistant since Nicholas had taken his last degree and entered the world of business, and the relationship had long since grown beyond that of manager and secretary. Every detail of Nicholas's day was managed by Michel, every secret of his affairs known to him. Michel was advisor, confidant, friend. And Nicholas was about to test his loyalty in a way neither of them had ever imagined before. Nicholas smiled faintly, sensing the other man's awkwardness. "And so, I am a creature of import now, and we can no longer be at ease with one another." Michel relaxed slightly. "You were always a creature of import, sir. Nonetheless, I don't envy you your position now." Nicholas's effort to smile faded. "No ambition to be king, eh, Michel?" "I have never had one," confessed Michel. And his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners with his own attempt at humor. "I far prefer to be king-maker." "It is good to know, then, that I can mark one possible challenger off the list, and rest easy knowing I have only several thousand more to guard against." But the joke was feeble and fell flat, and another awkward silence followed, heavy with grief and weariness, and the burden of things too powerful to be said in words. It was Michel who recovered himself first, rallying as he always did. He drew up his shoulders, dropped his head and said formally, "My fealty is yours to command, sir. May I approach?"

Nicholas nodded. Michel came forward and kissed his lips. Nicholas placed his hands upon either side of the other man's face and said, "Michel, son of Gault, you have served me well, as your father served my father for all of his life. Is it your wish to continue to do so?" And Michel replied without hesitation, "Until death." Then he stepped back and, with his eyes still respectfully lowered, said quietly, "You will want to know, sir, that the incident at the laboratory has been taken care of as you requested. The debris has been removed, and the environment sanitized. Garret is on his way and will no doubt make a full report." Nicholas regarded him without expression. The debris to which Michel referred consisted of four bodies, three victims and one a.s.sa.s.sin. The "incident" was murder. And Garret Landseer, Nicholas's closest friend and chief of security, was the only person in the world Nicholas could trust to dispose of the evidence. He murmured, "Five murders in less than two days. And this from a species which has less than one such crime in a decade. We are proud of saying we do not kill our own kind. Yet somehow... we have managed it." Michel looked startled. "Five murders?" "If one doesn't count the death of the a.s.sa.s.sin who attacked the laboratory and died of the wounds inflicted upon him by those who were fighting for their lives." Michel blanched. "But... your parents. It was a street accident, a reckless human. Surely you're not implying... ?" Instead of answering, Nicholas moved behind his father's desk, lifted the rolltop that revealed the computer monitor and keyboard and tapped in his own security code. "Call the car around. I want to leave for the airport in a quarter of an hour. My sister Sabine will attend to the cremation and bring the ashes home tomorrow. The ceremony will begin on Sat.u.r.day and is to last for three days. No more than one quarter of any division is to be absent at any one time, is that understood? a.s.semble the staff, send out the announcements. I will address the pack at zero hundred hours GMT via satellite. But first..." Michel had already started for the door and he turned back. "You will stand witness to this doc.u.ment, which will be presented to the Council the moment I arrive in Alaska." Nicholas moved to call up the doc.u.ment, but just then the door opened and Garret strode in, his black hair tangled with wind and jeweled with rain, smelling of cold and anger and grief and determination. He embraced Nicholas fiercely, and he whispered, "My heart breaks with yours." The genuine emotion of the only person who might truthfully understand his own sorrow caused Nicholas's throat to clench. He returned the embrace, inhaling strength and familiarity, the clean warm scents of the childhood they had shared, memories and comfort.

