ing was crystal clear Hare-Jumper will

ing was crystal clear. Hare-Jumper will &

lay down, in quiet submission. The others slowly made their way to the water as Fights-the-Bear wished them to. Yesterday’s meal would hold them.

Later, when the pack was resting for a few hours, Fights-the-Bear spoke to Storm-Eye. In a few whips of tail and movements of his aging body, his meaning was crystal clear. Hare-Jumper will & you good pups next heat. That simple statement said volumes.

Only the pack‘s alpha male would breed and that was now Fights-the-Bear. For Hare-Jumper to breed he would have to displace his father, and for his father to step down he would have to:. .

Quiet, Storm-Eye barked. You will make the pups.

I am old and tired, sister, he said, simply by lying down. This thaw will be my last. There was no sadness in his statement, no regret. Just acceptance. It was the wolf‘s way.

Later, as the rest of the pack slept, Storm-Eye paced.

It was not right, she thought despite herself. She was as old as Fights-the-Bear, her last surviving littermate. Just because Gaia chose to give her the changing skin, why should he rather than she trot through into spring waiting to die? He had spent his ten winters caring for pack and pups, leading them on s u c d l hunts and through bountiful summers despite the humans and their Wyrmfeeding ways. No Galliards would sing for him, and yet he was the one who followed Gaia’s way. Was this the justice of the world?

Then her ears perked up to the damned sound of a belching motor and she caught a faint whiff of acrid exhaust. At that moment, she knew Fights-the-Bear would not die forgotten by Gaia.

The Fenrir Anthem of War was a beautiful and terrible thing, sounding like nothing so much as the howl of a winter storm descending upon a lonely coastal village. Unfortunately, this time the village was the Get’s own Sept of the AnvilKlaiven and the storm would be the unleashed fury of the Wyrm.

Storm-Eye ran with all her lupine speed from the House of the Spearsreach toward the den of Toren Weaverguard. Karin Jarlsdottir had ordered her to defend the still-battling Mari Cabrah from the assault, and that was what she intended to do.

The sounds of battle came from many directions, near and far, almost gleeful war cries competing with the terribly high-pitched shrieks of the damnable Black Spiral Dancers. Storm-Eye understood now why so few of the Get had been in Spearsreach-they had already set up a tight defense of the caern, one that was now paying off in Dancer blood and Fenrir glory.

She crested the hill nearest Weaverguard’s home and her hackles rose. Two of the Gaia-forsaken things assaulting the caern were there, in their own corrupted version of the Crinos warrior-form.

One was obviously female, rows of pendulous breasts hanging from her hairless chest, with a face so scabbed Storm-Eye wondered how she could see at all. The other Dancer, a male, had molted greenish fur and the membranous ears of a reptile. They advanced toward the low hut despite an assault by the frosty ground itself. Both were making slow progress as daggers of ice and frost formed around their feet with every step-surely the result of spirit guardians entreated by Weaverguard.

Storm-Eye didn’t lose a stride. With one powerful bound, she sailed yards into the air and across the open ground around Weaverguard’s home. Her rage boiling inside her, she doubled in weight and size as she flew, taking on the dire-wolf shape of the Hispo. She landed like an avalanche of fur and teeth on the male, knocking him to the ground with her momentum and snapping her own terrible jaws closed through his shoulder. His blood tasted of maggots and rot.

The female Dancer shrieked like breaking glass and raked Storm-Eye’s side with her claws.

The pain was a fierce burning; it only added to her mounting rage. Releasing the wounded male, she turned to face his mate, her bloody teeth bared.

The Dancer held up her right hand, showing Storm-Eye her own blood on the barbed metal hooks that tipped the distended fingers where claws should be. Storm-Eye knew the male wasn’t out of the fight yet, but now the female was the immediate threat.

The Dancer sidestepped, circling, trying to get Storm-Eye to move away from her wounded mate, but she was hampered by the spirits still fighting her.

Each step was a labor, and when she glanced down to free her leg yet again, Storm-Eye pounced. She went right for the Dancer’s throat, but the Wyrmthing reacted in time to get her a m up to push the great dire-wolf off her. She paid for it with cuts and kicks from Storm-Eye’s hind paws, but no more.

Storm-Eye ended up on the other side of her enemy, who turned and issued an ululating battle cry, twisting in an alien dance. This foul incantation seemed to push back the spirits and give the Dancer room to fight, room to kill. Behind her, her male companion was rising from the frosty ground, his left arm hanging limply from a torn and shattered shoulder. A great black tongue slipped from his maw to lick the gore that had splattered his face.

Blood was running from wounds on Storm-Eye’s own side, wounds that refused to heal. Alone against two Dancers she would have a fierce battle ahead of her, but Storm-Eye had never feared battle. And she was hardly alone.

First came Mephi Faster-than-Death, living up to his name as he darted over the hill in his sleek black Crinos form. The female Dancerobviously the superior foe-noticed him despite her twirling and tried to strike out with her barbed talons. Mephi, even though he ran faster than any jackal or Garou had any right to, easily ducked under her swipe, spun, stopped suddenly and struck upwards. A Galliard and a traveler, Mephi was not reputed to be a great warrior, but his long Crinos talons opened the Dancer groin to throat in one fell swoop.

Next over the hill was Cries Havoc. He crested in Lupus form, howling a war cry all his own. The male Dancer tuned to face him, but it was far too late for the fool. Cries Havoc never broke stride but assumed his Crinos war-form.

The small ram’s horns on his wolf-brow, the sign of his unnatural status as the metis child of two Garou, grew with his frame. As a wolf-man, his horns were full and strong. He lowered his head and slammed into the Dancer, sending him flying across the ice field and into a clutch of trees-one of which actually swung a branch to receive the beast like an impaler’s pike.

The silence after snapping, howling battle is always huge, and the three Garou stood there for a few beats feeling their rage ebb and flow. But the silence wasn’t complete. It was pierced by a barely audible, twisted chirping, coming from near Mephi.. .the female!

Lying in a spreading pool of her own black blood, seemingly oblivious to the coils of her intestines draped over her lower body, the Black Spiral Dancer was singing again. Like it had the spirits of the glade, this song pushed at the Garou’s hearts. As the bitch held up a length of rusted chain wrapped with wire and barbed hooks, Storm-Eye felt the wound in her side flare. All she could feel was that pain and all she could hear was the Dancer’s song. It all seemed like screeching gibberish save for one terrible word that peaked the crescendo of the dark incantation: “Jo’cllath‘mattric.”

Storm-Eye had just registered the barbed chain falling toward the frosty ground when the song was cut short by a great howl. Storm-Eye and the Dancer looked up in unison to see a hammer-wielding Garou in Crinos form literally fall from the sky. Storm-Eye had seen Karin Jarlsdottir in her war-form before, but then she had been crouched, defending the stricken Mari Now, she was a great mass of muscle and fury, slipping from the Penumbra high in the air to come down on the Wyrm-beast who dared threaten her caem and sept. Her hammer of judgment came with her, and there was no doubt as to the terrible finality of this wise-woman’s ruling. Just as her clawed feet touched the ground between Mephi and the Dancer, she brought the hammer down, using every bit of her momentum to drive it through the invader’s skull and frame. It hit the ground with a terrible boom like a mountain falling on a fly, and the Wyrm-bitch was no more. StormEye could hear other Fenrir howling their Anthem of War in answer to the thunderous blow-they had obviously heard their Greifynya at war before.

“Inside!” Jarlsdottir barked at the Garou in the rage-filled growl of the war-form. She turned to lead the way, her silvery fur and great braid pocked with blood of fallen enemies. They left the Dancers’ corpses to the spirits’ tender mercies.

Once within Weaverguard‘s sturdy wooden home, the sounds of battle receded somewhat, although Storm-Eye was sure the enemy was not far off. The elder Theurge himself was nowhere to be seen, but Mari Cabrah lay where they had left her.

Her tee-shirt and jeans were soaked through with sweat. Her eyes darted wildly under closed lids as she battled the thing within her. A rough-hewn necklace was draped around her neck-most likely a talisman or fetish placed there by Weaverguard to help her in her struggle. The wolf-tooth bracelet was still wrapped tightly around her wrist.

“Sideways,” said Jarlsdottir as soon as she had scanned the house’s single room. She held out her - great hammer and the four Garou all stared at its reflective surface-somehow the gore of battle would not stick to it. Soon the physical world parted and they were in the Penumbral reflection of the caem. It was not a happy scene.

The great rune-covered walls of the Umbral fortifications rose around them, but the sky above was no longer peaceful. A great spiritual typhoon, the likes of which Storm-Eye had-despite her namenever seen, raged in the Umbral sky. Standing atop the battlements was Weaverguard, waving a great spear at the sky and the black shades that swept through it. Spirits of hawks and wolves and winds raced around him, doing his bidding and fighting against the encroaching tempest. In a second he had noticed their arrival and he leapt down to join them.

“This is no random attack, Greifynya,” he reported. The Theurge was old and his Crinos muzzle was graying, but his eyes shone true and strong. Runes and glyphs across his fur shone with power as the spirit guardians he commanded strengthened him for battle. His body language spoke of the emotions bubbling within him: equal parts concern for the safety of the holy place he tended and thrill at the great battle to which all Fenrir were born. “These Wyrm-things are after something here.”

“I agree,” answered Karin, her voice somewhat clearer in the Umbra, despite her Crinos form.

“The Spirals in the physical realm seem meant to keep us pinned down while the spirits get what they came after. What are these things,” she added sweeping a hand toward the black shapes in the stormy sky, “Banes?”

“Like none I’ve seen before, Greifynya.”

“But I have,” interrupted Mephi. “Those are the things that grew out of the blight near the Tisza. I...I think they may be here for me.” To admit such a thing was a bitter pill to swallow for a Garou whose reputation lay in escaping from the Wyrm. If he had endangered the caern, his life could be forfeit.

“Or for her,” said Weaverguard, indicating Mads Umbral shadow. “The things inside her is tied to that storm somehow.”

Storm-Eye, an outsider to this conversation, watched the roiling chaos in the Umbral sky above her. She could see the spiritual thunderhead fray and shred the shinning paths of the moon bridges that had linked Anvil-Klaiven to other caems.

And black things were raining down from there, spirits foul and hungry.

“There are plenty of possible targets. Have you been able to help her at all?”

“I’ve done what I can, Greifynya, but the battle is the Fury’s to win or lose.”

“You understate the benefit of your ministrations as always, my friend.” Karin’s toothy grin in the face of an assault on her caem was a testament: to her fearlessness. “NOW, back to the battlements with you. I’ll join you shortly.” .. .

Weaverguard acknowledged the order with a small yip and sailed back up on the Umbral winds to the top of the great walls. Soon his attention was focused on what appeared to Storm-Eye to be a wolf spirit of some sort, but black and snapping at the Theurge like a Wyrm-thing. When she returned her attention to her companions, they were following Jarlsdottir back into the physical realm and she joined them.

The Greifwllra was back in Homid form and picking up Mari in her arms, her great hammer set aside for now, when Storm-Eye stepped sideways. “Mephi Faster-than-Death, you’ve outrun these Banes before and I’m asking you to do it again, this time with cargo.” Her voice was clear once more.

“Um.. .where?”

