Chapter
One
March 31,
2011
The wolf dream again.
Jillian Descharme rolled over on the
lumpy folding couch that doubled as her bed and squinted to read
the alarm clock. 3:29 A.M. She didn’t need to reach for the light—the
dream was no nightmare. Far from it. Fifteen years ago, a great
white wolf had emerged from the darkness and saved her
life.
Her counselor, Marjorie, had favored
other theories. She felt that the white wolf was something
Jillian’s mind created to protect itself, to protect her very
sanity from a trauma that couldn’t be borne, from a brutality
beyond imagining. “The wolf is a symbol your mind has adopted,”
Marjorie said. “And in the study of dream images, a white wolf in
particular symbolizes both valor and victory, plus the ability to
see light in the darkest hours. It’s an extremely powerful and
positive image.”
Marjorie was a skilled counselor, as
well as a kind and loving person. She had helped Jillian work
through a great deal of pain, and Jillian knew she owed her a lot.
That was why she always felt a little bit guilty. Because although
she stopped insisting the wolf was real, she never quite stopped
believing it.
And she didn’t stop dreaming of it.
Jillian dreamed of the white wolf when she moved away from home,
when she entered veterinary college, when she wrote exams, when she
applied for jobs, when she competed in martial arts
tournaments—pretty much any time she was nervous, stressed, or even
lonely. Okay, especially when she was
lonely.
Not alone. Here with
you, the wolf always said to her. She didn’t hear the words
so much as felt them in her mind. Not alone.
And in the presence of the wolf, she could believe it. Jillian
always felt soothed, comforted, safe. Between them was a connection
that defied description. A sense of wholeness she had never
conceived possible.
“Nothing like being codependent on an
imaginary friend.” Jillian got up for a drink of water, realized
that wasn’t enough to get rid of the fuzzy taste in her mouth, and
decided to brush her teeth.
Popping open the tube of toothpaste
seemed to jog a memory at the same time. Jillian always welcomed
the wolf dream and the calm it brought her whenever there were
changes in her life. But in the past few years she’d noticed a new
pattern—the wolf dream also seemed to show up just before something in her life changed. And this was the
third night in a row she’d had the dream.
That had never happened before. Back in
bed, she lay with her eyes open, wondering what the dream meant,
wondering what was coming. She hoped it wouldn’t be the bank
calling about her student loans again. That thought was enough to
keep her awake for the next hour. When her alarm went off at six,
however, there was nothing unusual about the morning except that it
took three cups of coffee to jumpstart her brain instead of one.
There was nothing different about the weather. It was the same as
it had been for weeks, just another humid scorcher in southern
Ontario. There was nothing different at work. There were no new
animals at the environmental center, and no unusual visitors. She
accidentally sat on her lunch bag, but except for being squished,
her peanut butter and honey sandwich tasted exactly the
same.
Later, at the post office, she had
nothing but bulk mail in her box. She dropped the flyers and ads
into the trash by the door as she left. At least there weren’t any
bills. But there was no winning envelope from Publishers Clearing
House either. She attended the last of her weekly Tae Kwon Do
classes—she couldn’t afford any more—but there were no
breakthroughs there. She had yet to master all 29 movements of the
hyung, the complicated practice sequence
that would allow her to progress to the next level.
The feeling of letdown was heavy by the
time Jillian opened the door to her tiny rented room. It was silly,
it was childish, but she couldn’t deny she was disappointed that
not a single out-of-the-ordinary thing had occurred that day. On
top of that, she was tired to the point of being downright cranky.
Maybe the stupid dream didn’t mean anything this
time. Maybe it isn’t supposed to mean
anything. Maybe Marjorie was right and this whole wolf thing really
is a figment of my—
The phone rang, making her jump, and
she snatched up the receiver with a growl. With any luck it might
be a telemarketer and she could unload a little of her frustration.
Petty, she knew, but it would be something. She promised herself to
feel guilty later. “Yes?”
“Is this Dr. Jillian
Descharme?”
“What are you selling?”
The caller didn’t even pause. “A job.
I’d like you to come work for me. My practice is running me ragged,
and I need a hand. If you’re as good as your instructors say you
are, it could turn into a partnership. That is, if you like
northern Alberta.”
She fumbled with the receiver then,
certain that reality had taken a complete holiday. “What?” Her
brain finally kicked in. “Wait a minute. I forgot what day it
is—this is a stupid April Fool’s joke, isn’t it?” Jillian wracked
her brain to figure out who might pull such a prank. A coworker? A
former classmate? “Of all the mean, rotten—”
“No, it’s no joke, honest. Hey, if I’d
realized what day it was, I would have waited until tomorrow to
call you. I promise you, this is a real call about a real job.
Look, it’s calving season and I haven’t slept in two days, so if I
sound desperate, I am. Will you come?”