Garret moved a little away, and kissed Nicholas hard on the mouth. "Until death," he said, before the question could be asked, "and beyond." The two embraced again, more formally this time, and Garret stepped away. "We found the car," he said without preamble. He stripped off his damp coat and tossed it aside, running his fingers through his hair. "It had been abandoned in an alley, soaked with gasoline and burned." Nicholas nodded, unsurprised. "Could you determine anything from the remains?" Garret met his gaze. "Werewolf." Among werewolves, even when in human form, far more was said in silence than was ever voiced aloud. Nicholas read the questions, the speculations and the truths behind Garret's words that had little to do with the words themselves. He was very careful that his friend should see nothing of the same in him. Then Nicholas said softly, "So. They have penetrated the pack at an even higher level than we thought." Michel, who had removed Garret's coat from the leather chair where it had landed, paused in the act of hanging the garment upon the coat rack by the door. His face was hollow with disbelief. "One of our own was driving the vehicle that struck down the leader of the pack?" "Not exactly," replied Garret, still looking at Nicholas, "one of our own." It took only a moment for Michel to understand, a fraction of that time for him to conceal his impatient incredulity. "With all due respect, I can't think it would serve the pack in this time of sorrow to dredge up those old rumors about the Brothers of the Dark Moon. Everything that has gone wrong for a millennium has been blamed on them, when it is well known that they no longer exist. Alexander Devoncroix himself dispersed them over a hundred years ago." Nicholas said, "Recent events suggest the rumors of their demise may have been premature." And Garret added sharply, "You understand that none of this is to leave this room." Michel returned a disdainful look. His discretion was absolute. Had it not been, he would not have retained his position for this long. Garret turned back to Nicholas. "Nicholas, the security people tell me that your parents were on their way here, to see you. Do you know why?" For a moment Nicholas said nothing. Then slowly he nodded. He sat at the desk and tapped a few computer keys, bringing up a doc.u.ment. "This is why," he said without expression, and turned the screen toward the room. "Michel, you will be good enough to come forward and read it as well." Michel stood beside Garret and the two of them scanned the screen. Ten full seconds of silence followed. Garret spoke first. His expression was careful, his tone guarded. "I don't understand. This looks as though you propose to reinstate the Edict of Separation." Nicholas replied, "My parents objected. They threatened to veto me with the Council. They were on their way to argue their case again when..." Only the slightest hesitation there, and very little change of expression at all. "They were killed." "By those whose ends would be served by the reinstatement of the edict," Garret said flatly. His gaze returned, unblinking, to the screen. "That seems unlikely." Michel spoke up, his voice high and tight with disbelief. "Even with the pack leader and his spouse gone, even with you, sir, in charge..." He inclined his head deferentially to Nicholas. "... if the Council chooses to oppose you, which it surely will, it could be months, years, before the entire pack accepts your decree. And in the meantime... forgive me, sir, but in the meantime you could be overthrown." "And the pack would be torn apart no matter what happened in the end," Garret said. "We might never recover from the turmoil." He turned to Nicholas, confusion overriding the impatience in his eyes. "How did such a thing come to be? I know that events of the past few hours have been-" Again he choose his words carefully. "Unsettling, but surely you cannot have thought such a drastic measure would prove the solution." Nicholas felt a flare of anger he couldn't entirely control. He and Garret had been raised together from pups; they had run together, hunted together, schooled together, fought together. They had discovered the pleasures of females together, and the various delights, both illicit and celebrated, that could be enjoyed in human form. From the time of first adolescence Nicholas had known that there was only one werewolf who could be trusted to stand at his side, come what may, and Garret had known that his place was then and forevermore at Nicholas's side. There had never been secrets between them, not one. Now Nicholas was forced to keep from Garret the most important secret of his life, and it angered him. He pushed away from the desk and got to his feet, pacing the room in terse, even strides. "We have forgotten our place in the world this last century. We have been misled by the human qualities of greed and l.u.s.t, we have wallowed in the pleasures of human flesh. We have lowered ourselves to live like humans among humans, to dine with them and cater to them and take them to our beds. We are hunters grown fat and lazy. We are masters who have forgotten how to rule. The leadership of Alexander Devoncroix has brought us a century of self-indulgence and dissipation which has made us the servants of humans, rather than their masters. But no more." He stopped and turned to face them. "Every ruler is challenged by the necessity of taking the appropriate action at the right time. This is the only appropriate response for the situation that faces us now." And his voice hoa.r.s.ened a bit, his expression tightened with urgency as he added to Garret, "You may not understand. But I beg you to trust me." Garret's scent was harsh with incredulity, and he made another