A novel based on the collectible card game RAGE from White Wolf Game Studio

prologue

Dr. Andrew Junius looked down on the great machines tearing through the Amazonian rain forest and came close to crying. The machines, the giant tree harvesters of the Developers Forestry Group, almost seemed alive as they pushed their way into the jungle, each leaving a wide swath of destruction behind it. In that desolation, work crews and other, smaller machines swarmed. Some of the more valuable trees were stripped of their limbs and piled onto huge trucks for transportation back to the DFG factory compound, then down the Amazon to sawmills. Trees with less economic value were simply dumped into huge shredders. The resulting scraps would also be trucked to the DFG compound, but they would probably go no further. DFG burned most of the scraps for fuel or used them in pulp wood experiments in its laboratories. Occasionally, it sold them to other companies for use in making a particularly luxurious grade of fine stationery. Sometimes, when there was an excess of wood chips, they would just be left in the rain forest, great heaps of wood slowly rotting in the humidity.

The ancient green canopy of the rain forest rippled like the surface of a pond as trees crashed down. When the machines had first arrived in the area that morning, the panicked jungle birds had been fireworks exploding out of the canopy. The guards who were posted around the machines had taken to shooting them out of the sky. Like the wood chips, some of the brightly feathered corpses would be taken back to the DFG compound. The feathers would be sold to traders. DFG didn’t mind its employees making a bit of money on their own initiative.

One of the guards, probably screened from his fellows

by some lingering shrubs but clearly visible from Dr. Junius’ vantage, raised his rifle suddenly and shot at something in the undergrowth. It was a peccary, one of the small wild pigs of the area. The guard looked around, making sure no one could see him... then he stretched his mouth open, his jaw dislocating like a snake’s, and swallowed the peccary whole.

Dr. Junius turned away, a little disgusted, but no longer as repulsed as he might once have been. He glanced over at his fellow passengers in the somewhat cramped confines of the DFG executive helicopter. The four of them were hovering over DFG’s latest “development” site, overseeing the stripping away of the forest cover. Barnaby Shadrack, the CEO of Developers Forestry Group, and chief regional officer for DFG’s parent corporation, Pentex Incorporated, glanced back at Dr. Junius. Even in the tropical heat, Shadrack insisted on wearing a three-piece suit. For Shadrack, this excursion was just another chance to get away from his office at the DFG compound. For Junius, it was salt rubbed in a wound. Shadrack tapped at the earpiece of the headset he wore. Dr. Junius nodded and turned up the volume on his own headset.

“Andrew, you’re not ignoring us, are you?” Shadrack’s voice was slightly distorted, but it was certainly better than trying to shout over the scream of the helicopter’s rotors.

“Sorry, Barnaby. Just... caught up in the excitement.”

“I understand. I was about to propose a toast to the success of our new project.” Shadrack opened a small cooler and removed a bottle of champagne and four glasses. The cork popped smoothly out of the bottle. Shadrack filled the glasses expertly, in spite of the slight motion of the helicopter. “Andrew?” he said, offering one of the glasses to Dr. Junius. “And Gahfrag?”

The third occupant of the helicopter smiled politely. He was a large man with heavy black hair and sharp teeth. His voice was polite and cultured. “I’d love to, but the glass...” He held up his hands.

They were huge and muscular, with long, sharp talons and coarse hair. The hands of a monster more than the hands of a man. Gahfrag had difficulty with small, delicate objects. It was likely that he would unintentionally drop, or even crush, the champagne glass. Dr. Junius could barely repress a shudder of unease whenever he looked at Gahfrag’s hands.

As one of the senior scientists of Magadon, Inc., DFG’s sister company in the Amazon and one of Pentex’s many corporate children worldwide, he had seen a lot of very strange things. Few of them bothered him much anymore. Watching the guard capable of swallowing small pigs, for example, was no more unsettling than watching someone with very bad table manners. Gahfrag, on the other hand, was another matter. A cruel insanity bubbled under the man’s calm surface and he radiated the aura of a wild killing machine. Which was hardly surprising, since that was exactly what he was.

“Ahh.” Shadrack seemed more concerned with his slip in etiquette than with the creature that sat across from him. “My apologies, Gahfrag.”

“Not at all. I’m accustomed to this.” He gestured with one of his monstrous hands. The fourth person in the helicopter, a handsome young man with a shaggy ponytail and a surly expression, opened the bag he was carrying and removed a heavy metal mug. Gahfrag took it from him and held it out for Shadrack to fill. “I find that very few...” Without warning, there was a flash of red light and heat outside. The thunder of an explosion shook the helicopter and sent it skipping sideways through the air. Champagne splashed out of Junius’ glass, soaking his shirtfront. The bottle in Shadrack’s hand jumped away from Gahfrag’s mug and more champagne poured across the floor. “What was that?” Dr. Junius gasped.

Shadrack looked out the window and cursed. “One of the harvesters! It’s an attack.” He flicked a switch on his headset, opening a channel to speak with the helicopter

pilot. “Get us out of here!”

“Yes, sir.”

The helicopter leaped forward and up, gaining altitude as well as speed. Dr. Junius glanced outside. The ground was rapidly falling away, but the chaos below was still visible. One of the giant tree harvesters was burning. The few DFG employees with military training were trying to bully the rest into some semblance of discipline. There could be little doubt as to the identity of their attackers. Junius watched as a massive creature with a man’s body and the head of a wolf appeared from the cover of the rain forest and disemboweled the peccary-swallowing guard with a single swipe of its sharp talons.

“Garou,” he said.

The young man with the ponytail growled. “You were expecting treehuggers?”

Gahfrag cuffed the young man. “Quiet, Kwargkh.”

Dr. Junius liked to think that he knew a little more about what was going on than most people did. He knew, for example, that Pentex, one of the biggest multinational corporations in the world, was only part of something even larger. Something a younger Dr. Junius had only heard whispered about around the labs, something called the Wyrm. Everything that the coils of Pentex touched, everything it produced, was corrupt or toxic. Pentex was bent on raping the environment and destroying the world, because that’s what the Wyrm wanted. Because the Wyrm promised power to those who followed it. At times, the Wyrm had sounded like some sort of malevolent conspiracy — at others, a ravaging, ravening supernatural entity. As Dr. Junius rose through the ranks at Magadon, he learned that this was exactly what it was.

He had also learned that Pentex and the Wyrm recognized talent and loyalty and rewarded their servants well. Magadon assigned only the best scientists to its jungle laboratory. The violation and devastation of the Amazonian wilderness was an important part of Pentex’s plans. Dr. Junius had very nearly passed out with delirious joy when he had been appointed to work on such a momentous project.

But the wilderness had its own protectors — not just in the Amazon, he had discovered later, but all over the world. Hard as it had been for Dr. Junius, as a scientist, to accept the existence of the Wyrm, it was more difficult at first to believe in the existence of the creatures that stood between Pentex and its goals. They called themselves Garou.

Legends called them werewolves.

Real, honest'to-God, howl-at'the-moon, shapechanging werewolves. Not exactly like in the movies, of course. Dr. Junius had never seen someone become a werewolf after being bitten by a Garou. Usually anyone who got that close to a Garou ended up being torn apart. The Garou were like a separate species, complete with tribal subcultures and well-developed shamanic beliefs — which included nature spirits that granted supernatural “gifts,” fetishes, even a spirit world called the Umbra that the Garou claimed they were able to enter and traverse. They referred to Earth and the wilderness as Gaia, as if it were a living being or some kind of deity. They seemed to think that protecting the environment was a sacred duty. Battling Pentex in the Amazon was to them a holy war.

But there were Garou who fought for the Wyrm as well, an entire tribe of corrupt Garou called “Black Spiral Dancers.” They were Pentex’s allies. Gahfrag was the leader of the band of Black Spiral Dancers that had come to fight for Pentex in the Amazon. The Black Spirals were also Pentex’s main source for information on the Garou, and since Gahfrag’s band had arrived in the Amazon a couple of years ago, Dr. Junius had found himself not only accepting the existence of the Garou, but also becoming fascinated with them. Especially with finding a way to destroy them. He was close, too. So close that lately his private projects were starting to interfere with his regular work.