“I don’t know you from Adam. And you
haven’t even met me. You haven’t seen my résumé. I haven’t even
applied for the job yet. I didn’t even know there was a job.” She certainly hadn’t looked for anything
that far away, had never been to that part of the country. Mentally
she pictured a map of Canada and visualized Alberta. It was one of
the largest provinces, stretching from the American border all the
way up to the Arctic Circle. Just how far north was this clinic?
Was there still snow on the ground there?
“I’ve been friends with a couple of
your instructors for a long time. That’s where I got your name.
They both said you’re good, and that’s good enough for me.” He
rattled off their names and enough personal details to prove he was
telling the truth. Or that he’d really done his research. He seemed
to read her mind then. “Call them up. Ask them about Connor
Macleod, and they’ll tell you I’m not a nutcase or a
stalker.”
“But I have a
job.”
“I heard. I also heard your present
position’s temporary. I happen to know the director of the place—he
thinks you’re extremely talented too, by the way. Says he’ll even
let you go early, if you decide you want the job
here.”
She sighed and swore, forgetting that
the man could hear her through the receiver. She ran a hand through
her choppy blond hair, causing it to stand straight up in places.
It was all too true that her job at the environmental center was up
at the end of the month. She’d tried hard to find another
opportunity to work with wildlife, especially wolves, but most
positions these days were filled by volunteers. Those that weren’t
were largely government-funded—and that funding had dried up
considerably after the last election.
Tapping the phone against her chin,
Jillian figured that this Macleod guy really must be flat-out
desperate. Why else would he call someone on the other side of the
country for God’s sake? It was on the tip of her tongue to say
no, to tell him she’d rather patch up
coyotes and feed orphan skunks than work with livestock and pets.
Not only were they more interesting to her, but coyotes and skunks
didn’t have owners to deal with. She wasn’t as good with people as
she was with animals. Okay, she could be downright lousy with
people, especially ones that didn’t take care of their
animals.
But she couldn’t make herself say no,
especially when Macleod told her that living quarters were part of
the deal.
Jillian hadn’t been out of veterinary
college very long. She desperately needed a full-time position, any
position that would give her a chance to pay off her massive
student loans and get on her financial feet. She might have a DVM
after her name now, but that was all she had to her name. No cash,
no savings, no car, no furniture, no apartment. No family that
could help her out either, not since an accident had claimed her
parents when she was in college. She didn’t even have her textbooks
anymore—she’d been forced to sell them last month to keep her small
room near the environmental center.
“Hello? Hey, are you still
there?”
She realized she’d left the man
hanging. “Sorry, just thinking things through. It’s a big move.
You’re just about on the other side of the country.”
“Let me make it easier then. Commit to
giving us six months, and I’ll pay your way here. If you really
hate us after that, or we can’t stand you, no harm done. I’d pay
your way home, too.”
She could do six months. That wasn’t a
long time. She could keep her temper, make nice with clients for
six months. Probably. Macleod likely ran a cramped, shoestring
operation in the middle of nowhere, but the guy was offering good
pay and a place to live. And surely there must be wildlife rehabs
she could look into while she was there. Maybe she could work for
Macleod’s clinic for a while and then move on to what she really
wanted to do with her career. Besides, how bad could it be? Making
a mental note to check this guy out with her instructors and maybe
even the RCMP before she actually packed any suitcases, she said
yes.
And remembered the wolf dream as she
hung up the phone.
The full moon called and the Pack
answered. The lights of the town of Dunvegan were left behind as
seven creatures ran silently, effortlessly, mile after mile.
Nothing could cover distance as efficiently as a wolf’s perfect
form. Charcoal and tawny, gray and silver, gold and black, the
wolves were a diverse group, yet they moved as one with the smooth
grace of long practice. Eventually a white wolf joined them, easing
into the band without a ripple.
The Pack loped along the game trails at
the very tops of the coulees, high above the Peace River valley.
The wolves’ path seemed almost suspended between sky and water,
moon above and moon reflected below. Joy, fierce and bright, was
all around.
Stars wheeled overhead, revealing the
constellations of the early morning as the Pack leader turned
toward Elk Point. There, she slowed at last and picked her way
along the rocky promontory until the trees parted to reveal a
sweeping view. Tongues lolling, sides heaving, the wolves flopped
down on the stone plateau just as a wind gusted up from the valley.
Dry leaves swirled into a lazy vortex around the group. The air
crackled, flashed here and there with tiny sparks, as static
electricity began to collect. The power built until the ground
thrummed with it, until the very rocks vibrated.
Sudden silence burst as loud as a
thunderclap. Human laughter and human words flowed in quickly to
fill the vacuum. The breeze died away, the leaves fell to earth.
Where eight wolves had been, there was now only one. A lone white
wolf and seven human beings.