swipe at his hair with impatient fingers. "It is your suspicion, then that someone-some member of the Dark Brotherhood-became privy to your intentions to bring this resolution before the Council, and aware of your father's determination to stop it. And for this reason our pack leader was killed." Nicholas didn't flinch. From now until the time of public mourning, his pain would be contained unto himself; the pack expected nothing less, and he would not disappoint them with a display of weakness. Garret continued, watching his friend closely. "And it would not be irrational to a.s.sume some connection between this murder and the a.s.sa.s.sination of three of our most prominent scientists in a secured laboratory." Nicholas said, "It is your job to find such a connection, if it exists." He held his friend's gaze. "I rely upon you to do so." The two werewolves were evenly matched, tall and strong of muscle and mind, equally stubborn, equally determined. But leadership is as much a function of resolve as of qualification, of innate power as much as skill. Only a second or two pa.s.sed before Garret, pained by the effort of meeting the superior werewolf's gaze, shifted his own away. "I will see to it immediately," he said. "One moment." Nicholas moved back to the desk. "Such a decree as I have written requires two witnesses that I have made it of my own will and sound mind. Your signature, please. And yours, Michel." For a moment neither of the two werewolves moved. The startled pace of their pulses echoed in Nicholas's ears, the smell of their shock was static and sharp. Garret said flatly, "You cannot be serious." "I a.s.sure you, I am." "Your father was killed because of this!" "He was killed because he tried to stop it," replied Nicholas without emotion. Garret stared at him. "Yet you would proceed, you would push this-this obscenity into law, knowing that he gave his life to try to prevent it?" Michel broke in sharply. "You forget yourself, monsieur! The pack leader answers to none but his conscience." Garret barely spared him a glance. "We have been at peace with humans for a thousand years-" "Not so long as that," replied Nicholas carelessly. He unlocked one of the desk drawers and removed his briefcase. Garret's voice was rising. "Do you have any idea what you will be unleashing with this edict? You would turn us all into savages again, destroy all it's taken centuries to build. And if that doesn't concern you, think of your own fortune! Alexander Devoncroix built an empire based on harmony with humans, but what will become of it now? Is this the way the new pack leader intends to usher his people into the twenty-first century?" Nicholas's eyes blazed. "Leave it, Garret!" His voice was a decibel below a shout, and the smell of flaring temper was like heat lightning. He caught himself with a breath, then added tensely, "You tread on dangerous ground." Garret lowered his eyes and took a step backward. "I speak my mind to you as I have always done," he replied. "I wouldn't be of much help to you if I didn't, and what I've said to you today will be echoed ten times in the Council chamber. I meant no disrespect. However, I understand if you think discipline is necessary." Nicholas gazed at him for a moment, and his expression softened into vague wryness. "I think," he said, "that you play a very poor Marc Antony to my Caesar. There are things you don't know, Garret. I do not make this decision lightly. But please continue to express your opinion openly and at every possible opportunity. I should not recognize you if you did not." Garret looked at him again. "Then I must tell you this. The pack will never accept this. To do such a thing in the midst of transition is reckless in the extreme." Michel had watched the interchange with cautious interest, and now he spoke up thoughtfully. "Perhaps not so much as you might think. The pack blames a human for the death of their leader already, and it's no secret that sentiment toward humans has grown less and less tolerant over the past few years. Perhaps now is precisely the time to make such a move." At Garret's outraged stare, Michel drew himself up. "My concern is for the safety of our pack leader, who stands before me, and for the security of his position. What is yours?" Garret jerked his angry gaze from Michel to Nicholas. "You do this thing," he said lowly, "and a hundred thousand years of civilization has been for nought. We may as well go wild again, sleeping in the forest and killing whatever moves. Do you really want that to be your legacy? "And I," returned Nicholas in a cold hard voice, "need no lectures on civilization from you. Do you stand beside me or no?" For a moment the two werewolves locked gazes and the room grew acrid with the energy expended; challenge and question, resolve and uncertainty, outrage and determination. The faint film of perspiration that misted Garret's face was a testimony to the courage it took to hold Nicholas's gaze, and the strength of will that fought back pain. The battle for truth between them was silent, but it was strong, and in the end, it was won. Garret lowered his eyes. "You are my leader. I do as you command." He took up the stylus on the desk and impressed his signature into the electronic pad. "My life for you," he said, and, with his eyes still lowered, stepped away. Nicholas looked at Michel. Michel stepped forward and placed his signature below Garret's. And it was done. Nicholas said, "I will read this to the Council as soon as we're a.s.sembled. I expect resistance." His eyes met Garret's. "If I had discovered a disease that could wipe out the pack, a disease that was transmitted only by humans, what kind of a ruler would I be if I did not try to protect the pack from it?"