For once, however, he was actually glad to see the Garou. “Good for them,” he muttered fiercely as he turned away from the window.

Shadrack raised an eyebrow sharply. “Andrew?” Something inside Dr. Junius snapped. “Look at all of that, Barnaby.” He indicated the rain forest below with a sweep of his arm. “All of it is going to disappear! Magadon hasn’t been able to survey that tract of land yet. You don’t know what you’re destroying there. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of new species of plant life. All gone! Who knows what useful compounds we could have discovered among those plants?”

Gahfrag glanced at Shadrack. “Is he...?”

“A closet environmentalist? No.” Shadrack reached out and refilled Dr. Junius’ glass with the last of the champagne that was in the bottle. “This is a feud that’s been going on between DFG and Magadon for a while now.”

“New toxins,” commented Dr. Junius harshly. “New drugs! Did you know we found a variety of lowland coca not ten miles from here? The cocaine that it yields...” He pressed his lips together in a thin line as he accepted his glass back from Shadrack. “All we’re asking for is a chance to survey before DFG moves in. With the Garou attack today, maybe we’ll get that chance in this area.”

“That seems reasonable,” Gahfrag agreed. He looked at Shadrack. “After all, we’re all on the same side here.” Shadrack sipped at his own glass of champagne. “Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. DFG is on a tight schedule. So is Magadon. As CEO for DFG and regional director for Pentex, I’m caught between them.”

Dr. Junius sighed. “If you can’t do anything about the schedules, could you at least get Magadon to send us more personnel? That way we could get more surveys done in the time that we do have.”

Shadrack contemplated the ceiling for a moment, then looked back at Dr. Junius. “I think 1 could do that.”

“Thank you, Barnaby.” Junius smiled, hoping that he looked grateful, but not triumphant. More personnel at the Magadon facility meant that he would be able to delegate some of his regular work to someone else. And that meant he would have more time to devote to his special projects. The trouble it had taken to leak a messagfc about today’s clearcutting to the Garou had been worth it.

Just because Dr. Junius didn’t like the beasts didn’t mean that they weren’t without their uses.

He raised his glass. “Shall we finish the toast we started, then? To a new project.”

“To Pentex,” Shadrack added. He raised his own glass.

“To the death,” suggested Gahfrag, lifting his mug, “of Gaia.”

Dr. Junius touched his own glass to those of his colleagues. “Gentlemen — to the Wyrm!”

CHAPTER ONE

“Look, I told you — I went through customs in Rio!” Peter Ward glared at the fat, greasy-looking customs agent. The man just smiled back at him, revealing irregular teeth yellowed from years of tobacco smoke, and kept rummaging through Peter’s backpack. Every once in a while, he would repeat the phrase that had begun to sound like a litany.

“Desculpe nao falo ingles.”

“And I don’t speak Portuguese! ParleZ'VOUS francais?" He slammed his passport, travel documents, and immunization papers down on the counter. It was hopeless. Peter already knew that the customs agent didn’t speak French. He had even tried a little bit of his high school German on him. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead and flipped back a lock of his thick blond hair. In spite of the overworked air conditioning system in the airport, it was still uncomfortably warm. When Peter had left Toronto a couple of days ago, one of the coldest Januarys on record was just ending. Manaus was right in the middle of the Amazonian rain forest. When Peter had stepped out of the airplane and onto the tarmac of the runway, the heat and humidity had been like walking into a bathroom where somebody had left a hot shower running. The airport, groaning air conditioning and all, was miraculous in comparison.

“I came here from Rio... Rio de Janeiro? My baggage went through customs at the airport...” Peter gritted his teeth together as the customs agent pulled a hand-sized red bottle out of his backpack. “It’s cologne. Cologne? Smells good?” Smelling good was probably a foreign

concept to the man, hut Peter tried anyway.

“Ahhh... sim. Agua.'de'Coldnia." The customs agent mimed squirting a spray of the stuff onto his face. “Gets the babes?” he asked in heavily accented English. The syllables came out almost as one word. He leered and started to take the cap off the bottle.

Peter reached over and plucked the cologne out of the agent’s hands. “Watch it! That’s expensive stuff!” He looked around the arrivals area. Manaus was the transportation center of the Amazon Basin. The airport was reasonably busy, though not excessively so. No one else stood in line at the customs desk, however. He had come up from Rio on a small domestic flight, the only foreigner on the plane. He pulled his backpack away from the customs agent. The man frowned and snatched it back again, cutting loose with a stream of rapid Portuguese. -

It was about all Peter could take. He leaned across the desk, as close to the customs agent as he could get without actually touching him, and looked defiantly into the man’s eyes. “Let... me... through!” he growled angrily.

The customs agent turned pale. He didn’t really give Peter’s backpack to him so much as merely release it from nerveless hands. Peter snatched the backpack, stuffed his cologne into it, and, grabbing his suitcase and his big duffel bag, stalked away from the desk.

Sometimes Peter wondered what people saw when he got a little bit angry. He was twenty-four, though at times he looked older than his years. His face tapered to a sharp chin, and friends had described his smile as more of a wry smirk than an open grin. He was lean and angular rather than muscular and imposing. Peter knew that he seldom looked really intimidating — at least under normal circumstances. When he had been younger, he had spent hours in front of a mirror, making the most frightening faces he could think of. None of them seemed frightening enough to provoke a reaction like the customs agent’s.

Maybe it was because he would never be in the position of the customs agent: the position of prey staring into the eyes of a predator.

The position of a rabbit staring into the eyes of a wolf.

Right now, however, he felt extremely intimidating, senselessly angry in the way that comes with being very, very tired. Pausing for a moment, he pulled his cologne back out of his pack and gave himself a quick spray. Away from the arrivals area, the airport terminal was only slightly more crowded. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon. Even the airport, it seemed, slowed to a crawl for a nap in the afternoon heat. Peter wished fervently that he could do the same. He had been traveling almost non-stop for the last two days — flying from Toronto, to Chicago, to Rio de Janeiro, then up to Manaus aboard a crowded, low-class flight. He desperately wanted to check into a hotel, take a long, hot shower, and slide into a soft bed. He hoped that he would have the chance to do so. It would be his last opportunity for the comforts of civilization, possibly for quite some time. Within the next twenty-four hours, he would be heading into the rain forest.

He looked around for the lower level of the airport and the cafe that would be there. He was supposed to meet his Amazonian contacts in the cafe, beneath... he grimaced slightly... the severed arm. He spotted a sign at the far end of the terminal and walked toward it.

As he went, he darted glances around him. The chances that he would be watched in the airport were, he had been told, slight. Pentex had spies and informants everywhere, but in Manaus, those spies tended to watch the giant corporation’s offices and warehouses down by the port. Still, some level of vigilance was necessary. He had already invested considerable time in getting here undetected — one reason for his roundabout flight route.

An out-of-order escalator lead down to the lower level and the cafe. Peter pushed open the cafe’s glass doors. No one even looked up at him as he entered. The patrons were a mixture of foreign and Brazilian tourists, as well as locals. The air was hazy with smoke and the heavy smell of greasy food. In fact, calling the place a cafe was a pretentious extravagance. It was more like a third-rate cafeteria.

He had no trouble spotting the “severed arm” marking the presence of his contacts. On the wall was a poster of the majestic statue of Christ the Redeemer that overlooked Rio de Janeiro. The poster was torn, a jagged strip ripped away. The rip went right through one of the statue’s arms. Even without the signal of the mutilated poster, Peter would have recognized the two men who sat at the table beneath it as the people he had come here to meet.