Connor Macleod automatically reached
out a hand and ruffled the thick soft fur. His older brother was
not just the only one in the family with such a snowy pelt, but the
only Changeling that Connor had ever seen with that coloration—not
an albino but a true white. Their father had often called James a
winter wolf, but there was always a touch of
sadness in his voice when he did so. Connor had pressed him for an
explanation once. It’s a verra long journey until
spring for a winter wolf, lad. A verra long journey. Connor
had been too young to attach any meaning to his father’s words. Now
he saw that they had been all too prophetic.
He spoke to his older brother in his
mind. All of them had that ability; it was part and parcel of being
Changeling. Good to see you, bro. Have you eaten
tonight?
Old moose, lame. Easy
hunting. Full now.
James’s words were always clear in
Connor’s mind, but they were few and labored, as if it were a
strain to use human words at all. As if running as a wolf for
thirty years made it difficult to even remember the language. Seven
words in a row nearly counted as a speech.
It might have given Connor a tiny
glimmer of hope, but he hadn’t allowed himself that luxury in many
years. His hand fell away from the thick white pelt as he
automatically blocked the rest of his thoughts from his brother.
What possible good could it do to tell James how much he missed
him, ached to talk with him, to joke and laugh with him, hell, even
to fight with him? How the whole family grieved for James, as if he
was dead. And he was dead to them. Even as a
wolf he very seldom ran with the Pack or came near any of them
except Connor on occasion. James had forsaken his human self
entirely, and it was unclear if he was bound to the Macleods by
remembered human ties or merely a wolf instinct to be part of a
Pack.
But not one of us
blames him for it. Good Christ, how could we? We weren’t there. We
were too far away, all of us too damn far away. He shook his
head. By the time they’d arrived at James’s farm, the house was a
heap of blackened beams and cold ashes. Too damn
late to do anything but bury poor Evelyn. It had nearly been
too late for James as well. The Pack had tracked him through deep
wilderness for two days, unable to catch up with him until he
finally collapsed from his horrific wounds. Over thirty years had
passed and still Connor shivered at that
memory. He had barely recognized the blackened and battered
creature that once was the white wolf. Changeling or not, it was a
miracle James had lived.
But the miracle was incomplete. The
wolf came back to them, but not the man. Connor glanced over at his
brother. The massive white creature was stretched out on the ground
beside him as if relaxed, but the vivid blue eyes flicked from
person to person. Alert. Ready, Connor knew, to disappear. Everyone
else knew too. Connor noticed that each member of the Pack, family
and friend alike, would glance over at James and then quickly turn
away, not knowing what to do or say. Fearing to break some unknown
spell, fearing that the white wolf would leave them even sooner
than he usually did.
It’s hard on James but
it’s hard on all of us too. Your older brother has lost his
balance, his ability to be comfortable in both
worlds.
Jessie Watson’s voice was warm and
strong in Connor’s mind. He knew the Pack leader was focusing her
speech so only he could hear it. He did the same. I
don’t know how to help him.
You’re doing all you
can. James is doing all he can, too. He’s chosen to stay here, for
one thing. He wanders but always returns. He still feels a
connection to this land that your family claimed and settled, a
bond to something that symbolizes roots. And he responds to you,
Connor. Cares for you as a brother, not just a Pack-mate, even
guards you. Haven’t you sensed him on some level when you’ve been
working late at the clinic?
Connor looked across the fire, saw it
brush golden highlights over Jessie’s dark skin. There was always
something regal about her, a sense of power. She was a small woman,
downright tiny when standing next to her husband Bill. Yet she
possessed a formidable blend of courage and wisdom, as well as more
exotic gifts. Including magic. He didn’t doubt her, but the news
came as a surprise. James has been at the
clinic?
Many times. Perhaps you
haven’t noticed his physical presence because thoughts of James
are always in your mind. Take a walk
tomorrow and use your Changeling senses to check the stand of trees
behind the building. Scent the air, the ground. Watch for hairs in
the hay bales in the compound, prints along the fences in the
corrals. He watches over you, Connor. He watches over the others
too.
Well, then he should be
fired—he didn’t make sure everyone was dressed tonight.
Connor tried to lighten the subject, a little uncomfortable with
the notion that the older brother he worried so much about was
guarding him. He turned his attention to where his younger brother
Devlin was mercilessly teasing his twin Culley about missing shoes
and socks. Anything—clothing, objects, tools—that touched a
Changeling’s body as it shifted to wolf was automatically suspended
in a another dimension until human form was resumed. What or where
that dimension was exactly, Connor didn’t know, only that the
current theory favored the existence of many more dimensions than
the four that Einstein declared. That was Devlin’s passion,
exploring the physics associated with Changeling life. Culley,
however, couldn’t care less. Always in a hurry, he often Changed
without checking to make sure he was fully clothed.