Garret's eyes were quick with question and, almost immediately, the answer. "But there is no such disease." Nicholas replied simply, "There is. Its symptoms are apathy, indolence and tolerance for the intolerable, among others. It is caused by intimacy with humans and it runs rampant through the pack. How many more must die because of it?" Garret was silent for a moment. "The irony cannot have escaped you. The Brothers of the Dark Moon have spent centuries trying to find a way to wipe the human curse from the planet and establish themselves in dominance once again. Some might say that with this edict you've taken the first step toward accomplishing their goal, and for it they would hail you as prophet and savior." Nicholas showed not a flicker of expression as he replied, "That is indeed ironic." He pushed the b.u.t.ton that would print the doc.u.ment. Michel stepped forward, staying his hand. "Sir, if you'll permit me-it would be more efficient to send the doc.u.ment electronically, so that the Council will have had a chance to study it by the time you meet with them. Also, it might be best to have no hard copies just yet, if you know what I mean." Nicholas hesitated, then aborted the print. "Perhaps you're right." Michel said, "I'll see to your car." He turned for the door, then back. "And, sir, it occurs to me that it might be more efficient if I stayed here for a few hours to supervise the final arrangements rather than accompany you home just now. I'll be with you in plenty of time to help you arrange your presentation to the Council, however." Nicholas waved him away impatiently. "Whatever you think best." When he was gone Garret stood alone before the desk, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, and he regarded his friend studiously. "Can you tell me now?" he demanded. Nicholas looked up, and in his eyes was a brief flash of grat.i.tude for the understanding the question implied. "No. Not yet." Garret nodded. "I have known you for thirty-five years," he said "I owe you my life a half-dozen times over. It should be enough. I'm sorry if I suggested otherwise." Nicholas said roughly, "You did more than suggest." And then his scowl eased, he gave a toss of his blond head in the symbolic gesture of shaking off unpleasantness, and he managed to relax his features into something very closely resembling a smile. He said, "It never happened." Garret hesitated. "Do you want me to make any announcement to the pack about what we know about your parents' deaths?" "No. To do so will only give the killers warning. I want you to continue as you have done, and bring what you find to me alone." "Of course." Garret hesitated for another moment, then stepped around the desk and embraced his friend again. "Good journey, Nicholas. I will keep you in my heart." Garret had been gone only a moment when the intercom on the desk chimed. It was Michel, informing him that the car was waiting. Nicholas reached for his coat and briefcase, then put both down again. He opened his briefcase. There, lying on top, was a small book bound in red leather. He took out the book, and looked at it solemnly for a moment. He could hear his father's voice so clearly he almost glanced around for its source. Have you read the book? You promised you would read it! How can you know the truth until you have done so? I will read it, but nothing in it can change my mind. I know enough already to understand what must be done. Do nothing. Stay where you are. Your mother and I are coming to talk to you. Those were the last words Nicholas had ever heard his father say. He had been killed before he had reached Nicholas's door. Nicholas opened the book and scanned the first few pages. The very sight of it was painful, and the smell... He brought it swiftly to face and inhaled old ink and crisp paper, binding glue, leather... Alexander Devoncroix, rich, alive, strong, the essence of him lingering like fine oil, glossing and enriching everything he had touched. Nicholas's throat clenched, and he closed the book, locking it in his briefcase. He had promised his father he would read it. and he would. But he could not bear it now. He moved away from the desk, put on his coat, picked up his briefcase. He looked back at the computer monitor, the screen having blanked to the Devoncroix logo, silver on black. Almost hesitantly, Nicholas touched the keyboard, and the doc.u.ment reappeared. He let his hand fall away. He thought of the remains of his parents lying in the back room. He heard their voices in his head. He felt their scent upon his hands, his clothing, his hair. Do nothing... But the pack was his now, and he would do what he must to ensure their survival. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the ghosts of the room. Then he turned back to the computer, lifted his hand to the keyboard and pushed the b.u.t.ton that would change the world. Three The Wilderness of Northwestern Alaska 05:16 Alaska Standard Time November 23 One by one they came over the crest of the hill, materializing like ghosts through the fog of a lightly falling snow. First the beta male, a pale gray, s.h.a.ggy-coated beast with a white blaze across his face, and then his silver-coated mate, the beta female. The remainder of the pack spread out on either side of them, forming a fan at the top of the hill, eight in all, and waited. He came, the big white male, the alpha, cresting the hill in the exact center of the fan formed by the other wolves, a military formation with the beta male on his right and the beta female on his left. Immediately the pack began to move down the hill, silently and efficiently, each step ch.o.r.eographed with an eerie precision so that they did not appear to break formation once. They surrounded the small group of musk oxen-two adults and a calf-from a