One of the men was of about average height, but very solidly built. He wore a sleeveless shirt and his exposed arms were muscular. He was half-asleep, arms crossed against his chest and head nodding, the unruly brush of black hair on his head almost meeting the thick black hair of his forearms. His companion was taller and leaner, wearing a deep green vest over a black T-shirt. His hair was also black, but fine and straight, almost falling into his large, dark eyes. He had a tattoo on his face, appearing from this distance as just a blotch under his left eye. Both men’s skin was tanned dark brown from long exposure to the sun and both seemed to be about Peter’s age — perhaps a bit younger, perhaps a bit older. Just as with Peter himself, it was hard to tell. Even in the midst of the rough characters who filled the cafe, there was something unusual about these two, a sense of danger and the wilderness that left a cleared space around them and the extra chair at their table. The danger made them seem older than their years, while the touch of wilderness gave them an air of perpetual youth. It was this combined impression that Peter recognized more than anything else. It didn’t bother him. In fact, he shared it.

Like Peter, the two men were Garou.

The taller man nudged his companion as Peter began threading his way between the tables. The man nearly jumped at the sudden awakening, as if expecting danger, but then relaxed when he realized what was happening. Seeing Peter’s luggage, he rolled his eyes. Peter pretended that he didn’t notice and set his bags down right in front of the table. “The end is upon us,” he said, maybe a little bit flatly. The recognition phrase hardly seemed necessary — he knew who they were, they knew who he was. Impostors wouldn’t have bothered to mimic the amount of baggage he carried. He dropped into one of the chairs at the table without waiting for a response.

The action confused the Garou at the table. The muscular Garou tensed, perhaps suspicious. Peter remained relaxed. The taller of the two replied, “When will you rage?” It was the second part of the recognition phrase. He hesitated, then asked, “Peter Ward?”

Peter nodded. “Of the Glass Walkers tribe, from the Taddle Creek Sept of Toronto.”

The muscular stretched and groaned, “Finally! What took you so long? You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”

“The plane was delayed taking off from Rio. And we hit some turbulence on the way up,” Peter said tersely. The close air of the cafe was already weighing on him. He was not looking forward to entering the primitive wilds of the rain forest. He just wanted this trip to be over as soon as possible.

“I’m Brennan of the Fianna.” The muscular Garou leaned forward and stuck out his hand. “Skinny here is Steps-Lightly of the Silent Striders.” The tall, lean Garou nodded in greeting. “We’re both part of the Severed Arm pack, operating out of the Sky River Caern.”

Peter just fixed him with a direct stare. “Don’t we have somewhere to be going?”

“Uhhh, yeah.” Brennan withdrew his hand. “Through the kitchen. We’ll leave the airport through a service entrance.” He rose, slinging a small satchel over his

shoulder. Steps-Lightly carried ;i similar bag.

“I didn’t think there was anything to worry about,” Peter remarked, standing as well.

“Not for strangers coming into the city.” Steps-Lightly’s voice was clear and smooth, and it actually made Peter start. The tall Garou had moved to stand beside him so quietly that Peter hadn’t noticed. Up close, Peter could see that the tattoo under his eye was the mark of his tribe. Many Garou favored such tattoos. Peter himself did not. “It’s too hard for even Pentex to watch all of the ways into Manaus too closely. Brennan and I... well, the pack of the Severed Arm is a little more well-known.” The Silent Strider reached for Peter’s suitcase. “Let me carry this for you. We’ll be able to move more...”

“No!”

Silence dropped over the cafe like a blanket. Everyone there turned to glance at Peter. He flushed. He hadn’t meant to speak with such force. Steps-Lightly froze, one hand on the suitcase, his head twisted around to look up at Peter. Gradually, seeing that nothing was happening, the patrons of the cafe lost interest in the table under the torn poster. The noise slowly returned to its former level.

“No,” Peter repeated, more quietly this time. He pushed the duffel bag toward the other Garou. “You can carry this if you like, but I’ll carry the suitcase myself.”

“Suit yourself.” Steps-Lightly shrugged, picked up the duffel bag, and led the way into the kitchen. Brennan took Peter’s backpack, then ushered him on ahead.

The kitchen of the cafe was nothing out of the Ordinary. Given the cafe’s atmosphere, it was, in fact, quite a bit cleaner and more pleasant than Peter might have expected. The staff was apparently used to having customers wandering through, because no one even batted an eye as the three men trooped past. Two institutional gray doors at the end of the kitchen opened into a similarly gray corridor. The architect who designed the airport must have reasoned that service personnel didn’t need air conditioning to the same degree as tourists: the service corridor was stiflingly hot and stuffy.

“Jesus!” Peter muttered. He could almost feel the sweat dripping out of his pores in response to the heat. It did not improve his mood.

Steps-Lightly looked over his shoulder and gave him a tight smile. “Wait until you get into the rain forest.”

“I know.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Brennan added. He swiped a hairy arm across his face. Even though his shirt was sleeveless, the material beneath his armpit was damp and distinctly yellow.

“Very few of the Garou you’ll meet came for the climate, Peter.” Steps-Lightly’s smile loosened up a bit. “There’s a reason why the last of Gaia’s wild places are in extreme climates like the Amazon.”

“No one in his right mind would come here?” Peter asked with bitter sarcasm. Sweat from his forehead dripped, stinging, into his eyes.

Steps-Lightly exchanged a fleeting glance with Brennan. Peter didn’t have to be a mind-reader to understand what passed between them. Their guest, they were thinking, was a surly bastard. Most Garou came to the Amazon with considerably more excitement.

“If only the creatures of the Wyrm were in their right minds,” Steps-Lightly continued after a moment. “Would you believe that some of them actually thrive in this weather? I think it’s because the heat and humidity make things rot faster.” He slowed down so that he was walking beside Peter. “The Amazon War may be our last chance to turn the tide against the Wyrm,” he said seriously. “If Pentex and the other servants of the Wyrm manage to destroy the rain forest, it will affect the environment the world over. Not just through the destruction of the trees, either — the Umbra is very close to the physical world here. So is Gaia. If the rain forest vanishes, that connection will, too. The world will suffer spiritually as well as...”

Peter shifted his duffel bag in his hand. “Steps-Lightly,” he said abruptly, “is there a reason for this little pep talk?” The Silent Strider shot him a sideways look. Peter could feel Brennan’s gaze on him as well. “That putting up with a little discomfort is worth it for Gaia’s sake.”

“I thought that might be it.”

They walked in silence for several minutes before Steps-Lightly asked quietly, “You don’t want to be here, do you?”

Peter couldn’t help grimacing. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“We don’t see many Glass Walkers down here,” Brennan said. “A lot of Red Talons, Get of Fenris, Black Furies, the other wild tribes — but not many of the urban Garou.” He held up a hand and wiggled his fingers. “I can think of maybe a dozen or so Glass Walkers and Bone Gnawers in the Amazon. And that’s out of over a hundred Garou. Your type tend to stick to the cities.”

“Cities are what we know best.” Peter gritted his teeth. Too many Garou disliked his tribe, the Glass Walkers, because they chose to live in cities. Most other Garou tribes considered cities little better than scabs on Gaia’s surface, breeding places for the most insidious forms of the Wyrm’s corruption. The Garou lived for the wild, for nature. The Glass Walkers knew that Gaia was alive in cities, too, however, and that spirits inhabited machines and skyscrapers just as they inhabited trees and stones. And they knew that the Wyrm had to be fought wherever it bred. Other Garou accused them of being too fond of technology and human comforts — sometimes of being too close to the Wyrm itself. “The wilderness isn’t really our territory.” He turned to look at Brennan. “Come visit me in Toronto and we’ll talk.”

“Peter...” Steps-Lightly said quickly. “I think what

Brennan means is why are you here? You Peter, not you the Glass Walker.”

“To fight the Wyrm, of course. The same as you.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Peter realized how sarcastic they must have sounded. Brennan’s mouth twitched into a snarl, and even Steps-Lightly’s lean face grew dark.

He really was behaving like a bastard. Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry. Really. 1 didn’t mean it that way. I’ve been awake too long.”

“We paddled two days by canoe to get here to meet you,” Brennan said harshly. “Don’t tell me about being tired.”

“Easy.” Steps-Lightly put a hand on Brennan’s shoulder. “Sitting still on an airplane can be just as tiring as paddling a canoe.” He smiled at Peter and the Glass Walker relaxed. Silent Striders were the travelers of the Garou, the lean, fast long-runners and messengers. Possibly as a result of their traveling experiences, they were also one of the least judgmental and most understanding of the tribes.