“Take Mari to King Albrecht by whatever route you can. Mari will be best able to fight her battle among friends and at her home; perhaps they can provide her some help as well. Also, you must bring word of the goings-on here to other septs. We will stand against the Wyrm as long as we can, but will need support if we are to bring the battle to it.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Mephi took a length of flaxen strips out of his pack and wrapped them strategically around Mari to create a sling to help him carry her. She was cradled much like a baby in his long, thin Crinos arms. ‘%o now. The warder cannot keep the moon bridges open much longer. Live up to your name, Strider.” And with that, Mephi Faster-than-Death was gone.

I WiUgo with him, added Storm-Eye in wolf speak, with just a turn of her head. She was almost out of the house before she heard Karin’s command to stop.

“No, Storm-Eye, I have another task for you.”

The Greifynya gave the Red Talon a chance to turn back around before continuing. “It’s possible that the Banes are here for Mari or Mephi, but I don’t think so. There is another in whom they might be more interested.”

She turned her gaze on Cries Havoc, who stared gape-mouthed at her. “But.. .’I “Get him to Antonine Teardrop in America,” the Greifynya said. “Keep him safe.”

Storm-Eye felt bitter rage grow in her and her hackles rise. How could the woman ask her to protect this fool?Not so long ago, when she had first arrived at AnvilKlaiven, Storm-Eye had been among those calling for the metisb immediate and unceremonious execution, so weak had been the cliath’s resolve in the face of pintless accusations. Now she was to guard him? It was prepmterous! It was.. .

She glanced at Jarlsdottir, who had obviously read Storm-Eye’s body language with ease and stared into her with cold, hard eyes. It was the order of the Greifynya of the caern that was her host. It was the alpha’s command. And the Litany said the leader could not be challenged during wartime. Storm-Eye lowered her gaze in acceptance of the Fenrir chieftain’s command and turned toward Cries Havoc. Unsurprisingly, this metis Child of Gaia-a walking violation of the Litany-didn’t see things so clearly.

“NO!” he exclaimed. “I have to stay to defend the caem with the rest of you. This is my home now! I can’t leave it.”

“Cries Havoc,” began Karin, her voice even but hard with suppressed rage, “the Stargazer Teardrop said you would be part of a third pack needed to defeat this threat. Without that third pack, many of this sept’s best warriors have already died and I fear more will join them before the battle is through. I appreciate your desire to defend Anvil-Klaiven, but you’ll do more good with Teardrop. So go.”

“But-”

Jarlsdottir was in Crinos form before the others even saw her move. Her right hand went to Cries Havoc’s throat and her left foot stepped inside and behind his right leg. She pushed forward, and he was flat on his back, her claws at his windpipe. “Go!” Karin growled.

Storm-Eye’s tail wagged in admiration: For a homid, Jarlsdottir could communicate like a wolf when she needed to. The Gaian boy-and in this company he appeared a child despite his own bulky Crinos form-got up as soon as he was released and headed toward the door. He looked up again at the woman who had so thoroughly bested him, just before leaving.

“Be safe,” she said, and then stepped sideways.

As wolf, Storm-Eye said to the boy and watched him shift into a thin gray wolf, still with small ram horns. F o l h , she added and they headed outside, toward the Hill of Lamentations, where whatever moon bridges still held would be anchored.

They were still a half-mile from there when the air ahead of them tore open with an audible shriek. A nightmare thing leapt from the bleeding gash in the Gauntlet. It was shaped like a great wolf but: seemingly made of pure darkness, highlighted by Bane-wisps crawling within it. Its eye burned a baleful green and in its maw it held a bloody shred of Garou flesh.

Storm-Eye recognized the pelt from the runes upon it.

You will, Storm-Eye said in a language of bared teeth, fixed eyes and raised hackles.

No, answered Fights-the-Bear in similar fashion, locking gazes with her and raising his tail in dominant defiance of his alpha female. It isn’t OUT way.

You will! Her growl segued to a loud bark and suddenly she was running and leaping, her rage fueling her drive. Fight-the-Bear leapt back to get a better position, but she was moving faster than any wolf should and by the time she hit, she had changed. The great dire-wolf Hispo form gave her at least a hundred-pound advantage and she bowled over her male like a pup.

To his credit, he did not submit easily. There were no high-pitched squeals, no suddenly bared throats, Fights-the-Bear growled and barked and fought like this great changing wolf was just another of many challengers he had faced over his many winters. But it was no use. In a few seconds she had him on his back and her great maw was around his throat, pressing in. Submission or death were his two choices, plain and simple.

It was an easy choice.

I evil, said his dropped ears and curled tail. I will.

Storm-Eye back off from her cowed male and shrunk back down to the form of a large reddish wolf.

They had to get moving if they were to find their prey.

It took them an hour, but they caught up with the humans when they stopped their vehicle on a low rise. Storm-Eye’s time among the humans told .. . her the thing was called a “pickup,” but it was just another Weaver-begotten monstrosity as far as she was concerned. Three men were standing around the thing, eating and chatting. Fights-the-Bear’s ears perked up to the sounds, but he couldn’t understand the words. Storm-Eye wasn’t so lucky.

“Hey, Maurice,” a fat little man said to his friend sitting in the bed of the truck. “You hear Shauna’s back on the juice?” The man wore his long black hair in a single braid.

“Yeah. Shame, that is.” Maurice, more slender than his companion, was nibbling at some pre-packaged foodstuff. “Hear tell she’s been getting it from Old Hubert. Wish the Mounties would shut that fool down once n’ for all.”

“Liquor buys you lots of kickbacks,” said the third man, stepping around from the other side of the truck.

“Hubert’s known that since we were all kids.”

Tnat one, Storm-Eye said with her gaze and her hackles, he w y - k . Even without her order, she knew it would be clear to her packmate that this tall man was the alpha of this bunch of humans. Not only was he fitter and stronger, but he walked with the smde of a man in charge. The othm’ sloping posture and slightly averted eyes spoke of deference, even submission.

“You think you can do anything ’bout it once you’re chief, Gregory?” It was short-and-fat speaking again, his words blowing around bits of a sandwich.

“I ain’t chief, Dorion.” Tall-man Gregory flushed with pride at the mention of the word, though, and from far away Storm-Eye knew he would be. “The tribal council still supports Henry.”

“Henry’s in Old Hubert’s pocket and the council knows it,” slender Maurice said. “Them Indian Affairs folks from Ottawa come sniffing around with the Mounties, the council will withdraw its support faster than you can say boo. And you’re the only real choice after that, so stop playing all modest.”

“Yeah, Gregory, we all saw you on television in Yellowknife talking about traditional hunting rights and all that. We know we owe you for the hunt, and we know you know. Y’know!”

Gregory turned and scratched his head for a second, then burst out in bellowing laughter. “Yeah, I know, you great big fool!” Soon all three men were guffawing like squawking hens. Storm-Eye moved forward, Fights-the-Bear right on her heels.

“Okay,” Gregory said reaching into the cab of the truck. “Now that we scared away every animal within twenty kilometers, let’s get started.”

He pulled out a large rifle.

Be ready, Storm-Eye said with tensed muscles and bristling fur. The two crept closer and closer to the humans, using the brush and low hills as cover.

As the humans exchanged another pointless laugh, she broke left, running full tilt as if after prey.

“There!” Maurice exclaimed. “Look at that one, got to be almost two hundred pounds!”

“I think I’ve got a shot,” said Gregory the alpha human, raising his rifle. Looking through the scope, he had a clear view of Storm-Eyeand not a hope of seeing Fights-the-Bear until it was too late.

“Watch out!” screamed the fat Dorion when he spotted the big gray wolf charging over the hill.

But the warning was too little, too late, and the beast was jumping and Gregory was falling.

Maurice fired his gun, but not before Gregory's blood poured onto the ground. Dorion fired too, but it was even less useful as the wolf, too, was already dying.

A half-mile away, on a small rise, Storm-Eye turned from the carnage and headed back toward her pack's territory. The man called Gregory would kill no more wolves, and Fights-the-Bear would be remembered.

Mick cupped his hands under the hot water running from the chrome tap. In the stark track lighting of his bathroom, every speck of dirt and grime was visible and he wanted to scrub it all away. Had to scrub it all away. The water turned from hot to scalding, sending steam billowing up from the polished porcelain sink. Perfect. He reached over to the small chrome toiletries shelf where he kept a vintage straight razor and other prized cleansing tools, and pumped the Neutrogena dispenser once, twice.

The orange gel dissolved into a white froth as he rubbed it between his hands, building up a lather.

He closed his eyes and brought his hands to his face, working the suds into every nook and cranny of his perfect face. He used his middle fingers to work at the space around his nostrils, and his broad palms to slick the soap across his cheeks, then his throat. He moved up again, using all his fingers on his forehead.

Satisfied he had scrubbed every pore, he lowered his hands to the water to rinse them. The suds were now a satisfying shade of pink. Neutrogena really was the best soap to wash up the blood.

After splashing water on his face and dabbingnever wiping, always dabbing-himself dry with a fresh white cotton towel, he passed his hand over the large mirror to wipe away the fog. His skin was just slightly raw from the scrubbing, but that would fade. He looked at the towel and saw that not a speck of red had stained it. Nothing started a day like a good cleaning, he always said.

Steam draped the mirror again, sending his reflection back into a gray haze. But in the haze, he saw things. And in the running water, he heard things. News, good news. People would be coming to him, people with whom he could truly play.

Mick smiled at the thought and noticed a speck of bloody meat caught between his left-top canine and eyetooth.

He reached for the floss.

The beast stank of the Wyrm like nothing Storm-Eye had ever faced before, and she had faced many a twisted thing in her ten winters. The scent of blood and pain wafted from it like a cloud of flies from a disturbed corpse when it took a step forward.

Things, Banes or other rot-spirits, crawled and swam through the darkness of its pelt and body.

Cries Havoc rose to Crinos form and readied for battle, but the thing stared only at Storm-Eye.

It took another step forward and, if it could be said to have body language, then its posture said: You are mine, little cub. Submit.

Storm-Eye felt her own rage mount anew and this time she didn’t fight it. The still-raw wounds on her right flank flared and added to her fury. The bitter pill of Karin Jarlsdottir forcing her to chaperone this inbred Gaian cub did the same, and she let loose. Luna’s fire burned through her as her sleek lupine form bulked up in a split second. Forepaws stretched and distended into great furred arms, and *** soon she was upright in her mighty Crinos warform. Her senses tunneling in on the Wyrm-wolf alone, she pounced and soared the twenty yards to the thing with ease. Her terrible claws extended and her maw gaping, she let out a rage-fueled war cry and was on the thing.

It barely seemed to move, just followed her with its gaze. When she struck, her claws struck at smoke. Her talons, arms, and then her whole body went right through the wolf to hit the ground below. The Wyrm-thing dissolved into a brackish mist, the spirits within it swarming about like locusts.

“An illusion!”cried the metis, who had moved to join the fray.

He was soon proved wrong, though, by a searing pain in Storm-Eye’s shoulder. The wolf rematerialized with its jaws clamped on that spot, trying to drag her down. Storm-Eye reached back with her left arm and grabbed hold of the thing on her back. Its fur was slick, as if it were covered in oil or the slime of rotted carrion, but she got a grip nevertheless and her claws dug in. She felt the bite loosen ever so slightly and pulled, tearing the Wyrm-wolf from her back and throwing it at a nearby tree.

The thing sailed through the frigid air almost calmly. It just let itself sail, never bucked trying to reestablish its balance or find footing. When it hit the tree, it seemed to disintegrate like packed sand hitting the ground. Suddenly it was a cloud of black smoke and crawling things and then it was gone, like a bad dream or a guilty memory.

Cries Havoc whooped a cry of victory, but StormEye felt no satisfaction.