It wasn’t a problem unless they had to
shift back to human form unexpectedly. Explaining why their
youngest brother was barefoot in the middle of the night could be
tricky. Culley had no jacket either, only a light T-shirt, but a
Changeling’s ambient body temperature was much higher than that of
a human. Connor shook his head, nearly smiled. That
boy would be comfortable if he was buck-naked in a
snowstorm. Then he saw Culley steal a wistful glance at the
white wolf and the heavyheartedness returned
full-force.
They think he avoids
them, Jessie. And he does, he steers clear of everyone.
Except me, Connor thought. And he doesn’t exactly
hang around much with me either. They were just a year apart
in age, and they’d been inseparable when they were growing up. Even
when Evelyn entered James’s life, they’d remained close. Close
before everything went to hell. I miss him, Jessie.
It drives me crazy, wishing I could help him.
You are
helping him. You’re there for him. How many months
was it before James even attempted to communicate? Yet he speaks to
you now in your mind. How many years before he would venture near
the Pack? Yet he often runs with us now, ran with us tonight.
Progress is slow and subtle, very hard to see when it’s
happening—but James has been opening the door a little at a time.
He doesn’t know it, but he is ready to be healed. And because of
this, the healer will come.
What healer?
Who?
I don’t know. I haven’t
seen that. I just know that the Universe reaches out to us when we
make an effort, when we show we are ready. James is ready. The
healer will come. She broke the connection then, turning her
attention to something Bill was saying.
Connor looked down to find the white
wolf gone. Good Christ, I didn’t sense a
thing. James was like a damn ghost at times. His brother
might be talking—well, technically, using mind speech—a little
more, but if he was making any real progress, Connor couldn’t see
it. He couldn’t imagine who or what could possibly heal his
brother’s shattered soul. Still, Jessie’s words gave him a little
actual hope. He let himself feel it this time, savor it. Hope that
James could find his way back to his human self, hope that he would
find a reason to want to come back. And stay.
Douglas Harrison heard the song of
wolves in the distance and shivered as he sat by his father’s
bedside. The old man had been dreaming again, and thrashed the
blankets and sheets into a twisted wad. He took his father’s hand
from where it clawed the air, clasped it, and remembered how that
hand had once seemed so large, so powerful. The fingers were always
cold now, the tough calluses covered with the velvet-soft skin of
age. His dad’s grip was still strong, but not nearly as strong as
it once was. The old man licked dry lips and whispered fiercely,
“It’s here, son. We didn’t kill it. It’s still here, walking among
us. I know it’s here. Get your gun, Dougie,
we gotta get it, gotta finish it off.”
A chill zipped down Douglas’s spine,
tingled like ice-cold electricity. He tried to keep his voice calm,
level. “We took care of that bear, Dad. Made a big rug out of it,
remember?”
“You know what I mean, boy.” His
father’s eyes fastened on him, angry and a little wild. His voice
was hoarse but rapidly gained in volume. “The werewolf, the white
one. The one you didn’t shoot when I told you to shoot. You stood
there and bawled like a damn baby until I had to drag you out of
there.”
Oh God, not that again. Douglas was
thankful that none of the caregivers who came to their home
believed his father’s stories, but he found himself checking behind
him just the same to see if anyone was listening. “Dad,
I—”
“I told you. I told you we had to finish him. He’s alive, and he’ll be
tracking us, hunting us both unless we hunt him down first. Get my
.338 out of the truck, boy, the one I use for bear.”
It took an hour this time to get his
father settled. When he left the room, Douglas felt wrung out and
apprehensive, even though he knew that the old man was unlikely to
remember any of this in the morning. Wisps of an Alzheimer’s fog
had settled over Roderick Harrison’s mind in recent years. More and
more, the past mingled with the present. Including a part of the
past his son would much rather forget.
It had to be the full moon. His father
was always worse during the full moon. Last month during this lunar
phase, Roderick had been found halfway down the lane in his
pajamas, carrying a broom like a rifle, determined to destroy the
creature that filled his dreams.
Douglas had gathered up all the hunting
rifles after that incident and sent them over to the ranch
manager’s house for safekeeping. A decision about a nursing home
needed to be made soon—but he didn’t feel like making it right now.
He couldn’t picture his father in such a place, away from the ranch
he had ruled with such fervor. Knew too that in his dad’s lucid
moments he would feel betrayed by his son.
A small voice within mocked him.
What about that long ago betrayal by your father?
What about that night your dear old dad took his young son along to
help him commit murder? Face it, Dougie-boy, you don’t want to put
your father in a nursing home because you’re too afraid someone
might start listening to his stories, that somebody might
believe.. . .
Douglas tucked his father in and
decided against going back to bed himself. Instead, he headed
downstairs to the bar for a drink. Maybe several drinks. As many as
it would take to make that small inner voice shut up.