On the other hand, Brennan’s tribe, the Fianna, were legendary for their violent tempers, wild revels, silver-smooth tongues, and deep, fierce pride. Peter didn’t think that Brennan would be so easily forgiving. He tried apologizing anyway, making an effort, at least, to extend a hand in friendship after starting off on a bad foot. “It is,” he agreed. “There’s nowhere to move, nowhere to stretch.” He gave Brennan one of his wry smiles. “Thanks for coming to meet me.”

“You couldn’t have just come in by Moon Bridge like any other Garou, could you?” the Fianna growled. “You had to take a plane." The word came out sounding like a curse. Brennan walked on ahead, leaving Peter and Steps-Lightly behind.

The Silent Strider looked at Peter and shrugged. Peter sprinted a little ways and caught up to Brennan. “I didn’t have much choice.” A Moon Bridge was a kind of magical passage through the Umbra that could be opened between one mystical caern and another by Garou who knew the proper rites. Garou who came to the Amazon usually traveled via Moon Bridge, arriving in the rain forest directly at one of the two caerns that were the Garou bases here. Manaus was quite a ways from either caern. “Pentex keeps a tight lid on Toronto — the Wyrm virtually rules the city. Pentex and the Black Spiral Dancers have spirits that watch the Umbra, and they can trace a Moon Bridge back to its originating caern. My sept doesn’t want that. It’s easier to get out of Toronto by traveling like a human.”

Brennan snorted. “Like a human. That’s just like a Glass Walker.” The way he said the words made it clear that he wasn’t interested in anything else Peter had to say.

Peter, for his part, turned away from Brennan and watched the unchanging corridor ahead of them. He didn’t need this.

“So why are you here?” asked Steps-Lightly quietly, once more walking beside him.

“To fight the Wyrm,” Peter replied wearily. “Really.” He forced a smile. “It was just too cold in Toronto — I figured I needed a nice relaxing vacation in the sunny tropics.”

Brennan gave another derisive snort. Peter glared at him. “That was a joke.”

“Just don’t start complaining about a lack of air conditioning.” They came to the end of the corridor and Brennan pushed open a door — beyond was an empty loading dock, and a hazy street. Tropical sunshine made the pavement ripple with heat distortions. The air that poured in was laden with the combined smells of garbage, exhaust fumes, and the heavy odor of the distant rain forest.

It was, if possible, even hotter than the stale air of the corridor. The cool draft from inside vanished as the door closed behind them. Peter sighed and set down his suitcase. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a pair of round-framed sunglasses and settled them on his face. “When do we leave for the jungle?”

“I’m not sure. We have to wait for our pack leader,” Steps-Lightly replied.

“You’re not it?” Peter blinked in surprise. “I just assumed...”

Brennan barked out a short, harsh laugh, as though Peter’s guess was a sign of terminal ignorance. “Hardly.”

Peter gave the Fianna a smile so sharp it was almost a snarl. “And I can’t believe it’s you.” Brennan bared his teeth menacingly. Peter deliberately ignored him. “So who is the pack leader?”

“Me!”

Somebody grabbed him. A hairy arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him down and backward. He didn’t even have time to cry out, but he heard Brennan laughing again. Peter kicked with his legs, rolling over on the dirty surface of the loading dock. The figure atop him, all hair, wild eyes, and wide mouth, it seemed, just rolled with him. It growled.

Instinctively, Peter growled back. He pushed against the figure, hard. Its head slammed down against the ground. Peter gave a triumphant snarl. His heart was pounding. He was breathing fast and heavy. He tasted dust and sweat and maybe a little bit of blood in his mouth....

And suddenly his Rage was upon him.

Gaia’s warriors had many weapons. The ability to change their shape. The ability to walk in the spirit world of the Umbra. The gifts granted to them by the spirits that lived there. Great strength, incredible stamina, and astonishing speed. The power to recover almost instantly from any injury, except those inflicted by silver or the poisons of the Wyrm. And yet none of these weapons would have been any use without Gaia’s greatest gift to her children — the Rage of the beast that was a part of them.

Fierce anger was what brought the Garou close to their great Mother, and what gave them strength and healing and power. It was a part of them, something to be embraced and used in defense of Gaia. Yet Rage was also a curse.

The beast that was inside of each Garou was sometimes too close to the surface. The Garou, even at their most peaceful, were warriors. Their Rage came to them easily. When they were as tired as Peter was, it came much too easily.

Peter found himself changing as the thrill of the fight swept through him. His body grew larger, hairier, and much more powerful. The Garou had three basic forms: the Homid, or human; the Lupus, or wolf; and the Crinos. There was no easy way to describe the Crinos form. It was a combination of wolf and human, standing on two legs, yet with cruel claws on its enormous hands and crushing jaws in a wolflike head. It was a brute, a barely thinking, angry monster. A creature of the wild. Normal humans fled from it in fear, or else went a little mad each time they saw it. The Crinos was Rage incarnate, Gaia’s truest weapon against the Wyrm.

But not always appropriate. Brennan was laughing. So, he realized, was Steps-Lightly. Whoever his attacker was, he wasn’t really a threat, and the Crinos could as easily turn against a friend as an enemy in its anger. Peter fought back his Rage, trying to control it before it controlled him. His lack of sleep while traveling did not help. It was too tempting to give in to the limitless energy of Gaia and the Crinos. But if he fell into a Rage here... now... breathing hard, he pushed the Rage away and forced himself to remain in Homid form.

That moment spent in regaining control was all that the figure under Peter needed. It grabbed him, kicked, twisted, and threw, and all at once, it was Peter who was on the ground. The figure sat astride him, pinning his shoulders with one arm and a knee.

Brennan was laughing even harder now.

“Petey!” crowed Peter’s attacker. “I thought you were going to throw a fit for a minute there! They told me someone was coming from Toronto, but they didn’t tell me it was going to be you!” The figure’s wide mouth was a toothy, goofy smile.

“Who are you?” Peter groaned.

Steps-Lightly squatted down beside him. “Peter,” the Silent Strider said, “allow me to introduce our pack leader. But then, it seems you already know each other.”

“Know each other?” The pack leader jumped off Peter and hauled him up into a rough embrace. “We’re buddies!” “Hold it!” Peter pushed the unknown Garou back and held him at arm’s length. He seemed a little bit younger than Peter, but he was also shorter by almost eight inches. His hair stuck out from his head in a tangle, and he was unshaven. His unwashed body smelled strongly of sweat and fresh earth. His eyes were bright. And he had only one arm — the right sleeve of his baggy shirt drooped empty. Peter was sure that he did not know any one-armed Garou. “1 don’t...”

“Oh, come on, Petey!” The Garou shrugged off his grip, then threw his remaining arm around Peter’s shoulders. He had to reach up to do it. “California, about six years ago? The Napa Valley? We snitched some wine and howled down the moon.” He smiled again. “Of course, your mother whupped you good the next day....”

Peter groaned. “Roshen.”

CHAPTER TWO

“So then I said, ‘Yeah? Well, I bet Petey could drink the whole thing faster than you could drink half of it!’ And he did!” Roshen roared with laughter at the memory. Brennan and Steps-Lightly chuckled.

Peter managed a weak grin. About seven years ago, he had spent two weeks visiting the Napa Valley Sept that had been Roshen’s home before the Amazon. The memories refused to go away. Roshen apparently remembered things in a different light. “Why don’t you tell them what happened afterward?”

Roshen’s toothy smile grew even wider. “Peter almost came down with alcohol poisoning. He puked all over the place!”

It must have been a lot funnier to hear about the incident than to have experienced it. Steps-Lightly snorted in amusement. Brennan smirked as though Peter were an idiot and asked, “Why the hell didn’t you just go Lupus or Crinos and let the healing burn off the booze?” “Petey hadn’t gone through the First Change yet!” Roshen threw his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Seventeen and still stuck as a human. I figured he’d change, too, but... nada. Fortunately we had someone in the pack who had a gift of healing and she fixed Petey up before we had to drag him to a hospital.”

“You didn’t go through the Change until you were seventeen?” snickered Brennan.