Her breathing slowed as the rush of frenzy faded and questions flooded her mind. Was it dead?

Surely not so easily. Where was it then? Would it come back? No longer in the fury of battle, she was keenly aware that she was wearing her warform, something she hadn’t done in many cycles of the moon. Standing on two legs felt so foreign to her, as did seeing the world from so high up.

She crouched to catch the scents on the ground and felt the fetish on her right arm tighten some around her biceps. Made from the twisted barrel of a hunter’s gun, it held a moose spirit that hated human killers almost as much as she did. In her wolf-form it remained hidden by the same spirit, but now it was visible again. She glanced at it with her good eye and it reminded her of the human she had taken the barrel from. That had been a glorious hunt.

She shifted back to Lupus and shook away thoughts of the past. This was no time for reminiscence. She had to get Cries Havoc to safety-that was her duty to Karin Jarlsdottir and the others. She glanced at the Gaian metis and he took the wolf-form again.

They covered the last quarter-mile at full tilt, well aware that the caem was facing an all-out assault. The Fenrir and Black Spirals outdid each other with cries of battle, and the scents of fear, anger, blood and fire intermingled on the winds. Storm-Eye was happy to hear the resounding thunder of Jarlsdottir’s hammer once more and she and Cries Havoc added quick yelps to the howls of appreciation that echoed from around the Fenrir lands. It was a cry of altogether another sort that greeted them when they got to the Hill of Lamentations.

“Bloody Christ on the Cross!” Julia Spencer, the Glass Walker who had been in Spearsreach was kicking the frosty autumn ground with her booted foot. “Just great.”

Move, Storm-Eye said in a quick wolf bark.

She then began readying to call upon the Lunes to grant her access to the moon bridge back across the Arctic to her home. From there, it would be a hard journey to Albrecht in New York, but it was doable. She had barely raised her voice in a howl of supplication to the spirits when the Glass Walker spoke again.

“Don’t waste your breath, the bloody bridges are gone.” Spencer’s smallish face adopted an airStorm-Eye was at pains to recognize-somewhere between defeat and defiance, with a hint of sarcasm. Humans were frustratingly opaque at times, and this one was made all the more so by the tinted glasses that hid her eyes and the bulky jacket that masked her body language. In fact, she wore a typically incomprehensible array of clothing. What did humans need with layer upon layer of clothing? How could you run or fight with your feet encased in hard rubber and leather?

“What happened?” Cries Havoc slid into Homid form to speak with the Glass Walker.

“You take a look at the Penumbra in that last ‘There’s a storm of some sort.”

“Emphasis on the ‘some sort,’ homed-andcharming. I’ve never seen anything like it and it’s driving the Lunes mad. The bridges got swallowed up just before I could get to them. So I, like you, am quite stuck.’: Again, Spencer’s words were defeatist but her body language defiant.

“What about Mephi Faster-than-Death?”

Storm-Eye spoke in Garou tongue, better suited to questions of the sort. Who knew how well this young Walker would read a wolf.

“Tall, dark and jackal? Carrying off a woman in his arms like a fairy tale? He made it onto the last bridge before the storm rolled in. No idea if he’s okay or not.” She looked off into the distance and kicked at the ground. “Hope so. But we’re all out of luck.”

“No.” Storm-Eye looked at Cries Havoc. “We will go overland. Over the ice.”

“Over the ice.” Cries Havoc swallowed. “To Canada.” ‘You realize there are ratsfaced Dancers out there, right? Spencer butted in. “And there’s no pack ice here, so you’d have to make it into Finland, maybe Russia. That’s insane. You’d have a better chance standing and fighting with the Get or even facing the storm and the-” She looked around, grappling with an idea. ‘The two of you are up to a TOW if need be, nght? I mean, you can fight?”

StortmEye just looked at her, her posture rigid and her hackles rising. She ignotd the pain from her injuries, neither of which were in any rush to heal. hour? Not a pretty sight.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” She took a small black disc out of one of her heavy coat’s many pockets. It flipped open to reveal a small minor. “Let’s go, then.” And they stepped sideways into hell.

The storm they had seen high above the caem before was now sweeping across the ground like unleashed fury. In the Penumbra, sacred lands like caems could be grand indeed, and Anvil-Klaiven was no exception. The Hill of Lamentations on which they stood was now a vast mound, with great stone markers indicating the graves of Fenrir heroes. Those graves stood empty, their occupants waiting for the Apocalypse in the afterlife.

Storm-Eye knew she should also see the high rune-walls of Weaverguard’s fortress and the fiery glow of the sundered Anvil of Thor that gave the caern its name. Instead, the raging tempest was all she could see. The grave markers disappeared into the roiling mass of clouds and flashing, maddened Lunes before they reached their apex. Everything beyond the hill was embroiled in the storm.

“Hold me down!” Spencer said, her clothing billowing in the Umbral wind. “Hurry!”

CriesHavcctumedtoCrinosandgmbMthe homid woman with his left arm, the claws of his free arm and feet digging into the ground for purchase. But Storm-Eye knew it wouIdn’t be enough, the wind seemed determined to loosen these intruders into its domain. She flowed into the war-form as well and grabbed Cries Havoc by the arm. Her other arm found purchase on the nearest grave marker and she held firm with her not-inconsiderable might. Still the wind was strong and getting stronger.

“Thanks!” The Glass Walker, now at least somewhat secure, reached into another of her many pockets and brought out a gray plastic tablet of some sort. StormEye couldn’t quite see what she was doing, but she felt Cries Havoc tense at the sight. A flash or light, a spark or ember perhaps, shot up from the tablet.

Storm-Eye, her claws fighting to keep their grip on the stone, nevertheless looked up. The storm blotted everything out. Except, every few moments, the clouds would swirl in such a way as to allow a glimpse of the Umbra above and beyond the caern and the tempest. Once Storm-Eye saw the red star that some said warned of Phoenix’s coming and the final battle.

Other times she saw the faint shimmering regularity of the Pattern Web, the Weaver’s mad entrapment of reality. And that shimmering, or at least a strand of it, seemed to be getting closer.

“Get ready!” Spencer yelled over the increasing howl and took on the Crinos form. She was sleek and thin for a Garou, her fur brown and gray and hidden under some clothing attuned to herself, but the change in size was enough to make Cries Havoc almost lose his grip. “Sorry,” she said somewhat sheepishly as she found her own purchase in the ground.

That was when Storm-Eye became aware of the cliclung noise and looked up to see a horror of a different nature than any Black Spud Dancer or Wynwwolf.

The thing was the size of a large dog, with a bulbous and silvery body. Its spindly legs were articulated gears and made of chrome. Its many eyes were black lenses and its small jaw a drill. From its swollen abdomen came a shimmering thread on which it descended ftom the sky, weaving with its htnd legs. A Pattern Spider. A Pattern Spider at a cam. It landed before them and gripped the ground like a satisfted crow over a corpse.

Before she could act on her mounting fury, Storm-Eye heard the Glass Walker yelling, “Climb!

Quick!” With that she was ascending the Pattern Web and Cries Havoc, the fool, was climbing too.

Storm-Eye had no choice but to follow.

The ascent was surprisingly easy at first. Although the web whipped back and forth in the Umbral wind, the worst gusts and the spirits they carried always seemed to miss them. Storm-Eye was no expert on spiritual matters, but it seemed to her that the Wyrm t h i i were avoidm the Pattern Web. That worried her all the more.

Tune, like distance, is quite flexible in the Umbra, and Storm-Eye could only say that it had been a long time when they finally cleared the storm. It was not a progressive transition through ever-decreasing densities of cloud, but a sudden emergence, like breakii through the surface of braclush water into clear ait Looking down, Storm-Eye could see the roiling rnass of the storm still raging, although it seemed to be miles below now Looking up, she saw the Umbralsky, complete with the crimsan omen-star and the other white points of the firmament.

And the Pattern Web, now much clearer but somehow infinitely far away, despite the fact that the thread they were climbing was clearly linked to it.

It was then that the trouble started. First, little crawling things emerged from the web between their fingers, weaving tiny strands that bound them to it. Storm-Eye pulled her hand away instinctively and snapped the threads with a yank.

“Keep moving,” the Glass Walker Spencer said.

“Don’t let them tie you in.” Tearing away strands with each handhold, they continued their climb.

“Well, here they come.” Spencer pointed ahead of her on the strand, where bulky black shapes were descending toward the Garou. “Looks like quite a bunch of them.”

“What are those?” Cries Havoc had a hint of panic in his voice.

“Hunter Spiders. They defend the Pattern Web against threats to its integrity.” She looked back with something akin to a smile. “Threats like us.”

“We have to leave the Web.” The solution seemed simple to Storm-Eye, although she had no idea what leaping blindly into the Umbra would entail. Surely nothing good, but it seemed like a better idea than facing off against more and more Pattern Spiders. “Now.”

“Not just yet. If we-”

“Look!” Cries Havoc pointed back down the strand below Storm-Eye, or maybe it was behind her, because gravity seemed not to have much meaning here in the spirit world. She turned, half-hoping it would be more Hunter Spiders, or maybe the raging Wyrm-spirits of the storm coming up to swallow them anew-anything except what she knew it had to be: the Wyrm-wolf, running out of the storm along the thread as if it were a well-worn path. Storm-Eye did her best to steel herself for battle, shifting to a halfstand on the thread, still pulling and flexing on her legs to stop the ever-weaving Pattern spirits from binding her in. ‘Well, that‘s a bit of luck.” Spencer ignored the perplexed gazes from her companions and brought out her small tablet again. Storm-Eye could see it was some sort of Weaver-thing, with a glowing screen that displayed images. She used a small stick or pen to activate it while holding it in the palm of the other hand. ‘That should do it. In three. . .two. . .one. . . Voih.”

Suddenly, the Pattern thread on which they were standing went somewhat slack. When Storm-Eye saw the reason, she couldn’t help but smile. Behind the Wynmwolf, coming up the strand it had just woven and swallowing it up again, was the Pattern Spider Julia had summoned. If the Wyrm-wolf ran like a breeze over hard ground, then the Spider undid its work like a gale-force wind. It closed the distance to the wolf in a few seconds and a bizarre battle ensued. Wisps of black Wyrm-smoke and mad strands of Pattern thread mixed into a knot that boggled the mind. ‘That’ll take care ofthe Web at Anvil-Klaiven, but wete still the Hunters to answer to.” The Glass Walker snapped some of the threads around her ankles, waved absenanindedlyupthethread, thenretumedtohertablet ‘‘I’ll get us out of here, if you’ll buy us a bit of time.”

The lead Hunter Spider was getting very close indeed. Six of its eight jet-black barbed legs moved along the thread with ease, while the front pair extended forward. Those last ended in shinning blades and claws, snapping open and closed. Storm-Eye scampered past her companions and raced to face the Weaver-thing. &rotherMoose,shecalledsilendy,JendmyoLlr~ She felt the gunbarrel mund her biceps &ten, loosen and shift as the spirit inside it woke for the first time in over a year. The fetish crawled down to her forearm and she felt her muscles swell with the spirit’s power. For just a second, the sense of wolf and pack fadeed and she was bull and herd. Surrounded by hundreds of her own kmd, she wielded all their strength and power.

