Marques wasn’t certain what was going on here—perhaps one of the Tartar’s tribesmen had taken this opportunity to challenge his leader?—but he didn’t really care. For whatever reason, Providence had granted him a chance to escape.
He got to his feet and started running.
The Gray’s first instinct was to attack the newcomer for having the audacity to interfere with his hunt, but even though he was possessed by the fury of the Beast, he still retained enough sense of self to recognize the black wolf’s scent.
Kill! shrieked the Beast that shared his soul. Kill him now!
The Gray wanted to—but he couldn’t escape the niggling feeling that there was some reason he shouldn’t. If only he could remember…
But before the memory could return to him, the Black charged. The Beast urged him to meet his attacker head on, but instead the Gray waited until the last instant then darted to the side, nipping the Black on the haunch as he passed—hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to do any real damage.
No! protested the Beast. Claw-bite-tear-rip-chew-swallow-bite again! Kill-kill-kill-kill-kill!
The Black howled more in frustration than in pain, and spun around to attack again. But before he could complete the maneuver, the Gray lowered his head and butted him in the side, knocking him down. The Gray pressed his advantage by leaping atop the Black and fastening his dripping jaws on the other’s throat.
Yes!
The Gray’s teeth—all of them long and needle-sharp now, not just the canines—dimpled the flesh of the black wolf’s neck. All it would take was a bit more pressure, and the skin would be pierced and sweet blood would gush into the Gray’s mouth, splash hot and thick on his tongue, slide down his throat and into a belly that was a cold aching pit of endless need.
Do it!
And the Gray almost did. But his nostrils were full of the Black’s scent, and a name drifted into his mind to accompany the smell: Arnulf. It was quickly followed by another name: Qarakh.
The Gray released the Black’s neck and stepped back. The black wolf’s body shimmered, blurred and reformed into that of a large black-bearded man with a scar running across one eye and a huge grin splitting his face.
“Good fight! For a moment there, I actually thought you were going to tear my throat out!”
The Gray vanished and in his place stood Qarakh. “For a moment, I was.”
The Goth laughed. He rose to his feet and clapped the Mongol on the shoulder. “What do you say we finish this hunt together, eh?”
Qarakh was irritated at Arnulf for horning in on his hunt, but he understood the Goth’s need to periodically test his leader. If he were in Arnulf’s place, he would likely do the same.
Qarakh returned the warrior’s grin. “If you can keep up.”
Seconds later, two sleek wolfish forms bounded off into the night. Soon after, a Cainite named Marques screamed as he was torn apart by two sets of fang-filled mouths.
He didn’t scream for very long.
Arnulf licked a smear of crimson from the back of his hand. “Not bad at all.”
Qarakh looked away as the Goth warrior continued licking his hand like a cat cleaning itself, lest his Beast be roused again. “His master will not be so easy to fell, I think.”
Arnulf lowered his hand and started working on the other, speaking between licks. “Let him come. Him and however many other weaklings he has with him.”
Qarakh nodded to the grisly mutilated thing that had once been Marques. “We have no way of finding out anymore, do we?”
“So, will you tend to the ghoul now?” Arnulf asked.
For a moment, Qarakh wasn’t certain what the Goth was talking about, but then he remembered Sasha.
“May I join you? It won’t be much of a hunt compared to this,” Arnulf said as he gestured at the ravaged remains of Marques. “But blood is blood.”
Qarakh had been reconsidering killing Sasha, but now he knew that he had no choice. If he failed to slay the ghoul, he would lose face in Arnulf’s eyes. As khan, it was vital that he maintain face at all times—especially when it came to a member of his tribe as powerful as the Goth. “Sasha has served me well. I would do him the honor of a swift death at the hands of his master alone.”
Arnulf shrugged. “I shall see what other prey might be abroad this night.” The Goth exchanged his human form for that of a wolf then melted into the darkness, off on the hunt once more.
Qarakh lingered a moment, looking at what was left of Marques and wondering how Alexander would react to the death of his vassal. Then he too became a wolf and loped off in the direction of the camp.
Sasha touched the flame to the pyre and stepped back. There had been little rain for the last few weeks, and the wood was dry and caught fire easily. He tossed the torch he’d used to set the pyre aflame at Pavla’s feet then said a silent prayer to commend her spirit to Telyavel. The growing light from the blaze cast flickering, distorted shadows throughout the clearing, as if the shades of those who had already passed over to the realm of the dead had come to welcome a new soul into their midst.
The smell of burning flesh and hair turned his stomach. He thought that he might vomit, but he swallowed several times and managed not to. He was sure Pavla would forgive him if he did, but he