distance of about ten feet and held their position, as still as ice carvings, making no sound or movement, nor scent or shadow, to reveal their Presence. The beasts did not even look up, but continued to paw the snow and munch at the frozen vegetation underneath. From the hill, the alpha sat watching, his form majestic and still. The wind that ruffled his snow-encrusted fur was the only movement upon the landscape that surrounded him. And then, without previous sign or warning, the wolves below moved in upon the herd. They wasted no time or energy upon the chase. For less than three minutes the snow was a blur of snarling bodies and flashing teeth, of blood spatters and flailing hoofbeats as four of them attacked the adults, driving them off in a flurry of sound and fury. Three others swiftly brought down the calf. The beta male rent open the viscera, tearing out the entrails. His mate began ripping chunks of flesh from the haunches. On the hill a quarter mile away, a camera shutter clicked. The white alpha, still in place upon the crest of the hill, pivoted his head toward the sound, and stared for a moment directly into the lens of the camera with pale, eerily thoughtful eyes. Then he turned and made his way down the hill to feast. Hannah Braselton North felt her heart beat, fast and hard, pounding into the hard-packed snow of the ground upon which she lay, and she had a moment of eerie certainty that the wolf could hear that too. Every hair on her body was standing on end. It was impossible, she knew, that the male could have heard her camera click from that far away. More impossible still that he could have seen her when he looked around. Yet when she had seen those pale penetrating eyes focused upon hers through the long-distance lens of the camera, her breath had stopped in her chest and she had been unable to force herself to draw breath since. With a curse she realized that the camera had gone limp in her hand, its focus lost, the opportunity to photograph the magnificent beast full-face missed. Quickly she brought the lens into focus again, swinging it down to follow the feast at the bottom of the hill. Afterward, she would never be able to fully describe what happened next. It began as a p.r.i.c.kling sensation at the base of her spine, escalating like a flash of electricity to a stabbing in her temples, a ringing in her ears. The camera slipped from her suddenly numb fingers and her face contorted in a rictus of pain as she drew herself to her hands and knees, twisting her head around and upward toward the blank gray sky as though in search of the source of the sound that was stabbing like ice picks in her ears. She saw nothing. Below her, the wolves backed away from their feast, dropping b.l.o.o.d.y chunks of meat and leaving them where they lay. Turning their backs upon their kill, they formed a perfect circle around the white alpha male, and raised up their voices in one long, strong, heart-piercing howl. Four The Wilderness 16:10 Alaska Standard Time November 23 "I saw them today. after all this time, I'd half started to wonder if I'd imagined them, but you were right-this is their winter hunting ground. You should have been there, Tom. You should have seen them. It was the most phenomenal thing, the way they hunted, not like the other packs we've studied-these guys meant business. They attacked, they killed, they ate. Why weren't you there, anyway? It's not as though you had some place better to be." There was no reply, but Hannah had not expected one. Tom had stopped talking to her months ago. She caught the edge of her right glove with her teeth and tugged it off, working her stiffened fingers for a moment before pulling off the other glove and wrapping both hands around a mug of Sterno-heated tea. She was still breathing hard, with exertion and excitement, and she moved around the small tent as she spoke, working the circulation back into her feet and legs while she waited for the solar heater to raise the temperature above freezing. There had been a time when she spoke into the tape recorder, for appearance's sake if nothing else. She didn't bother any longer. "There were only eight of them, though," she went on, holding the mug close to her cold face. "The beautiful silver was gone, and the one I called Midnight, and a couple of yearlings. I like to think the two young ones went off to start their own packs, but I know they're probably dead." She hesitated, for the next was even harder to say than she had imagined. "The Great White's mate wasn't with them, the alpha female. Maybe that doesn't mean anything. There's no law that says she has to be on every hunt. She might have cubs. It doesn't mean... I'd hate to think she's dead, Tom. I'd hate to think he's alone." In the silence that fell, the wind whistled through the spare trees that sheltered her camp, and snapped at the flaps of the tent. In a moment she continued, forcing a lighter tone. "There have been a few births, though, I saw some new faces. The youngsters look healthy-but why shouldn't they, with these hunting grounds?" Still no answer. Hannah sipped the tea, found it barely potable and sat down on the edge of the cot to remove her outer boots. The temperature inside the tent was approaching minus two degrees Celsius. The Arctic dome tent was spa.r.s.ely furnished with a folding cot lined with a sleeping bag, a camp chair that served as a table, desk and countertop when needed, and two metal cases filled with supplies. All would pack neatly and compactly onto the sledge when it came time to move on. The supply cases were a great deal lighter now than they had been when she left base two weeks ago, and she estimated, if she thought about it at all, that she had enough food and water for another ten days. After that she would simply... move on.