Her awareness returned to the task at hand just as one of the Spider’s barbed talons was swiping for her. She ducked as best she could on the thread and avoided the first swipe. The other fore-limb came in then, stabbing straight towards her chest. Instead of dodging again, however, she grabbed the limb just behind the blade, stopping it fram plunging into her chest. She shifted her weight and felt the power of her fetish flow as she pulled with all its might. With a metallic screeching sound, the limb pulled out of the spider’s joint, taking a chunk of the thing’s clicking insides with it. Storm-Eye threw the thing off into the Umbra and the Weaver spirit retreated by a few lengths. Thank you, Brother Moose.

Of course, the Hunter Spider was a long way from out of commission. Its glowing blue eyes focused on Storm-Eye as another limb unfolded from within it. The Garou readied for another attack, very conscious of the other Spidetscomingdownthethreadbehindtheleader.

“That’s it! Let’s go.”

Storm-Eye glanced behind her. A thin, shimmering line was arcing from out of the Umbral sky toward them. A moon path. Thank Gaia.

“Jump for it!” yelled Spencer, and they did.

The silky thread pulled at Storm-Eye’s side as the graying Glass Walker pulled the suture through her flesh. His gray hair and salt-and-pepper beard framed a frowning, wrinkled face that spoke of long years of struggle. His green eyes bulged behind magnifying lenses that further distorted his appearance.

Julia Spencer, the young Glass Walker who had got them out of Anvil-Klaiven, appeared at the doorway. “All‘s well, Geoffrey?“ “So, you invited a Pattern Spider into a Fenrir caern, my Julia?” The old man’s focus never wavered from his first-aid work. Spencer leaned against a nearby wall in the converted series of lofts the Old City Sept called home. “You do realize we Garou have laws against such things, don’t you? Perhaps you’ve heard of a trifle we call the Litany?”

Storm-Eye suppressed a comment as the old man moved from the wounds on her side to those on her shoulder. She was lying on an elevated metal table, and felt very much out of place in her wolf-form in what amounted to a modern field hospital.

“You know, Taylor,” the young Glass Walker answered, “what you’re doing looks a lot like tending another’s sickness.” The paraphrase of the Litany was well-played, but it brought Storm-Eye’s hackles up too, because she was the one allowing it to happen.

“Not the same, dear Julia. Even the Talons and Fenrir make allowances for patching up wounds to carry on the battle.” Storm-Eye knew how slight those allowances were, although she felt that fulfilling Jarlsdottir’s direct request qualified. The Glass Walker male, who had introduced himself as Geoffrey-with-a-G Taylor, didn’t seemed perturbed at all. “There’s no excuse for threatening a caem like that. None at all.”

“I’m sure you would have done much better as envoy to the concolation, Geoffrey. Is that your point here?‘ “My point, Julia,” he said and pulled a stitch tight enough to make Storm-Eye flinch, “is that sending a cliath pup to do an adult’s job was a mistake. The boss sees that now.” He smiled darkly.

“And what makes someone an adult, Geoffrey? Jumping at shadows and licking the boss’s arse? That why you’re here with us instead of with the rest of your crew in Hastings?”

He dropped the needle and thread altogether.

“Listen, little pup! I’m ready to--”

“Enough!” Storm-Eye sat up and stayed in Lupus, barking in the Garou tongue. “Staying at Anvil-Klaiven was threatening the caem because the Wyrm-things were after us. Julia Spencer acted boldly but rightly: The Spider was recalled and the Pattern thread undone. The caem is safer for her action than it was with us stranded there.”

“I wonder if the Get will see it that way”

“That is for Jarlsdottir to decide, not you.”

Storm-Eye stared at Taylor, daring him to challenge her judgment. Spencer and Cries Havoc stayed where they were, the tension of the moment freezing them in place. It went on for several minutes.

“Switch to Homid or Crinos,” Taylor finally said, glancing down, “SO the sutures heal up.

That’ll get you where you’re going, but those Wyrm wounds aren’t mending anytime soon.”

She leapt off the table and felt her muscles grow into the dire-wolf form. Skin grew and stitched itself around the sutures and fur pushed through the places where it had been shaved. The pain of the Dancer and Wyrm-wolf‘s wounds was still there, but lessened somewhat.

“Or Hispo will do, I guess.” Taylor turned to his trikmate. ‘You make really nice friends, dear. Come this way, the boss is waiting.” Taylor led them Out of the infu. mary and onto the mezzanine that overlooked the Glass Walker caem’s inner courtyard. The whole place, as fiir as Storm-Eye could tell, was inside a large build% with openings above to allow in what sunlight this city provided.

TheK was some sort of garden in the lower courtyard, although she would never think to call it natural. ‘kat was where the moon path had led them and it seemed l i e there were many other rooms surrounding and overloolung it. Everythug was clean and polished, looking something like a valley after a fresh snow, before even the ham have had a chance to lay down cracks. But everywhere were walls and confines. Even the courtyard was hemmed in on all sides by concrete, steel and glass. There was no hiding the Weaver’s presence.

They arrived in a clearing at one end of the garden, where several other Garou and some human Kinfolk where gath&ed. The Kinfolk marked themselves by staring at Storm-Eye, a great dire wolf stalking alongside three humans. They all sat on the lush grass, and had laid out several tablets like Julia’s, only larger. These featured keys and buttons that some of the humans tapped at with dizzying speed. ‘‘Welcome to the Old City Sept,” said a red-haired woman looking over the shoulder of one of the tabletusers. She spoke in Garou, to the visible Consternation of several Kinfolk. “I trust Geoffrey has done his finest stitching, Storm-Eye. I’m Nicola River-Runner, the supposed elder of this motley grouping. You may all wish to come and look at this. We seem to have a guest.”

Storm-Eye and the others traipsed over to the group of Kinfolk and looked at the screens on the tablets. She had to force her wolf-eyes to focus on the flat images so that they were clear, ignoring the Glass Walkers prattling on about the glories of “wires less networks,” whatever those were. On the Kinfolk operator’s tablet was an image of the sad concrete of the city outside. A black vehicle was at a comer.

“That’s a block away. The Mercedes has been there for thirty minutes. We just sent a pack out.”

Mick pressed the CD control keys on his dashboard until he found a nice, mellow beat. That he had never noticed this converted warehouse truly bothered him. Until that scratching, delicious voice inside had led him hete, he couldn’t remember ever seeing it, and he’d spent many a long night driving around these very unfiiendly streets looking for new venues and the occasional playmate.

That just wasn’t, well, normal. *** A security guard came out of the building and walked toward Mick‘s car. Interesting. He couldn’t see them, but he smelled others moving around the rooftops and lanes. More interesting still.

“Excuse me, sir,” the guard said when he got up to the window. He was wearing a light uniform, carrying a policeman’s club and a two-way.

“Can I help you with anything?“ Mick smiled and breathed in this one’s wolfmusk. “Yeah, mate. You work in that block there?”

“What can I do for you, sir?“ “Well, I organize dance evenings and I’m looking for a new space.” The best lies were always close to the truth. Mick handed the poor boy a business card. “I was wondering if the space would be to let for a day or two. You know, for a party? I pay well.”

“NO, nothing for lease, sir.” The guard didn’t take the card and gave Mick his sternest look. “You might have more luck farther on.”

Ooh, fightening. Mick smiled and put the car in gear. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll try farther on.”

Once he had turned the corner and the guard was out of his rearview, he glanced down at the pure blackness that pooled on the car’s floor, and at the feral wolf grin within that darkness. “Soon, pet.”

“Seems clear, over.” Little Tim Bolyn, the Child of Gaia who’d been on guard duty that night, sounded frustrated over the radio. “Just a promoter or something.” *** Storm-Eye glanced at River-Runner and saw a look of concern on the woman’s face. She thought she had heard of this woman once or twice, a Fianna warrior who ran with Glass Walkers. Apparently she’d risen to leadership, and without losing her warrior’s instincts.

“All right,” she said into the communication device, “but let’s keep on our toes. Blake, see if you can follow our man for a few blocks just to make sure he doesn’t circle around again. Over.” She turned to one of the Kinfolk and added, “Mac, be a dear and check his number plates with DVLA, will you?”

The assemblage broke into more activity, and Nicola River-Runner rose from her crouched position on the grass. “GO on to your offices, everyone, I’ll brief our guests.”

As the various Garou and Kinfolk headed for rooms overlooking the garden, River-Runner summoned the two newcomers and Julia to her side.

“How were things at Anvil-Klaiven when you left, Storm-Eye? Julia’s told me some of it.”

Storm-Eye, still in her massive Hispo form, sat near the sept leader. She showed proper deference, but no submission. This sept stank too much of Wyrm and Weaver for a Red Talon to be comfortable. She used wolf-speak, perhaps to test this homid. Not good, but the Fenrir fight well. The cam hoolds k t the bank is fierce.

“That’s the news we’re getting from the Sept of the Night Sky, as well. The Margrave and Jarlsdottir seem to have kicked the Wyrm where it hurts, for it to lash out like this.” Apparently wolf words were no problem to understand, although the Fianna continued in Garou herself.

“And the Sept of the Dawn?” Cries Havoc’s voice croaked somewhat when he mentioned his birth sept.

“I’ve been in contact with Dawntreader, and we’re readying a response. He sends his best.”

The things may be baiting you, added StormEye. Weakening the defenses of other cuems so they too can be attacked.

River-Runner smiled. ‘You’ve the makiigs of a leader, Talon. That’s why it’s talung time to smke back.

If we try to open moon bridges, we may just get a face full of h e s for our trouble. Thankfblly, the Wyrm has picked some welldefknded caem to lash out at.”

We must get to the Stargazer Teardrop. In Albrecht’s lands.

“So Julia told me earlier. But I don’t think travel by moon bridge is terribly wise. Until we understand this storm phenomenon a little more, Dawntreader and I think it’s best to limit bridge use. Crossing the pond doesn’t strike me as being very cautious.”

But we must get there.

“I agree, and I think Julia is just about ready with an alternate route.”

Storm-Eye hadn’t paid much attention to Spencer moving to one of the larger tablets and tapping its keys as River-Runner and she spoke.

Now, the Glass Walker looked up with a satisfied grin. “Three tickets on the Concorde. Heathrow to JFK in under four hours.”

The wolf pack was moving south when StormEye found them again. They stretched out in a line following the scent trail of a moose through the spring snow. The yearlings bringing up the rear heard her approach and looked up excitedly, barking their recognition for their elders to hear.

Long-Runner and Hare-Jumper turned and brought the pack together then. What had been a sleek line of hunters became a rolling little ball of excited pups and more cautious adults.

Storm-Eye kept her firm gaze and solid stride as two yearlings ran to her and licked her maw, hoping for regurgitated food. She finally shook them away when she saw Hare-Jumper still, his tail high in a dominant stance.

Fights-the-Bear is gone, Storm-Eye proclaimed in a few movements and fewer sounds. He has killed one of our enemies and we will sing fm him.

She raised her head to the darkening sky and let out a great mournful howl, a howl she knew as the Dirge for the Fallen. It praised those who died for Gaia, sending their names to be carried by the spirits of the wind and the stars and remembered forever. Although Gaia was always listening, songs sung with genuine heart and by the whole pack were best remembered. Storm-Eye quickly realized she sang alone.

The yearlings paced back and forth, caught in a cage of their own anxiety. Some were tense, hackles raised but tongues hanging, saying This is wrong with every ounce of their beings. Others seemed to submit to nothing at all, lying prone on the ground, whining quietly.

You say Fights-&-Bear killed a rival, said HareJumper in a quiet growl, but we heard man-killer shots and man-screams. I don’t understand.

Storm-Eye walked slowly toward HareJumper, the wolf who she felt would become her alpha male, fighting back frustration. No, she yipped, not a rival wolf. He killed a man.