“Eighteen,” Peter snarled hack. He caught Brennan’s eye in a hostile glare. “Want to make something of it?” They were walking through the marketplace that sprawled across a section of the Manaus waterfront. The sun had gone down a couple of hours ago in an abrupt

tropical sunset, the kind that seemed to have no twilight. One moment there was light, and the next almost complete darkness. They would be staying in Manaus overnight — Roshen had arranged upriver passage for them and the Garou’s supplies on a boat that would leave just before dawn tomorrow morning. Brennan, Steps-Lightly, and, of course, Roshen, had been planning to spend the night in one of the city’s flophouses, but Peter had insisted on better-class accommodations. He had the money, and since this was going to be his last night in civilization for a while, he was determined to be comfortable.

Roshen had rolled his eyes and snorted, “Just like a Glass Walker. Have to have civilization — a bag and a backpack and a suitcase for a trip into the jungle.” Like Brennan and Steps-Lightly, Roshen carried only a satchel, although he also had a long, cylindrical bag with him. The three Amazonian Garou had left their satchels in the hotel room along with Peter’s suitcases, but Roshen kept his bag with him.

Peter had ignored him, instead reaching into his backpack and producing his bottle of cologne. Roshen moaned as Peter gave himself a fresh spray of the spicy scent. “Decadence, decadence!”

“Who ate the mints off the pillows?” Peter had shot back.

“That was different. I was hungry. You don’t smell bad.”

Peter had just rolled his eyes. Roshen was a member of the Silver Fangs tribe, one of the aristocracy of the Garou. Breeding as much as blood ran in his veins. Silver Fangs were virtually universally respected among the Garou —-they had been the rulers and leaders of Gaia’s warriors since the beginning of Garou history. With his lunatic grin and unruly hair, Roshen seemed more like a court jester than a prince or king.

His madcap act masked a very competent pack leader, though. “Down, boys!” he ordered Brennan and Peter.

Roshen pulled Peter forward, breaking the angry stare between the two Garou. “Now is not the time for a fight. We’re buddies here.”

“I’ve heard that late Changes are a problem for Glass Walkers,” Brennan remarked anyway. He shoveled some food into his mouth. Most of the stalls in the marketplace had closed down with the fall of night. A few, however, were still open, mostly selling beer or hot snacks to lingering locals. Brennan had stopped at one of the stalls to buy a paper dish of something called tacaca, a kind of thick local stew made of tapioca, garlic, shrimp, manioc juice, and pepper. To Peter, it looked disgusting. Brennan spoke around the food. “Living in cities and breeding too much with humans makes the wolf in them weak.”

Peter flushed. Garou were normally born from the union between a Garou and an ordinary human or wolf, and grew up in the society of their non-Garou parent, believing themselves to be nothing extraordinary. Until they changed shape for the first time, there was usually no indication that they were definitely Garou. Sometimes the forbidden happened and two Garou mated with each other. In that case, the offspring was born in its monstrous Crinos form, shunned, sterile, and almost always deformed. The mating of male and female Garou was regarded with disgust as something akin to incest. Some tribes were rumored to put such children, called “metis,” to death.

Ordinarily, though, the Garou gene didn’t express itself in every Garou child, and sometimes it could skip generations. Children without the gene were simply Kinfolk, little more than normal humans or wolves. The more a tribe of Garou bred with only half of its heritage — mating exclusively with humans or wolves — the fewer true Garou it tended to produce. Most Garou Changed for the first time early in adolescence, often unaware of what was happening to them.

Peter, on the other hand, had been more than simply aware of what might happen to him. In fact, he had longed for it passionately. While he had never known his human father, his mother was a Garou, a prominent member of the Glass Walkers in Toronto, and she had somehow known with a mother’s instinct that her child would indeed one day experience the Change. She had insisted that Peter be raised among the Garou, as a Garou. When Peter reached adolescence, though, he didn’t Change. He wanted to, desperately, but it just didn’t happen. And that had caused problems — as when Peter’s mother had visited the Napa Valley Silver Fangs, and a young Roshen and his pack had dragged Peter out for a night of fun. Peter had, of course, finally Changed, but the time it had taken for it to happen was a constant source of embarrassment and friction.

Roshen shrugged and scooped some of Brennan’s tacaca up with his finger, popping it in his mouth. “You’re hotnid, too, Brennan.” He grinned. “Not all of us have the advantage of being born lupus!”

If the Silver Fang’s reminder had been meant to change the topic, it worked. If it had been meant to change Peter’s mood, it didn’t. He gave Roshen a black stare. “1 notice that your speech has improved.”

Lupus breed Garou like Roshen, born and raised as wolves before they Changed, were frequently viewed by human-born Garou as wild and uncivilized, caring little for the niceties that accompanied passing as a human. They were especially notorious for their difficulty with learning human speech. It was a sore point for many lupus Garou. Roshen, however, just laughed again.

“I’ve had to get used to living in Homid form.” He wiggled his right shoulder. “It’s not easy to get around as a wolf with three legs.”

Embarrassment brought Peter’s ill-temper up short. “I’m sorry, Roshen. I didn’t mean to...”

“No! Hell, it was a Wyrm creature that took it off. Happened up in Nevada while I was in Crinos form.” He winked at him. “I still managed to kill the thing. My sept told stories about it for months afterward.”

“Oh.” Peter hesitated, then asked, “If you don’t mind the question, when did you lose your arm?”

Roshen gave him a wicked grin. “Well, I didn’t exactly lose it...” He tossed him the big bag that he carried. “Catch.”

Peter grabbed the bag out of the air without thinking, then yelped and almost dropped it. Through the material of the bag, he could feel something heavy and long, with a slight crook halfway down its length, and an irregulat knobby swelling at one end. He could swear that that swelling had claws.

The other Garou broke out laughing. Peter opened the bag and looked inside. The thing within was exactly what it had felt like: the giant arm of a Crinos Garou, severed at the shoulder, mummified, and decorated with strips of leather and feathers. His mouth twisted in disgust, then he closed the bag and handed it back to Roshen. “That’s... interesting.”

“I keep it around as a souvenir. Makes a great club, too.” Roshen glanced at him. “Aw, Petey — don’t get angry.”

“Pm not angry.” Peter fumbled for his backpack. “You’re crazy!” He pulled out his cologne and sprayed it on his face.

Roshen leaned over to sniff at the cologne. “That’s nice. What’s it called?”

“Fever,” snapped Peter irritably.

“Smells sort of like ginger.” He raised his arm. “Give me a squirt.”

“Forget it!” Peter put the red bottle away. “I don’t have enough of this stuff to waste it!”

Steps-Lightly smiled. “Planning to smell good lor Pentex in the jungle?”

“At least,” Brennan said brightly, “the smell will keep the bugs away from him. Maybe from all of us if he uses enough.”

Peter growled at him.

“Easy!” Roshen put his arm around Peter’s shoulders again. “Don’t throw a hairy on us, Peter. Lighten up. This is just the Severed Arm’s style. We may be jokers, but there’s no better borzoi pack in the Amazon.”

“Borzoi?’

“As in the Russian wolfhound,” answered Steps-Lightly. “It means ‘swift.’ We’re a scout pack.”

“No doubt,” Peter said disparagingly, “so other Garou have to see as little of you as possible.”

“Haw,” grunted Roshen. “Come on, Petey! Get into the spirit of it. This is the Amazon! The Good Fight! The holy war against Pentex!” He started walking again, pulling Peter along with him. The others followed. “Major opportunities to come home covered in glory!” He pulled Peter close. “Speaking of home, how’s Toronto? How’s your mother?”

“Toronto’s fine. Mom’s...” — Peter hesitated for a fraction of a second — “... good.”

Steps-Lightly frowned. “Peter, who exactly is your mother? Roshen keeps going on about her.”

Peter began to answer, but Roshen interrupted him, “Who’s his mother? Only Cassandra Spitfire, Donna of the Toronto Glass Walkers and leader of the Taddle Creek Sept! You’ve heard of Roger Daly of the Corporate Raiders Sept in Vancouver? Cassandra could take him two falls out of three!” He stepped away from Peter and gave a grand, dramatic gesture. “She took out a pack of Black Spiral Dancers single-handedly! She foiled a Pentex plot to cause a major spill of toxic waste in the Gulf of St. Lawrence! She ran off the Get of Fenris when they tried to get a toehold in Toronto!”