Hannah Braselton North had come to the wilderness to die. That was not what she had told her family and colleagues, who believed she was spending the winter in a Canadian wildlife park and who were so relieved to see her getting on with her life that they did not question her plans too closely. The human capacity for grief was, after all, limited, and the consensus of opinion was that it was time for mourning to end. So Hannah went to Alaska, and she knew she would not be coming back. Base camp was a comfortable log-built compound thirty miles to the south where, for six months out of the year, a select team of scientists, photographers and professional observers studied the flora and fauna of this small section of the Arctic world. Their research was funded by the privately, and lavishly, endowed Wilderness Project, whose only goal was wilderness preservation. The estate of Henry Jacob Braselton, media tyc.o.o.n, was the source of the endowment. They called the facility Station Alpha, and it had been a dream of Tom's long before he married the daughter of the man who could make it come true. Somehow over the years the dream had also become Hannah's: a completely independent, fully equipped compound situated in the heart of a wilderness that was as untouched as any place on earth could be said to be, a place where the researchers who came to study the environment could actually become a part of what they studied. Hannah Braselton, wildlife biologist, had met Tom North, zoological veterinarian, when she interned at a wolf habitat maintained by the Wildlife Management Inst.i.tute. He knew who she was; the name Braselton was a legend in corporate America and her father's death three years earlier-along with his vast endowments to the arts and sciences-had made news for months. There were some problems with that, of course; Tom was not comfortable in the high-society world from which Hannah came, and Hannah had no patience with reverse sn.o.bbishness. But, as one of Hannah's first professors in the biology program had pointed out, "manure is a great equalizer," and by the end of her first week at the habitat most of the staff and interns, including Tom, had decided Hannah Braselton was okay. On their third date Tom had said, "I will endeavor, Ms. Braselton, not to allow your vast fortune to get in the way of my falling in love with you." Tom was tall and lanky, with an unruly lock of jet-black hair that persisted in falling over his left eyebrow and an irritating Midwestern drawl that got more p.r.o.nounced when he was angry. He was also one of the most dedicated veterinarians Hannah had ever worked with. She fell in love with him the first time she saw him beat his fist against a tree in impotent fury over a gunshot animal he had been unable to save. "So, High Cla.s.s," he said, holding her in his arms on a blanket tinder the stars after the first time they made love, "you gonna make an honest man of me or what?" "I'll do better than that," she told him, pushing back that persistent lock of hair over his eye. "I'm going to make all your dreams come true." "You already have," he told her. They were married four days later. They bought a run-down ranch in upper Montana and turned it into a refuge for sick and injured wolves, most of them victims of the less-than-warm reception given them by ranchers when they happened to wander outside the boundaries of Yellowstone National Park. Before the Norths had even moved in all their equipment, someone burned down their barn. Hannah had been afraid Tom would want to leave, to find a more hospitable location or even a less hazardous line of work. But he had spent a few minutes surveying the damage and kicking around ashes, then said, "Well, what are you waiting for, High Cla.s.s? We got work to do." They spent five years developing the ranch, building bridges to the community and rebuilding with every setback. They developed an education program and employed a staff, mostly volunteer, to help with organizational duties and animal care. Summers they spent in the high country, in Canada or Alaska, as members of various research teams tracking and observing wolves in their natural environments. All the while Hannah was working on setting up the foundation, from her father's various endowments, that would one day become The Wilderness Project. Station Alpha had been completed three years ago, with an eight-year plan that would eventually take them to Phase Four, a fully operational facility which could support as many as fifty personnel year-round and which would include a meteorological center, a state-of-the-art veterinary clinic and a broadcasting capability. The project was still in Phase Two, with