It was as if she had dealt a blow to the large gray wolf, he recoiled so violently. Why did the man attuck Fights-&-Bear? His question, given through quick pacing and mounting anxiety, only augmented the younger wolves’ own tension.

He didn’t, Storm-Eye barked back. We hunted the wolf-killer man and we killed him.

Hare-Jumper’s head dipped low and his lips curled back. His hackles rose to their full heights and an angry, dangerous growl came from somewhere deep inside him. This is wrong. Leave.

No. Storm-Eye’s answer was simple and loud, her form swelling to the bulky Hispo that could flatten the entire pack. Rage bubbled within her.

This is my pack and you are my mate.

You are a skin-changer, Storm-Eye Kills-theMan. We are not. It was Long-Runner, the eldest female save for Storm-Eye herself. Your ways are not ours. You do not belong with us.

I am alpha! Storm-Eye growled, her four hundred pounds of muscle and anger tearing to get free. Submit!

No, Hare-Jumper and Long-Runner answered together. They both stood strong, ready to fight, ready to die. Storm-Eye could easily kill them both. It would take only the release of her burning rage and the terrible Crinos form would overtake her. No two wolves could stand against an enraged Garou. It would be so easy.. ..

Storm-Eye turned and ran, heading north. She did not look back.

Ever since they’d been at Heathrow, Storm-Eye had been struggling not to scream. Bad enough she had had to assume her Homid form, weak and deaf and with the nose of a newborn pup, but now she was about to board some Weaver-made contraption that would take them across the ocean.

She swallowed and her throat was desert-dry. She tried to push the panic down a notch, telling herself she had known of these airplanes for years. She had seen them pierce the sub-arctic sky. She had even come close to several with her pack. Her kind considered her a scholar of humankind, after all.

But to actually get into this oversized metal arrowhead! Every instinct in her body, furless and encased in too-tight homid clothes, raged against this. It was folly!

“This.. .ll she began, and cursed herself for the hundredth time for using the Garou tongue. A bloated human woman, fatter than any cow Storm-Eye could remember seeing, gaped at her, hearing only an animal grunt in her speech. Storm-Eye paused and resumed in whispered English. “This is a bad idea.”

“There’s no other choice,” Cries Havoc answered quietly. He was wearing a woolen cap that did a passable job of hiding his horns. Hopefully the same spirits Julia had summoned to get StormEye’s twisted metal fetish past the humans unseen would also help with his disfigurement. The two of them were sitting in a corner of the British Airways waiting room for Concorde passengers, while Julia got one last errand done in something called the Laptop Lounge.

“If we wish to get to America,” the Gaian continued, “this is the fastest way.”

“It’s wrong. Reliance on the Weaver is wrong.”

“Julia knows what she is doing. You said so yourself to that foolish Geoffrey.” He sipped from the bottled water he had ordered from the waitress before Julia left.

“That fool was goading her for position, but he had a point. Summoning a spider like that was a great risk. Taking so many risks can only lead to eventual disaster.”

Julia slipped into the third seat at the tiny round table they occupied. “You two might want to keep your voices down, I think you’re scaring our fellow travelers.” She nodded to their left, where a human boy was staring straight at them. Julia resumed in a low whisper, “I do have some good news, though. I checked my email and it seems like an American friend of mine is in New York on business. She’s agreed to give us some help once we land. Our seats are all taken care of and we should be ready to board any minute now.”

When the British Airways man’s voice came over the intercom announcing boarding of the Concorde for New York, Mick glanced at his watch. Good old BA, right on time. He dropped his perfectly folded copy of The ‘Times into a fancy trash bin, and went to the line. *** The three of them were only a dozen or so passengers ahead, looking very much like fish out of water to his eyes. He could feel his briefcase wriggle slightly, and whispered a quiet “Easy, pet,” to keep it in check.

To think he had felt blessed before. This went so much further than the simple change and blood and strength. Now he had an agenda. Direction. A plan.

First, he and his new pet would take care of the three little cubs ahead. Then he would bring their skins to the Lady. The same Lady whom he had only ever seen on the night of his First Change, but who now called him to America. And then, then it would be the day of Jo’cllath’matnic.

He smiled easily as he handed his boarding pass to the attendant. She looked delicious, but he was so excited he wasn’t even hungry.

Yet.

Storm-Eye-or “Rebecca Sterling” according to the US passport Julia had produced thanks to her spirit allies-had had enough. The cold mechanical humming of the plane’s engines. The endless comments from others about going faster than sound. The panoply of pointless entertainments on the small screens everyone seemed to be unfolding from their chairs. The huge quantity of alcohol everyone else on the plane seemed determined to imbibe.

She had miraculously been able to sleep at one point as the exhaustion of the last few days crashed *** in around her. But that had only led to dreams of being carried away along a great river, over falls and towards rocks that looked and smelled like the maw of a great black wolf. She had woken up near panic and Julia had had to talk her down from changing forms and tearing this Weaver thing to pieces. She could still taste the hry in her mouth.

Now they had finally landed-and what a joy that had k n - a n d were out of the Gaia-forsaken thing, but t h i i had gone from bad to worse. John E Kennedy Aitport seemed designed explicitly to enrage Storm-Eye.

Evewhere she turned were crowds of humans milling to and fro, evenly divided between those who were utterly lost and those who pushed though them like bull moose charging through brush. Everywhere people yelled, children screamed, and droning, incomprehensible, mechanical, voices mumbled from somewhere above. If ever there was a herd that needed to be culled, this was it. And to top it all off, Storm-Eye’s ears were killing her.

“Deep breaths, Rebecca,” Julia put in. “We’re almost out of here.” ‘Almost’ meant another half-hour pushing through human sheep, putting up with a pathetic little beagle sniffing their luggage, and fighting to get a dingy yellow vehicle to take them away. From there, it was a sea of other vehicles and concrete troughs toward concrete canyons, then through another press of bleating, stinking humanity and into a dingy train that clacked its way farther into the urban blight, sometimes on elevated platforms, sometimes in long dark tunnels.

Storm-Eye’s borrowed clothing was soaked with sweat-another human weakness-by the time they disembarked and headed into the underground station.

Although it stank of rot and rust, and light was hard to come by, at least there weren’t many humans here.

Storm-Eye finally took off the ridiculous dark glasses Julia had insisted she wear to cover up her unseeing left eye.

If she needed any more proof that humanity was basically a species of parasitic sheep, then their practice of covering wounds of battle was it.

“Nice shiner, chica.” The speaker was a woman, or at least a girl, dressed in baggy pants, an oversized shirt and a further oversized green coat. What appeared to be long black hair was incompletely tucked into a brimmed cap an odd shade of orange with a caricature of some sort on it. She was sitting on the only still-functional bench in this train station, some chunk of processed food in her hand. She extended the foodstuff toward Storm-Eye. “Snickers?”

Storm-Eye suppressed an urge to flow into Lupus right then and there. Instead she sniffed the air deeply.

Even with the nearly useless nose of her Homid form, she drank in this woman’s scent: Garou.

“Carlita?” Julia lowered her own sungIasses so that she could peer over them.

“That’s bigsis745 at planet-dot-net, to you.”

She popped the rest of the chocolate bar into her mouth, chewed it vigorously and swallowed with an audible gulp. “Yummy. I take it these sourpusses are the buddies you told me about ?”

Julia glanced around the empty corridor of the empty station. “Carlita, Bone Gnawer of Tampa, Florida, may I present Cries Havoc, Child of Gaia of the Sept of the Anvil-Klaiven, and Storm-Eye, Red Talon of the Sky Pines Sept.”

“Jeez, you sound like a Fang or something.”

The Bone Gnawer reached into one of the large pockets of her drab green coat and came out with some more candy. She unwrapped a small piece, and threw it up in the air. It landed in her open mouth with a pop. “Just call me Big Sis, ’kay?”

Julia seemed a little stunned and took a minute to respond. “Right, Big Sis. Regardless, thanks much for lending us a hand. I’m glad you happened to be in New York.”

“Happened is tight. I’ve got more n’ enough crap to deal with in Florida. If it wasn’t that some fool back in Tampa got hisself on the wrong side of a river spirit and couldn’t make the trip up, I never woulda been on my way.” She threw her arms up and Storm-Eye noticed a large, rough dagger hanging from her waistband. “Whatcha gonna do?’’ Storm-Eye took a deep whiff of the air, more out of habit than anything, and the small hairs on the back of her Homid neck stood at attention. The dark, familiar stench registered, and the skin on her shoulders and arms puckered into gooseflesh. She went with it, and reddish-brown fur pushed through the pimples. Her legs and arms stretched and she took on first pounds then hundreds of pounds of muscle and fury. Her clothes, never attuned to her form, strained and tore, going from ready-to-wear to rags in a second as she shifted to Crinos. Her senses finally flooded back, if not to their lupine heights then at least to something more than the deaf stupidity of humanity. The stink was clear and strong. ‘‘Wyrm.”

“My clothes.. .”Julia said, staring at the shreds on the subway station’s dingy floor.

“ W y r m ! ” Storm - Eye rep e at e d b et w e e n clenched jaws. An order. The other Garou finally got it and they all assumed their war-forms, crouching against the low ceiling. The cramped spaces didn’t seem to bother Carlita. All dingybrown fur, coiled muscles and bared fangs, she hunkered down and drew her large fang dagger.

They all tried to find the source of the stink.

“There!” Cries Havoc launched forward after a slick shadow. The metis ran toward the subway platform from which they had come, rounding the comer after the shadow. He howled with rage and battle.

Storm-Eye knew it was a trap even before he was out of sight. She turned onto the platform just in time to see him rake his claws at the Wyrmwolf they had last seen near Anvil-Klaiven. Its sight sent chills through her, enough that the warning she barked came too late.

Cries Havoc’s claws sank into the shadow before he could react, connecting with nothing but the tile and concrete of the platform. “What? Damn!” Then, with only the faintest jingling, a length of chain sailed from another passage and wrapped itself around the young Gaian’s neck. Storm-Eye could see the hooks and barbs on the chain’s length bite into Cries Havoc’s pale gray pelt. But she could do nothing but let out a quick howl, because the great black wolf re-formed then and was on her.

The Wyrm-beast was all too solid when it hit Storm-Eye, slamming into her with the weight and power of a bear. The impact sent them both careening off the platform and onto the rails. She used the momentum to push the wolf-thing off her and quickly tried to gain a sense of this new battleground. Water running from a rusted pipe caught her attention and she saw just beneath it a diamond-shaped sign with a lightning bolt on it.

Storm-Eye realized it meant one of the rails was dangerous, electrified. Thank Gaia, she hadn’t fallen on that!

The Wyrm-wolf moved closer step by step and Storm-Eye returned her full attention to it. It was treating her like a moose or other prey animal, she realized, slowly closing the distance between them, hoping to make her run and expose a vulnerable flank or rump. The key was not to run; the wolf would stop just before it got within striking distance of its prey’s defenses. So Storm-Eye waited, letting it get closer and closer, waiting for the right moment.

Now. Just when the Wyrrn-wolf took another step, she leapt. The ceiling of the trench was high enough for her to get a good jump and she came smashing down on the thing. Gmou m e not prey! she howled as she fell on her enemy. Her claws bit deep into the black, cold mass of the thing.

She felt, more than heard, it scream. But then it was flowing like mist around her again, and before she could move it had re-formed behind her.

It clawed and scampered up her back, just as if she had fled, and took a good bite hold.