“All of the Garou in Toronto fought the Get of Fenris, Roshen,” Peter pointed out. A couple of years ago, the tribe of unruly, warlike werewolves had tried to seize control of the city from the Glass Walkers. The urban Garou had beaten them back.

“She was the leader, wasn’t she?” commented Roshen. “The woman is a legend.”

“Yeah, okay. She’s a legend,” Peter agreed wearily. He yawned. “Look, it was a rough flight up from Rio and it’s been a long day. Can we talk more tomorrow?”

“Don’t you want to see more of Manaus?”

“Not especially.”

“Okay.” Roshen turned a corner and gestured up the street. Their hotel was surprisingly close. “We’re going to hang around down here for a while longer. The boat leaves an hour before dawn, and it’s pretty much an all-day trip up to where we get off. Then about two days up the Purus river and a little overland to the Sky River Caern. We’ll have lots of time to talk!”

“Swell.” Peter almost had to call back over his shoulder. He was already part-way up the street.

Back in the hotel room, he paused. It hadn’t been a lie exactly. He was dead tired. But the other Garou were also starting to get on his nerves. Roshen with his manic, jester-like craziness. Brennan — especially Brennan! — with his dislike of Glass Walkers. Even Steps-Lightly’s quiet, serious manners became annoying. And Peter was heading straight for more Garou.

He sighed, forcing his shoulders to loosen and relax. Was he going to be able to keep it up? He would have to. Starting tomorrow, he would make an effort to get along with Roshen and his pack. Even Brennan if he could stomach the Fianna.

Peter reached down and picked up his suitcase, swinging it onto the bed. He wished that it were a little less conspicuous, but he needed the protection of its hard sides. Even so, he wanted to check its contents before the other Garou returned. Taking a key out of his backpack, he unlocked his case and opened it.

Most of the suitcase was filled with thick, foam-rubber padding. Cradled in its center were a dozen small red boxes, each wrapped in cellophane, and each stamped in black with a single word: Fever..

The cologne had survived the trip this far. Peter took a deep breath in relief. He had gotten the suitcase through customs in Rio de Janeiro by telling the customs agent there that he was a salesman bringing samples of perfume to perspective clients. He had been wearing a business suit then — unfortunately he had not expected to encounter another customs agent here in Manaus and had discarded the suit back in Rio. His temper had actually saved him from having to create some new, elaborate explanation about why he was carrying so much cologne.

Peter closed the suitcase again, and locked it.

There were, Peter discovered, a surprising number of people who milled around the port early in the morning. He had expected the waterfront to be quiet. Instead, it was ablaze with the light of kerosene lanterns, flashlights, and a few street lamps. This was the section of the docks where river ships and local ferries docked alongside fishing boats and canoes. Further downstream, where the inland neighborhoods were a little better, were the docks for the ocean liners and tourist vessels that came up the Amazon from the ocean. Peter had been astounded when he had learned that ocean liners could actually come this far up the Amazon. The true size of the river had never really struck him before. Down at the tourist docks, though, everything was quiet and dark.

These, however, were working docks. Peter and Steps-Lightly moved through a crowd of fishermen and sailors noisily preparing to go out for the day. Local people taking passage on one of the boats going up or down the Amazon also milled around, adding to the confusion.

“There!” shouted Steps-Lightly, pointing ahead.

Roshen and Brennan stood at the head of a gangplank, looking out over the crowd. When Roshen spotted them, he called and waved. The sound of his yell was lost in the noise of the crowd. The two men on the docks began making their way toward the ship. Roshen had left the hotel especially early, taking Brennan with him and giving Steps-Lightly instructions on how to find their boat.

Peter looked up dubiously at the boat they would be taking. It was an old steamboat, and badly in need of a paint job. In the shifting light from the docks and the few bare light bulbs on the deck above, he could see large areas of rust on the hull, and patches had been riveted over apparently worse rust spots. The smokestack of the boat was lost in the shadows, but Peter could well imagine that it was blackened by years of use. As a Glass Walker, he had a certain familiarity with the spirits of technology and of machines, and in terms of spirits, this old boat should have long since passed on to its final reward.

Dock workers carried the boat’s cargo of anonymous boxes and barrels across the gangplank as though it were a wide and steady bridge, but when Peter crossed it, he discovered that it was actually quite narrow and very springy. He was almost across when a dock worker stepped onto the far end with a heavy load, sending a ripple through the plank that made Peter sway dangerously. Steps-Lightly reached back and steadied him.

“Are you really sure that you’re going to need two big bags full of stuff in the rain forest?” demanded Brennan.

“I like to be able to change my clothes occasionally, thank you.” Peter looked around. They weren’t the only passengers on the boat. A couple of Indian families, a number of vaguely disreputable looking men, and an earnest-looking, heavy-set white man with an enormous backpack lounged around the bow, taking care to stay out of the way of the dock workers and crew. “Is there somewhere I can leave my stuff or do I have to keep it with me?”

“I bribed the captain to get us a cabin with a working lock on the door.” Roshen led them toward the stern of the boat, to a door behind the wheelhouse. He produced a key and unlocked it.

The room within was lit only by what light came through a dirty window beside the door. It was tiny, only slightly larger than a walk-in closet, and furnished with a rickety table and a couple of folding chairs. Roshen and Brennan’s bags sat in one corner along with two rectangular packages, each about the size of a large cooler. Both were tightly wrapped in dark green plastic.

“What are those?” asked Peter.

“Oh, just your everyday Amazon war supplies.” Roshen shut the door behind them and went over to kneel beside the packages. “Smoke grenades,” he grinned, “pilfered from the Pentex warehouses here. We have a couple of Kinfolk agents working on the inside.”

“Handy. But will they be safe in here?” Peter put down his suitcase and duffel bag.

“You mean will your stuff be safe in here?” Roshen shook his head. “I wouldn’t trust the crew on this boat with a glass of water once we’re under way and they have some time on their hands. That’s why I want to have someone in here constantly. We’ll take turns.” He pointed around the room. “Me, Brennan, Peter, Steps-Lightly. It should be about a ten hour trip, so that’s two and a half hours each. Okay?”

Everyone nodded. “Good,” said Roshen. “Now get out of here.”

Roshen was sitting alone under an awning at the bow of the boat when Peter sought him out late in the afternoon. The Glass Walker sat down next to him and said simply, “I want to apologize for the way I acted yesterday.”

The Silver Fang looked over at him. “Why?”

“Because. I was rude. I was grouchy.” He shifted to lean back. “I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Is that why you lied to Steps-Lightly and Brennan

about not being able to arrive by Moon Bridge?”

Peter sat up straight again. “I didn’t...” he began to protest, but Roshen waved his hand casually.

“Hey, Petey, I know something about the Taddle Creek Caern. Pve heard Silver Fang elders talking about it. Word is that your people — maybe even your mother — made a deal with a majorly powerful spirit to hide the caern so Pentex couldn’t find it. I can’t believe a caern like that couldn’t conceal a Moon Bridge. Also, even if you couldn’t open a Moon Bridge from Taddle Creek, why travel all the way down here? I know Cassie Spitfire’s an old friend of Mother Larissa, the leader of the Bone Gnawers in New York, and I know Mother Larissa was one of the Garou who called in favors to get us sent up here to meet you. If she would do that, why couldn’t you have just hopped a plane to New York and used their caern to open a Moon Bridge?”

“I...” Peter turned red. “All right,” he said reluctantly, “I like to fly, okay? 1 love airplanes. Just don’t mention it to Brennah. He’ll make another smart ass comment about Glass Walkers and human technology.”

Roshen laughed. “He’s not that bad. You’ll get used to him.”

“I hope so.”