the concentration of research on cataloguing and tracking the indigenous wildlife. That was how Hannah and Tom had discovered the Great White's pack two springs earlier. "I still can't believe they were here," she murmured into her mug. "It was almost as though they were waiting for me, you know? I mean it, Tom, if you could have seen the way the Great White looked at me..." She was silent for a moment, sipping her tea, remembering the click of the shutter and the turn of the majestic head, the look in those fierce Arctic eyes as they met hers through the camera lens. Only a wolf could manage to look proud, contemptuous and disinterested at the same time. And that was only one of the many reasons the species had fascinated scientists, researchers and preservationists for so many years. "It was like he remembered me," she said softly, gazing at the low mist of steam that had congealed in her cup, "or that he knew why I had come... or at least that's what I want to think. And who's going to argue with me, hmm, Tom? Certainly not you." The wind snapped the flaps of the tent a couple of times and then died back to a low, soft hum that scuttled snow across the frozen ground and stirred the branches of evergreens at the far end of the valley. But for that soft constant murmur of wind, there was absolute silence, and sometimes Hannah liked to simply stop and listen to that silence. A part of her was always hoping to hear a familiar voice borne upon the wind, a shout of laughter or discovery: Hannah, over here! or Hannah, due west! which was Tom's preferred method of communicating across the tundra, despite the ready availability of thousands of dollars' worth of sophisticated communications equipment. Sometimes she listened so hard that she actually thought, far in the distance... but then she would rush outside and stand straining to hear, and there would be nothing but the wind. One day, she knew, she would hear the voice, and she would follow it, and not look back. Until then, she would wait. She frowned now, recalling the bizarre behavior of the pack right after she had taken the photograph. What was it they had heard? Some kind of seismic disturbance or supersonic wave? The pack howl had lasted almost three minutes, reverberating off the glaciers and echoing over the plains, and when it was finished they had disappeared into the snowy woods as quickly as they had come, abandoning their kill. "I wish you had seen that," she muttered to Tom. She finished off the tea and poured the rest of the hot water over the same bag, swirling it absently by the string. "You always had an explanation for everything." Tom had discovered the hidden valley the first June they spent here, and had speculated that it was protected enough to actually support a variety of wildlife through the winter months. He had found the droppings of musk oxen, frozen in less than a foot of snow, and had seen signs of winter-hardy vegetation beneath. He had spotted the mud slick in Little Claw Creek, where the wolves went to drink, breaking through the crust of the ice with their ma.s.sive paws and leaving tracks frozen in the snow. But an entire summer's worth of searching had not produced the pack to which those tracks belonged, nor any sign of their den. That was when Tom suggested the valley might be the winter home of the pack, and insisted on staying late into the season to Prove it. Hannah stayed with him. It was October when the wolves showed up, and left the first fresh paw prints in mud leading down to the fast-flowing stream. Tom and Hannah followed the tracks for over a mile on foot in dry, blowing snow and wind chills ten below zero. They were clever stalking silently and downwind, but the wolves were cleverer. The tracks did not lead to their den, but to a blind bluff where, when Hannah looked up, the Great White and his mate were watching them from atop a stone escarpment, perhaps twenty feet over their heads. Hannah gripped Tom's arm in a moment of intense communication and he looked up as well, and for the longest time the four of them simply acknowledged one another in silence: man, woman and wolves. They never discovered how the wolves got up there, and they never found the trail. Neither did they know where the rest of the pack was. But one thing was clear: the wolves had been watching them, following him, since they left the creek. They had deliberately led their human trackers away from the den and the rest of the pack. Hannah and Tom stayed for two more weeks, before the weather became so inclement that they knew they would have to either leave or resign themselves to wintering over. During that time they saw the pack twice, but never found the den. An