Storm-Eye felt the bite's sting, but knew it would get far worse if the wolf-thing got the change to pull and shake and tear at her flesh. She tried to back against the side of the trench, but it held firm. It squirmed just outside of her reach when she tried to pull it off as she had during their first battle. Out of options, Storm-Eye pivoted on one great Crinos leg and fell, back-first, onto the rails.

The current running through the third rail struck the wolf-thing first and it emitted a terrible screech, along with the smell of burning tar.

A few seconds of that and the thing broke apart into a smoky mass of ash and stink. Storm-Eye rolled to avoid the rail'herself, with only limited success. But a few bums and shakes were well worth having hurt that damnable thing-and hurt it she had, she was sure. She tensed for a moment waiting for it to return but it didn't. Licking its wounds, she thought. It would be too much to ask for it to be dead.

But driving the thing off had taken time, more than enough time for others to have fallen as well.

She leapt out of the trench and ran to the second passage. And stopped.

Cries Havoc was hanging from a long chain dangling from the stairwell at the end of the corridor, his neck and one squirming arm tangled in the black, barbed links. He held the chain itself with his fiee hand, desperately trying to release the pressure on his windpipe. Storm-Eye ran to help him and looked up the stairwell to see what was at the other end of the chain. There, some forty feet above her, a black Garou in Crinos form was perched on a railing, pulling Cries Havoc up. The werewolf‘s fur was an oily, too-perfect black, and its ears were long and pointed.

“Oh, wonderful,” purred the Black Spiral Dancer in accented English. “More playmates.”

Storm-Eye’s rage carried her far on the first cold spring night after she left the wolf pack. Flitting between the sleek quickness of her natural wolf-form and the terrifying power of the Hispo dire wolf, she followed scent trails between pack territories.

This was how lone wolves survived, she knew, stalking the borderlands between established packs. Unlike most loners, she could defeat a whole wolf pack in combat, but she didn’t want that blood on her hands. No, the borderlands also hid the paths taken by her other kin-the changing skins, the Garou-to get to their holy site.

The Caem of the Sky Pines was neither large nor elaborate as these things went, but few things associated with the Red Talon tribe were. In the crook of a river still covered in ice rose a clutch of pine trees far taller than any others this far north.

They rose so high that they touched the sky, the Galliards sang, and the moon-seers confirmed that the wind and star spirits favored these great trees.

Harm to them would be a great offense, and so the Garou guarded them well.

In the shades of these great evergreens, the Red Talons of the Sky Pines Sept held their moots and honored their totems. For six winters after her change, this had been Storm-Eye’s home. Here she had learned the ways of the changing skin, the Litany and traditions of the tribes of Luna. She had watched in rapt attention as Scents-the-Truth had condemned the traitor Wyrm-Rutter, trying to learn everything she could from the aging elder who shared her moon sign: Philodox, the judge.

When the trees came into view over the horizon and Storm-Eye caught the scent mark that so clearly announced This is G~TOU land, she tried to think most of that moment. She failed, and her mind went to a time three winters later. She and the rest of the Summer’s Sun pack had stood against Wyrm-Rutter when he returned with his damnable Black Spiral kin. There had been many monstrosities that day-bloated Wyrm-boars that spat maggots and blood, the twisting Bane that the traitor kept as a pet-but the Black Spirals were the worst. Garou who had surrendered to the great devourer, who had become that they were born to fight.

The battle had been terrible that summer’s night, and the losses had been great. Wyrm-Rutter and the others had withdrawn with a great deal of Garou blood on their hands, but the caem stood firm. That this supposed victory, which had cost Storm-Eye so much, still earned her much glory had never been much consolation.

She missed them still.

She realized she had stopped running, standing within the scent-laden buffer zone between the sept’s territory proper and that of the various Kinfolk wolf packs that surrounded it. There, with the marks of various Garou and wolves wafting through the still morning air, she had been lost in remembrance. But it was not her own deed she was here to mark. She tilted her head back and began to howl. Storm-Eye once calkdJudge-of-theTrees comes to the Sky Pines, she called. I carry the story of a hero of Gaia to be sung to spirits and Garou alike. Who guards this caern?

We do, the answer came, first in one voice, then in a lupine chorus, the Pack of the Brightest Star defends this place against Wyrm and Weawer.

We do, came a second melody of howls, the Pack of Six Winters also tends the trees of the sky spirits and keeps them fiom hrm.

Storm-Eye ran along the river bank toward the river and the tall pines near it, and soon enough several wolves were coming down to greet her. The first was the apply named Talon cliath Fast-as-theGale who jumped at her playfully, showing off his status as a full Garou adult without actually challenging Storm-Eye’s status. Others soon joined him, including the Wendigo Philodox Listens-to-theNight and the Talon Theurge Speaks-for-the-Trees.

Notable in his absence was the Pack of Six Winters’ eldest, the Galliard Heard-by-Gaia, also the sept’s most senior lore-keeper.

For the next half-hour, Storm-Eye frolicked with the other lupus Garou, running about the bawn and spilling over each other in mock battles like pups establishing rank. It all very wolf-like, save that as Garou she was clearly welcome on this territory. A lone wolf entering another wolf pack‘s territory could expect an altogether more deadly reception, she well knew. Even those descended from homid stock were welcome at the caem so long as they integrated with their lupus cousins-Storm-Eye happily remembered the proud Uktena Ahroun who had been unable to play on all fours and stormed off in a huff.

The sun rose high in the sky as the werewolves reintroduced themselves, but eventually they got down to business. In the process of establishing that she still ranked high, though not highest among the Garou of Sky Pines, Storm-Eye confirmed that Heard-by-Gaia was absent from the caern. She had heard no dirge sung for the great moon howler, so doubted he had fallen in battle.

She, of all the Talons of Sky Pines, would have felt his passing, Heard-by-Gaia is away, said Speaks-for-theTrees. He has gone to visit the caem at Caribou Crossing. That holy site, guarded by Red Talons and several Uktena, was many days travel further north. It was a holy place but said to have a dark past, hence the presence of a pack of Uktena Bane Tenders.

Why? This is a long journey for a great singer to take.

Heard-by-Gaia was told by the wind of a great concolation to be held in a far-off land. If it bothered Speaks-with-the-Trees that the spirits had chosen the Galliard to whisper to, she showed it not at all. Some huve said envoys should be sent and Heardby-Gaia traveled to carry our words on the idea. We are to stand vigil at the caem until his return.

And why, the Theurge asked at last, huve you come here?

Part of Storm-Eye realized just how harsh the words might sound to human ears-no pretense of politeness, no false servility, just a straight question. Such was the way of wolves and such it should be for Garou. I come to have the Dirge for the Fallen sungfor my puckmate Fights-&-Bear. And to have the Rite of the Last Cub howled for me.

Listens-to-the-Night, the large white and gray Philodox who had succeeded Scents-the-Truth as the caern’s main judge spoke next. Fights-the-Bear was wolf, not Garou. No question, just a statement.

How did he die?

Fighting the Wywn, Storm-Eye said in a proud howl and prouder stance. We hunted a wolf-killer and he died killing the man.

Wolf killed man? Speaks-for-the-Trees asked with an anxious yip, the lupus way of expressing surprise. How? Why?

Storm-Eye was conscious of Listens-to-theNight looking at her, her black-tipped tail high and her paws square. No teeth were bared or hackles raised, but they didn’t have to be. This was a look of judgment. She wanted to answer “Because he wanted to,” but the language of wolves does not lend itself to half-truths and hidden facts. It is a language of small movements, excreted scents, rhythmic breathing and occasional barks, of eyes slightly averted. Because I told him to, she said.

Other Garou approached, filling the long silence that followed with their predatory shapes. Tensions rose and young werewolves paced nervously in unknowing imitation of the wolf pack’s reaction to the same news.

Wolwes don’t kill men, Listens-to-the-Night proclaimedinaquickbark. Wedo. 7‘kuisoneofGaids~.

The m n &served to die. He was a wolf-killer.

Storm-Eye’s answers came with her own raised hackles and defiant growls.

They why didn’t you kill him, Two-World-Daughter? That Speaks-for-the-Trees used Storm-Eye’s wisdom name, one that related the story that her damaged eye now looked inward to see the deep Umbra and in it the truth, meant the Theurge was giving her a chance.

“He deserved the glory of a warrior’s death.”

Although she wanted to speak in the language of wolves, many of the ideas found expression only the Garou tongue. Wolves had no way to say g& or warrior, she realized. “He was alpha,” she continued, stepping forward and finding the wolf-way to express her idea. His duty it was to defend the puck’s tem’tory.

Listens-to-the-Night did not move for several long minutes, her iron gaze boring into StormEye in silent reproach. Then she turned her back and yipped, in effect saying, This is not our way.

Such words, coming from the caern’s highest judge, were no mere reproach. They were a condemnation, and the rest of the assembled Garou soon understood this.

Oh spirits, began Speaks-for-the-Trees’ howl, hear the tale of Storm-Eye Wiser-than-Gaia. What might have been mistaken for an honorific by some cub was clearly a reproach to the assembled Garou: Only fools thought themselves wiser than Mother Gaia. The rest of the werewolves were soon howling in chorus with the elder Theurge, sending Storm-Eye’s shame into the wind. She who is blind in two worlds, they called her. And worse still: She who makes men of wolves. If there was a worse condemnation for a Red Talon Philodox, Storm-Eye could not think of one.

Rage mounting in her, she took off north, aware that spirits of wind and moonlight carried her infamy far faster than she could ever run.

The spiked chain bit into Cries Havoc’s neck and he let out a throaty gurgle. Crimson spittle stained the pale fur on his cheek. The Black Spiral Dancer, for his part, prattled on.

“DO you like being strung up? Fancy life without air or hope?” The thing smiled wickedly and gave the chain another yank. “I didn’t think so.

But that’s what your kind did to him, you know.

For longer than you can even conceive of, he’s been like this, screaming.”

Storm-Eye let him carry on, barely paying attention to the words, and moved a yard to the left. She tensed her legs and made ready to leap up, but then her enemy shifted, swinging Cries Havoc in front of her to block her leap.

“Ah, ah, ah, no jumping.” The Dancer’s grin stretched farther than it had any right to, series upon series of needle-like teeth shimmering in the sallow light of recessed neon. He swayed his dangling prey back and forth, pinning Storm-Eye in a comer of the stairwell. “I think you’ll just watch your little friend here, just like we’ve watched ours for so long.”

She stared right at him, making sure he was focussed on her, and began to howl. The call was a series of barks and cries, punctuated by a quick refrain drawn from the Garou Anthem of War.

She just hoped the cliath Gaia had saddled her with were paying attention.

“Cry to the moon as much as you want, there’s no help for your kind here.”

Storm-Eye kept her gaze fixed and thanked the Incama the Dancer seemed not to understand the details of her call. That, and for the swirls and shimmers that appeared in the air right above the Wyrm-traitor.

Carlita leapt out of the Umbra and was on the Black Spiral Dancer with a hooting Bone Gnawer war cry. Her fang dagger bit into the thing’s slick fur and flesh, and it screamed. “Yeah!”

Carlita howled.

The Dancer let go of the chain, and Cries Havoc came tumbling down to the ground. The tension around him finally loose, his war-form shrank to that of a thin wolf and he slipped his bonds, leaving chunks of hairy flesh on the barbs. He skipped across the tiles and was back in Crinos by the time he bounded up the stairs toward his tormentor. StormEye took the more direct route, her powerful legs carrying her forty feet straight up in great leap. She landed on the very guard-rail on which the Dancer had been perched a few seconds before.