“Other than Brennan, how are you enjoying the Amazon so far?” Peter made a non-committal expression and Roshen nodded. “You haven’t seen much of it yet — wait until we get into the rain forest. We’ll be getting off soon. As soon as we reach the mouth of the Purus. I’ve arranged with the captain to stop and let us off even though it isn’t one of his usual ports of call. We’ll have you fighting Pentex in no time.” He sniffed at the breeze. “Smell that, Petey?”

Peter inhaled. The green scent of the jungle came to him, mixed with the scent of the river. There was something else on the wind as well, a vaguely unpleasant odor. For a moment he wished that he were in his wolf form. What was vaguely unpleasant to a human nose would be as clear as a photograph to a wolf’s. Some lupus-breed Garou, like Roshen, were fortunate enough to be able use their wolf senses in human form. “What is it?” “Hell’s Hand,” Roshen hissed. He spat onto the deck of the ship as if to clear his mouth. He pointed to the south bank of the river. “A Black Spiral Dancer Hive. They came to the rain forest about four years ago to help Pentex in the war. In exchange, Pentex gave them a section of the forest back away from the river. They established their lair there — underground. Everything above ground they destroyed. The place is a wasteland, worse than a clearcut. You can still smell the Hive though.” He moved his arm to gesture ahead of them. “The mouth of the Purus is about thirty miles west of Hell’s Hand. Once we get off, I want to push south along the Purus so we can get as far as possible from the Hive before dark. That’s when the Black Spirals are most active.”

“You’ll probably want to know about this then — it’s another reason why I came over here.” Peter looked idly up toward the awning overhead. The casual gesture seemed very much at odds with the serious tone of his voice. “We have trouble on board.”

“What do you mean?”

Peter stretched, turning his head to the right and then to left. “Do you remember seeing a fat guy with a big backpack when we got on this morning? Very white, looked like an aid worker or an activist with good intentions?”

“Yeah, sort of. Why?”

“He’s been watching us all day. Not any of the other passengers, just us. You, me, Brennan, Steps-Lightly.” Peter settled back. “He’s standing out in the sun over by the starboard rail right now. Light gray shirt. Tell me if you notice anything funny about him.”

Roshen sat back as well, and Peter saw him turn his head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the man at the

rail. “Not particularly,” Roshen murmured, “hut he’s really trying to make it seem like he’s not watching us, isn’t he?” “He’s not doing a very good job. Look at his shirt.” Peter plucked at his own. It was plastered to his body with perspiration. “We’re sweating like pigs in the shade, but he’s standing in the sun...”

“...And dry as a bone.” Roshen cursed. “It’s times like this that I really wish there was a Garou in my pack with the gift of sniffing out Wyrm taints. I don’t suppose you can do it, can you?”

When Peter shook his head, Roshen cursed again. He was clearly thinking the same thing Peter was: that the man was a fomor, one of Pentex’s unnatural agents, a human mutated to be of greater service to the Wyrm. True, the man looked perfectly normal, but there were fomori whose deformities didn’t show visibly. And the man’s unnatural lack of sweat was a dead giveaway. “What do you want to do about him?” Peter asked Roshen.

“We’ll have to deal with him.” The Silver Fang clenched his fist. “I chose this boat because it wasn’t going up the Purus. There are two caerns in the Amazon — Hollow Heart up the Rio Negro and Sky River up the Purus. Pentex puts agents on any boats going directly up those rivers from Manaus in case Garou take the boats. I figured they wouldn’t bother with a boat that was just passing the Purus. I don’t want Pentex to know we’re moving around. We’re going to be too exposed on the river.”

“How are we going to ‘deal with him’ on a boat full of people, though?” Peter had his backpack with him and he reached into it, pulling out his bottle of cologne once more. Roshen seized his arm before he could spray any on himself, however.

“We’re not going to be able to if he can smell you a mile away!”

Peter hesitated, then put the bottle away again. “You want to ambush him?”

Roshen nodded. “In the hold, I think. It must be hotter than hell down there, and it probably smells twice as bad. There won’t be anyone around.” He nodded again, half to himself this time. “Yeah, the hold, it is. Go find Brennan. Be waiting down there in fifteen minutes. I’ll bring the guest of honor to our party. And pull Steps-Lightly off watch.” He produced the key to the cabin door and handed it to Peter. “I want all of us down there.” “Four Garou against one fomor?” Peter stood up. “Isn’t that a bit of overkill?”

“Peter,” Roshen said with a broad smile, “when it comes to Pentex, there’s no such thing as overkill.”

The fight lasted less than three minutes.

Roshen came clattering down the steep metal stairway into the hold virtually without warning, a little bit sooner than the fifteen minutes he had told Peter. He tripped on the bottom step and fell to the floor, apparently helpless with the wind knocked out of him. He rolled over and looked up in fear. A shadow fell across him as the big fomor blocked the light coming through the door above. Peter could almost imagine the fomor smiling as he lumbered down the stairs. Roshen had probably taunted him until he was angry enough to follow.

As the Silver Fang scooted backward across the floor, the stump of his right shoulder held up in a deceptive show of weakness, Peter tensed, ready for a fight. His hands, slick with battle sweat, clenched around a long piece of pipe he had found in the hold. He would stay in Homid form for the approaching conflict, taking advantage of the Homid’s clearer thinking. The only sound he was aware of was his own breathing, deep but fast. His senses narrowed until all he could feel were his own extremities, all he could see was his enemy, and all he could smell was his own eager bloodlust. His Rage simmered just below the surface of his consciousness.

Without warning, a huge arm covered in thick black hair and ending in long, terrible claws came tearing out of the shadows. If the fomor hadn’t twitched aside at the last moment, the fight would have ended with his head on the floor. Instead those sharp claws ripped open a wound in his shoulder and knocked him to the ground. The fomor’s scream, penetrating the haze of Peter’s Rage, sounded almost inhuman — for the brief seconds it lasted. Brennan stepped out of the shadows. In Crinos form he was as massively muscled as he was as a human. However, he was also about eight feet tall and built like a small building. His head was that of a huge wolf’s, black and shaggy, with powerful jaws and immense white teeth.

He ripped the fomor’s throat out with a single swipe of his claws. The creature’s scream became a quiet bubbling. Brennan looked up at Roshen. “Too easy,” he grunted thickly.

The fomor’s fat belly exploded.

The things that came out looked like big, wet, naked babies, covered in the blood of their host. Except that these babies had malformed faces, sharp, irregular teeth, talons on their hands and feet, and pure hate in their tiny eyes. Each was connected to the twitching body of the fomor by a long, knotted, bluish tendril like an umbilical cord.

One of the fomor-babies went straight for Brennan’s throat. He fell backward with a choked howl. Peter could smell the odor of burning fur: the babies’ wet skin was oozing with acid. Steps-Lightly emerged from the shadows beside his packmate. He, too, was in Crinos form, a tall, lean creature like a bipedal deerhound. He grabbed for the baby at Brennan’s throat, but the thing lashed out at him, slicing his palms. Steps-Lightly gritted his teeth against the pain. Producing a knife from a sheath on his arm, he plunged it neatly into the monster’s bald head.

The second fomor-baby lunged hissing and spitting at Roshen. The Garou just laughed, pulling the heavy bag containing his severed arm around so that he could reach into it. He was transforming even as he did so, his body swelling from Homid to Crinos. His clothes tore from his body, hair sprouted from his skin, and his nutty smile became savage. “Rock-a-bye, baby!” he snarled. He swept his severed arm, as long and hairy as the other, out of the bag, swinging it like a club. The fomor-baby went down with a sound like the moist popping of chicken bones.

The third fomor-baby jumped at Peter. Peter struck out with the pipe, trying to hit it in mid-air. He missed. The fomor-baby came in under the swing. The pipe’s momentum threw Peter off-balance and left him unable to defend himself. The foul little creature grabbed for his legs with its claws... then hesitated before it could make contact.

Peter brought the pipe down and back around. The crunching impact threw the baby into the air, and it hit the wall of the hold with an unpleasant splat. Steps-Lightly ran after the creature and drove his knife through its body.

Peter drew a long shuddering breath, then groped in the shadows for his backpack. He pulled out his bottle of cologne and, with shaking hands, sprayed himself with the spicy scent. Two squirts. Roshen glanced over at Peter. “Lucky it stopped,” he snarled. Peter nodded weakly.