Carlita’s first swipe with her dagger had bitten deeply into the Dancer’s mid-section and she was trying to get a second blow to finish him off. But it wouldn’t be that easy. His left arm was clenched around his wounded gut and he was backing down the hall at the top of the stairwell, but Carlita couldn’t land a killing blow. He moved to and fro, dodging her blows and swiping out with the long, polished claws of his right hand. Like his teeth, they were needle-sharp and seemed to be made of steel. Carlita already had several long gashes on her left arm, but she wouldn’t back down.

Storm-Eye looked to the stairs where Cries Havoc was just arriving and barked a command. They both shrank into sleek Lupus forms and headed down the corridor. Although any commuter unlucky enough to have come face-tomout with them might not have thought so, the two wolves were small compared to the h u k q Crinm battling it out down the corridor. StormEye yipped again, broke into a run, and slipped to Carlita’s left, while Cries Havoc took the right. One more second and they‘d be past the combatants and could get to the Dancer’s vulnerable back.

But Carlita, anxious to avoid a swipe from the Dancer’s talons, took an ill-advised step to her right. Her muscled Crinos leg slammed right into Cries Havoc and the metis, already wounded, let out a loud yelp. The combination of tripping over the Gaian and his cry distracted Carlita, and she looked down at her leg instead of keeping her eyes on her opponent.

The Black Spiral Dancer opened up his maw and vomited forth a greenish, buzzing cloud of stinging insects. The swarm quickly enveloped Carlita and Cries Havoc who tried desperately, futilely, to shake the bugs away. Storm-Eye’s chance to get at the Dancer’s back was gone, unless she was willing to give him a clear shot at the young Garou he had just blinded. She shrugged on the extra mass of the Hispo dire-wolf form and leapt right at him.

He saw her coming and brought his right arm up to stop her. The quarters were too cramped to bring his talons to bear, but he was able to push on her bulging chest. For a second, her momentum kept her hanging there, pressing on his arm, just out of reach of her prey. Their maws snapped impotently at each other and then he pushed her away, against the wall. Carlita and Cries Havoc were clear of the bugs then and so he darted down the corridor, turning the first comer.

The three Garou gave chase, but the dingy corridor was empty when they got there. A rusted iron grate that clearly hadn’t been opened since before the Impergium blocked further progress.

Storm-Eye looked around quickly. Her own reflection stared back at her in the cracked Plexiglas covering of a dingy subway map. The Umbra, she barked, and stepped sideways.

The Penumbral double of the abandoned subway station was so dingy and gray that it reminded Storm-Eye of nothing more than the tales Mephi Faster-than-Death had told her of the dark land of ghosts. The walls, already dirty in the physical world, were covered in a thick layer of ephemeral ash and mold. Huge albino cockroach spirits crawled through the slime that coated the floor and dripped ti-om the corroded Pattern Webs that laced the ceiling. The iron grate was nothing more than a thin curtain of rusted chains here, a barrier to nothing. From the corridor beyond it, Storm-Eye could see flashes of colored light, and in those flashes, the silhouette of the Dancer. She gave chase.

She arrived in the next chamber just behind the Dancer and could hear Carlita stepping sideways somewhere behind her. The Glass Walker Julia Spencer, in her sleek brown and black Crinos form, was floating am-legged just above the Umbral ground in some sort of trance. The Wyrm-wolf was there too, but caught in a tight mass of bright, glowing Pattern Webs.

More and more Weaver Spiders, each about the sue of a rabbit, were appearing near Julia, each emitting a brightly colored flash as it did. They would then spin another Pattern strand, further imprisoning the Wyrmwolf. The Dancer never broke stride. He crouched low, dragging his deadly talons just above the ground, and ran straight for Julia.

Storm-Eye let out a loud bark of warning, breaking Julia’s concentration in time to save her life. The Glass Walker fell to the ground and turned toward the oncoming Dancer. Her survival instincts were thankfully strong, and she ducked quickly, raising her left arm to shield her gut and face.

The Dancer quickly changed targets-or perhaps going for Julia had been a feint all along. Either way, he sailed over the young Theurge and, with a terrible swipe, cut away most of the thin Pattern threads imprisoning the Wyrm-wolf. Without Julia egging them on, the small Pattern Spiders seemed in no rush to continue their weaving, and with a shrug the wolf-thing was free.

The two Wyrm-kin turned toward the Garou.

Storm-Eye, Julia and Carlita all stood in Crinos form, teeth bared and talons extended. Carlita held her fang dagger at the ready. The Dancer took a step back toward the dingy wall and the wolf kept close to his legs. Storm-Eye tensed to strike, but was robbed of her chance. With the wet sound of flesh tearing, a great toothed maw opened in the wall behind the Dancer. It gaped wide for a second, its fangs dripping green slime, and then extended to swallow the Wy-rm-kin. Its gulp was loud and deep and spoke of hungry beasts large as cities. When the mouth closed, it sealed into a raw wound where the wall had been, seeping yellow pus.

“A Myrm-hole.” Julia faced the great Umbral blister, and closed her eyes in concentration. In a second, the various Pattern Spiders were weaving a tight web over the hole. She opened her eyes and they continued unheeding. Apparently they needed no direction to seal up so blatant a Wyrmgash in their domain, just to be told it was there.

“Right. No coming back that way.” Julia turned to face her companions. “But that Dancer is long gone.”

A moment later, the three Garou had headed back down the corridor and stepped sideways to rejoin Cries Havoc in the physical world. The metis was in his natural Crinos form, sitting against the wall near the stairwell. Nasty bruises, cuts and slashes from the barbed chain-fetish marred his fur and flesh.

His neck was raw and bleeding. Carlita knelt by the Gaian, bravado giving in to concern, pain and fatigue. Her own left arm bore long gashes from the Dancer’s talons. Julia, for her part, seemed unwounded, but as she flowed back into Homid form, Storm-Eye could see she was pale as a sheet, and smell the sheen of cold sweat that bubbled to the surface of her skin. Summoning and commanding so many spirits had taken its toll. She too slumped to the ground. Storm-Eye herself could still feel the wounds in her back and side from her fmt confrontation with the wolf-thing. It was a marvel, she thought, that none of them had died yet.

“What can I say?” said Cries Havoc in between wet coughs. “We kicked its ass!” He was smiling broadly, his deep hazel eyes shinning with a fire that wiped away all the blood and pain.

Soon the abandoned subway station was resounding with the four-part harmony of a great Garou victory howl.

Mick walked down the alley with a noticeable limp and a dark grin on his face. It appeared that these nature freaks really had some fight left in them.

They didn’t realize just how hopeless their cause was, he supposed. Jo’cllath’mattric was coming and no little gnats were going to stop him.

Still, they could make things more difficult.

Less perfect. And the Lady demanded perfection.

He reached down to the belt of his Gucci trousers and noticed that his own blood was seeping through his burgundy shirt. A shame to ruin Yves Saint-Laurent silk like that. That little Bone Gnawer runt would have to pay for that someday. Perhaps he’d stick that repugnant fang dagger up herNow, now. No need to be crude, Mick chastised himself. Buck to the task ut hand.

He got out his little Nokia phone and punched in a long series of numbers. Just as it began to ring, *** he squeezed with all the might the Lady had given him. The phone cracked, sparked and crumbled as the little spirit trapped within it died a pitiful, but usefully loud, death. They’d be here soon.

He headed farther down the alley, noticing piles of newspapers and rags that could be humans, trash, or both. The ladder from the bottom of the fire-escape was already lowered when he got to it and he began to climb. On the third landing he paused to breathe in the stale air hanging between the tenements and the old factory behind them.

Delicious, almost a good a London. On the last landing before the room, he kicked an errant cat over the edge and heard it hit the pavement with a satisfyingly moist thud. He was smiling when he climbed the last rungs and emerged onto the tarcovered rooftop.

“Come on out, all of you.”

And they did, four of them. Mick characteristically noticed the women first. One was tall, wasp-waisted and raven-haired. She wore tight, constricting leather and a corset with iron clasps.

She smelled of sex and rotten earth and called herself Mistress Gash. He hated her immediately, condemning her because of her pathetic attempts to mimic the Lady.

The other woman was distinctly more promising. Petite, she wore torn jeans, steel-tipped combat boots and a gray sweatshirt with “Property of SUNY Athletics” stenciled on it. Her face was puckered with white burn marks that contrasted with her mahogany skin and gave it a tastefully waxen quality. She was called Naz. Mick made her his second.

The man was more obviously touched by the Bane within him. He was tall, thin and sallow. Ridges of bone pushed against his flesh in a pattern distinctly reminiscent of the great spiral that the Lady had so lovingly shown Mick years ago. His hair, shockingly white, stuck up at odd angles q d served as a halo for his face, which had but one feature: a great round maw like that of a lamprey. A red tongue moved about in that maw, licking up every scent in the air.

He was called Eel.

And then there was the dog. Seemingly the product of generations of inbred mastiffs, it weighed over two hundred pounds and had a large, flat face. Its massive jaws were clearly visible through translucent skin. The rest of its body was covered, not with hair or fur, but with a roiling mass of white maggots. Clumps of them fell onto the black rooftop as it trotted, but more apparently grew from the dog’s own body because no bare skin became exposed. That would be Boy.

Yes, these would most definitely do. “Thank you, my Lady,’’ Mick whispered to the fouled air. “We serve you, and through you, Jo’cllath’mattric, and through him, Father Wyrm.”

He was about to lead his new pack off when Eel caught a whiff of something. His tongue whipped back and forth and he emitted a beautiful cacophony of screeches. They weren’t alone.

“Whaddahell?“ The old derelict popped up fiom behind the pilings of the water tower nesting on the rooftop. Drugs, alcohol, inhaled chemical fumes, or a combination thereof, had long ago fried much of his reasoning, but he still knew enough to turn tail and run. The fomori all looked at Mick for guidance, who gave a little smile.

“Fetch, Boy.”

The holy site the Red Talons called Caribou Crossing was a good two weeks' travel north of Sky Pines. To get there, a lone wolf like Storm-Eye had to travel through the territories of a dozen or more packs, skirting them all if she wanted to avoid any contact.

The spirits who carried word of her dishonor traveled far faster than she, of course, but still she ran with all her might. The Sept of Caribou Crossing would hear her tale from her own howls, not the reported reprimand of those who condemned her. And Heard-by-Gaia would listen-eatest of the Talon Galliards of the region, his call would restore her renown and carry strong and true.

But first she had to get to the caem, and the humans ahead of her were not making life any easier.

She had caught scent of them a few hours ago when the wind shifted with the setting sun. Soon enough, she heard the growl of their vehicle, cutting through the territory of wolf and game with typical hubris.

Maybe she should leave them be. Maybe she should tum slightly east-take an extra day to get to Caribou Crossing and avoid any trouble. Maybe that was what Listens-to-the-Night would prefer. Instead she followed, and stalked, and closed in. And Gaia was on her side, she was sure. W h y else would the tire of their damnable machine have burst as she followed? Now they were just ahead of her, trying to repair the thing. Easy prey.

She stalked forward, just as she had done with Fights-the-Bear. He had been even quieter than she, she remembered. Not a sound had come as his aging paws had picked through the snow and scrub of the northern spring. She moved like he had, keeping her nose in the wind so that her prey’s scent came to her and hers was carried away. He would be proud of her, she thought.

But she also remembered odd things about that last hunt of his. The lowered tail and gaze.

The subtle scent of submission, even fear. The anxious yips and hesitations she had had to quell with stares and growls. Those were not the signs of the proud alpha Fights-the-Bear had been for eight full winters. They were the signs of a cub, cowed by a feared elder.

Storm-Eye shook the memories away and tied to concentrate, an all-too-human gesture, she realized.

In fact, that connection with the world of man led to others as the bleats of anxiety and frustration she heard from her prey resolved themselves into words and language. Despite herself, she understood-just as she had when Fights-the-Bear had died.

“Stop your worrying, Gene,” said the one kneeling by the front of the truck she had followed. He had the damaged tire off and was placing a new one onto the rim. “The day I can’t change a goddamn tire is the day I pack my bags and head back to Calgary.”

“Yeah, I hear ya, but I still say we should call in.”

The second man was standing near the back of the truck, scanning the horizon without ever seeing Storm-Eye. He was holding a rifle. “You know what happened to Gregory Tootoosis, right?”

“No, I was asleep during the whole briefing.

Those notes I took were all some sort of illusion.

Jeez, Gene, you were sitting right next to me.”

“Well, then? If there’re wolves out here with rabies or some shit, we gotta be careful.” This one was so nervous he was likely to shoot anything that moved.

“Careful don’t mean stupid, Gene. A wolf killed Tootoosis--or at least that’s what the Indian and Northern Affairs guy says-but that wolf‘s dead and it’ll be tested. Maybe it had rabies or something else, but it didn’t just wake up one morning and decide it was a good idea to stalk and kill Cree chiefs-to-be. Just because Old Hubert and the rest are talking about killer wolves don’t mean you have to buy into it.”

“I don’t know, Tom. I know what you and the rest of the Ph.D.s say, but you didn’t grow up in these parts. You hear stories, you know?”

“From who? Old Hubert? When I first got up here, you told me yourself he was a booze pusher and a sonovabitch, Gene.” Tom stood up from his work to make his point. “If I remember correctly, your exact words were that he’d, quote, sell his mother out of the bed of his truck if it got him some more friends on the tribal council, unquote.”

“Yeah, but-”

“But nothing, you big fool. He’s selling this Big Bad Wolf line and organizing a hunt just to get the community behind him. It’s all Little Red Riding Hood bullshit. ‘Dark wolf spirits’ my ass!

You one of the Three Little Pigs, Gene?”

“NO, but-”

“But what?”

“But I ain’t against building a strong house. If that means going out with Old Hubert and calling in on the CB when we get a flat, so be it. You can always go back to Calgary. I can’t.’’ Tom threw his arms up in frustration. “Fine!”

The moment was perfectatorm-Eye had gotten close without either of the humans catching scent, sight or sound of her. One quick run and they were blood on the ground, food for maggots and carrion crows. Instead, she ran again, dogged by memories of dying wolves and scornful Garou howls.

Allucious “Little Al” Henry chewed his halfsmoked cigar like a bulldog with a chunk of rawhide, moving it first to one side of his wide mouth, then the other. His big, puffy lips and sagging, stubbly jowls moved rhythmically to soften the wrapped tobacco.

Little AI had been fighting his own little war against the Wyrm for decades now. His uncle and one of his sisters had the changing gift and were big with the Bone Gnawers in Queens. He was what they called kin, just a man, but one who wasn’t as blind and stupid as the rest. Maybe if he’d a had kids, one of them would of had the changing gift, but there had just never been time.

Anyway, Little A1 had never been much good with the ladies.

Kids or no, he did his part for the cause. No one ever really noticed him, just a working stiff with his eyes on the ground, and that’s the way he liked it. Back in the day, when he was a young fool and the Gnawers were all psyched about monkeywrenching, he’d done some pretty crazy stuff. Now his bones ached in the morning and his eyes weren’t much good anymore, so he did other stuff. Mostly, he trawled trash from as far north as Albany, down the Hudson, out past the city to be dumped into the sea. Of course, he didn’t actually do that, but the fine folks of Poughkeepsie didn’t need to know just where their trash ended up. And he used his scow as part of the Gnawer underground railroad, moving things and people right under the bad guys’ noses. And that’s how this bunch had ended up on his pride and joy, the May Belle.

A1 never tired of just how strange life was.

Who’d ever think these folks were sacred warriors or whatever they called themselves? They were by the prow of the May Belle, looking down at the brackish water splitting off her and so he had a good view of all four of them. He’d heard of Big Sis, the Gnawer from Tampa who was supposed to be an up-and-comer down in those parts, but to see her now, he had to chuckle a bit. She was a kid, fer Chrissakes. A tough-as-hell kid who could kick his ass without breaking a sweat, sure, but she looked tiny in that oversized army coat of hers. The tall Limey chick next to her couldn’t have been any more different: She looked like a lawyer, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than A1 made in a year. Somehow that suit didn’t have a speck of dirt on it. Amazing. With them was a hippie dressed in some sort a buckskin and a watch cap. A1 was pretty sure he had horns under that cap.

And then there was the wild woman. She was standing a little bit back from the edge, and he had to strain to see much more than the top of her head. She had long, unkempt hair that made A1 feel like a young man again. He couldn’t quite forget that she’s been naked as a jaybird when Big Sis had brought the bunch to him looking for a ride upstate. All she was wearing now was one of Al’s heavy raincoats, and she kept forgetting to tie it up in front.

A1 sighed in the May Belle’s cramped little bridge. He’d never been good with ladies.

“What happened to your eye?” Cries Havoc asked the question without quite looking at StormEye. His voice croaked slightly from the strain on his larynx. Although it had been a few days now since their fight in the subway station, his wounds had yet to heal completely. Apparently he was not the only one with lasting hurt, because when Storm-Eye glanced up at him, her black eyes were full of sadness unspoken. He had obviously hit a sore spot. ‘‘I’m sorry. I should not have asked.”

“No,” the Red Talon said in halting English.

“It’s all right. We live by our stories, yes?”

“Well, yes. I think so.” Cries Havoc leaned against the ship’s wooden rail, his back to the water. “But I was born far from here and under a gibbous moon, so my ways may not be yours.’’ Storm-Eye looked at the metis and wondered.

His parents had willfully violated the Litany by mating. His very existence should be disgusting to her, had been not so long ago when she had joined the calls for his death at Anvil-Klaiven.

And yet, he had fought hard these last few days.

He had stood by her and his only moment of hesitation had come from a desire to defend his adopted home among the Fenrir. “Our ways are not so different,” she said.

“I’ve heard a few tales of you, of course. Even at the Sept of the Dawn, there were Galliards who spoke of the Red Talon who ran with the Strider Mephi Faster-than-Death into the maw of the Wyrm.” He coughed to cleared his throat. “We told the tale as one of cooperation between tribes.”

“Ha, you Gaians would.” She stepped forward to look at the water running by the boat. It was afternoon and the light reflected off the broken river’s surface. Every once in a while, the water would be slick enough to reflect an image of the clouds above. “My story is about vengeance, Galliard. Vengeance for the dead.

“After my First Change, the elders gave me the name Judge-of-the-Trees. I ran with the Summer’s Sun pack and we defended Sky Pines Sept where I was born. We were all young and full of hope. There were few humans and many wolves in the protectorate, and we felt we stood against the tide of the Apocalypse. We laughed at the Wyrm like a bunch of Ragabash and howled our victories to Sister Luna.” She smiled at the water and her eyes filled with shadows. “It couldn’t last.”

Storm-Eye caught a glimpse of the sky in the water again. It looked beautiful, unmarred by the crimson blight that had ended her innocence.

Even at night, it was not visible in the physical world. Yet.

“We should have known when LimbJumper turned to the devourer. He’d been our packmate and I’d even gone through passage with him, and yet we never saw it coming. It was only the elder Scents-the-Truth who uncovered his treason.” ‘This Limb-Jumper, he was a Black Spiral Dancer?”

“Back then.. .I honestly don’t know.” She tried to remember the details of that terrible time six winters ago. “Scents-the-Truth discovered that he’d been calling on Banes for some purpose, and passed judgment under the Litany. He renamed him WyrmRutter and sentenced him to death. But the traitor escaped before we could execute him.”

“This sounds like the stories we hear about Lord Arkady.”

“Yes, there are some parallels. If anything, it’s a lesson that we should find Arkady soon. We always said we’d go find Wyrm-Rutter, but we never did. There were always other things that drew our attention, more immediate battles to fight. That changed three summers ago, when the red star appeared.” She looked at the young metis. “Are you old enough to remember that?”

“That’s when I went through my Rite of Passage.” Cries Havoc looked skyward for a second before returning his attention to Storm-Eye. “I can remember Anthelios shining down during my first journey into the Umbra.”

“It changed many things, that star. It signaled the dawn of the Apocalypse, and there were plenty of things that answered the call. Vile things, some ancient, some young.” She closed her eyes, summoning up the sights and smells of that time. “One of those things was Wyrm-Rutter.”

“He attacked?”

“Yes, he and an army of Wym-things. He was definitely a Dancer by then. He came with his black kin, with Banes of toxic rain and with great beasts of war. He came to take the caern and we stood to defend it. We howled like fools. No ttaitorous Ragabash could stand before us, we thought.

We were wrong.”

Storm-Eye’s Homid eyes watered as if against the chill of a winter gale, even though the weather was mild. “Wyrm-Rutter had one of the Banes as a pet and let it loose on us. It was a great thing, half-reptile, half-insect, and we never had a chance. Our alpha, Strength-of-the-Earth, was leading our attack and I saw him cut in half by a swipe of the thing’s barbed tail. Its maw snapped down on Chill-Howler’s head the next instant.

Iton-Talons-Singing was able to get in several strong blows, and I did too, but then it swirled, moved faster than I thought possible, and cut my last packmate to ribbons.”

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t, really. Wyrm-Rutter held the thing back from me and dealt with me himself. He was mad, raving about the ‘truth within’ and the ‘truth above’ and how I should see it for myself. Apparently I was special to him because we had undergone the Rite of Passage together.” She raised her hand to her left eye, scatted and unseeing. “He trapped me with black lashes and then used his talons to help me with my vision.

“Wyrm-Rutter would have killed me if not for Mephi, who had been tracking the things responding to the dawn of the red star and arrived to help defend the caern. He got me out of Wyrm-Rutter’s clutches, and along with the other Garou of the sept, we pushed the enemy back.”

“Is that when you took the name Storm-Eye?“ “That came after Mephi and I finally killed the traitor and his beast.” She let out a brief laugh, full of half-disguised sorrow. “We stalked him until the next winter and when he was weak, we struck. In the middle of a great blizzard we killed his Bane and then I gutted him. I took the name after that.”

Cries Havoc looked slightly awkward, unsure what to say next. “Don’t look so disappointed, Galliard,” said Storm-Eye. “I am not a tale-teller.

Mephi makes it all sound far more glorious. You can ask him his version when we see him next.”

She looked down into the water again. “If we see him again.”

Then the water cleared for a second and Storm-Eye saw the Wyrm-wolf falling out of the reflected sky.

“Down!” In the same instant that she took on the Crinos form, she pushed Cries Havoc out of harm’s way, her shove amplified by her extending, transforming arm. As she put on the weight of the war-form, the boat’s deck moaned and the vessel pitched slightly. Hardly used to river travel, Storm-Eye froze for a split second-long enough for the Wyrm-wolf to slam into her and send the two of them overboard.

The water was cold and clinging, and the wolfthing seemed to be made of stone, so efficiently did it drag her into the Hudson’s murky depths.