Roshen hadn’t seen the slits that were the thing’s nostrils pulsing as it sniffed at Peter.

Steps-Lightly came trotting back, the body of the fomor-baby balanced carefully on a piece of plank. He dropped it into the hollow body of the big fomor. “What now?”

Roshen’s monstrous Crinos form dwindled as he turned himself back into a human. “Put everything in a box, weight it down, and dump it overboard. There’s nothing else we can do. The crew is going to find the blood on the floor eventually anyway. Let’s just hope they don’t discover it before we get off.” He poked through the rags that remained of his clothes. “Shit." he sighed. “I liked that shirt. Is everybody okay?”

Steps-Lightly held up his hands. The cuts that the baby had inflicted were already gone. The hair and claws on his hands vanished as well, as he shrank back down to human form. His clothes, which he had taken off before he changed form, were tossed in a corner of the hold and he quickly got dressed. Brennan stayed in Crinos form a little longer — the acid burns from the fomor-baby’s attack were more serious and took longer to heal. Roshen nodded. “Okay. Steps-Lightly, go find the fomor’s backpack. I want to know what he was carrying. And get me the spare clothes in my bag.” He grimaced. “The rest of us will look after the mess down here.”

They had all of the bodies stuffed into a large barrel by the time Steps-Lightly came back about ten minutes later. The Silent Strider tossed a small bundle of clothes to Roshen. “You’re not going to like this,” he said. He held up a powerful portable radio transmitter. “This was in his backpack.”

Roshen paused as he pulled on a pair of pants. “Damn.” He did up the pants and grabbed a T-shirt off the floor. “Okay, throw it in with the bodies, grab anything else that’s heavy, and let’s get rid of these things. He probably reported us to Pentex before we got to him. We’ll have to move fast once we’re off the boat.”

They loaded the barrel with some chains which they found in the hold, then nailed down the lid. It took all four of them to get the barrel up the stairs. When they reached the top, they bumped into a member of the crew. Before he could say anything, though, Brennan gave the man such a fierce glare that he turned pale and hustled away. If anyone else noticed them dropping the barrel off the side of the ship, they were not aware of it.

Roshen had them round up their gear and stand ready with it. Less than half an hour later, the mouth of another river came into sight off the port bow. The boat steered in close to the shore. Roshen put his fingers to his mouth and gave two piercing whistles.

A moment later, a figure appeared on shore, pushing a broad canoe into the water. Roshen gave an additional whistle. The figure looked up, apparently startled, then jumped into the canoe and hastily paddled out to meet them. As the canoe approached, Peter could see that the figure was a young black woman. A crewman, the same one Brennan had frightened, tossed a rope ladder over the side, then hurried away without a second glance. Brennan climbed part-way down the ladder, then began passing their bags, Peter’s suitcase, and the plastic-wrapped bundles to the woman in the canoe. After all the gear was loaded, he jumped into the canoe with her, and they paddled back to shore.

When they reached the shore, they didn’t bother to unload the canoe. Brennan and the woman just got out and disappeared into the trees. They reappeared a moment later with a second canoe, which Brennan paddled back out to the boat on his own. Everyone else then climbed into the canoe. When Roshen yelled up that they were clear, the boat’s propellers churned and it returned to its progress upstream.

As they were nearing the shore, the woman called out, “You had trouble?” She had a distinct New York City accent.

“Fomor with a radio. We got him, but he may have reported us.” Roshen hopped out of the canoe before they were quite ashore and waded the last few yards. “Any problems while we were gone?”

“No. I just stayed under cover in Lupus form.”

“Good. Peter — this is Windrunner of the Uktena tribe. The fourth member of our pack.” Roshen was already busy shifting gear from one canoe to the other as he performed the introductions. Peter winced as Roshen heaved his suitcase into the other canoe, but it was out of his hand before Peter could say anything. Roshen, oblivious, continued talking, “Windrunner, Peter Ward of the Glass Walkers, son of Cassandra Spitfire.”

They shook hands. Windrunner asked, “How are you with a paddle?”

“I’ve been to summer camp.”

“It’ll do.” She picked up a paddle and passed it to him. “You’re with me.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Roshen can’t paddle with one arm, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to move with two people paddling.” She gave him a wicked grin. “Hope your petal-soft Glass Walker hands can put up with it.”

“As long as you can put up with his cologne,” remarked Steps-Lightly from the water’s edge. He turned around. “Boat’s out of sight.”

“Finally!” Brennan peeled off his shirt and dropped his pants. He was wearing a loincloth underneath.

“What are you doing?” asked Peter, startled.

“Stripping down, Petey!” smiled Roshen. He undressed as well, then pulled a piece of cloth from his satchel and wrapped it around his hips. Steps-Lightly and Windrunner were also disrobing, though Windrunner wore a simple halter-top as well as a loincloth. All of the members of the pack had a severed arm tattooed on their chests in tribute to their leader. “We don’t really need the clothes for protection here, since we’ll heal from any scratches, bug bites, or sunburns. And they only get in the way'if we have to change shape without warning. The loincloths are dedicated — they’ll change shape with us.” He looked at the long pants, hiking boots, hat, and long-sleeved shirt that Peter was wearing. “Why are you dressed up in all that?”

“The guidebooks to the Amazon said...”

“Guidebooks were written for humans.” Steps-Lightly grinned. “A hat and something to protect your modesty are all Garou need. If you’re not in the sun, you don’t even need the hat. It’s more comfortable in the humidity, too.”

“Thanks,” Peter commented dryly, “but I’d rather not go completely native.” He pulled out his sunglasses and slipped them on.

Brennan snorted. “Glass Walkers.”

“Suit yourself.” Roshen pushed one of the canoes out into the water. “But you might be glad to not have to worry about clothes if we’re attacked and you have to change shape suddenly. The rain forest is more dangerous than a city. Trouble happens fast down here.”

CHAPTER THREE

Peter shifted back in his seat and raised his glass to his lips. A last sip of rye whisky stung his tongue, then the ice cubes fell from the bottom of the glass and clicked against his teeth. Peter put the glass down on the cold, brushed-metal tabletop. He caught the waitress’ eye across the dark room and signaled for another glass. Only his second in almost four hours, but he didn’t like anything to dull his edge when he was on assignment. Unfortunately, the management of this after hours club wouldn’t let him occupy the table for long if he didn’t have some alcohol in front of him. And it would have looked suspicious to be the only one in the club not drinking. Even his target was drinking. Drinking, laughing with his gang, and fooling around, apparently oblivious to the man in black who was watching him.

“Come on, come on,” Peter muttered to himself, tapping his glass irritably. “When’s your damn supplier going to show up, Indigo?”

His drink came, rye on the rocks, and Peter paid the exorbitant after hours price. If you wanted to drink at the trendy Club Haze, especially on New Year’s Eve, you had to cough up the cash. The balloons had fallen long ago — all that was left of the party were the streamers and drifts of confetti on the floor. Indigo and his gang had been tossing money around all night long. They dealt some drugs on the side, enough to be able to afford to throw money around. But Peter wasn’t after them for their drugs. Lately the street gangs in Toronto had been turning up with some nasty little weapons in their pockets. Not |ust illegal high-powered pistols, prohibited by Canadian law, but illegal high-powered pistols with Wyrm-tainted ammunition. The wounds that ammunition caused had an abnormal tendency to become infected. Not enough to be deadly, but still serious. And when the victims recovered, the infection had usually done something to their minds.

Maybe a dozen people had been affected before the Garou of Toronto had recovered some of the bullets and discovered the Wyrm-taint. Half a dozen more had been wounded by the bullets since, but Peter’s sources told him that Indigo was supposed to be meeting with a supplier tonight to arrange to get some new guns, and that probably meant more tainted ammunition as well. Peter wanted to know exactly who that ammunition was coming from. There weren’t very many in Garou in Toronto, but they did what they could to protect their home city. Even though the Wyrm had already virtually overrun it.

Indigo moaned and pursed his lips in an exaggerated pucker as the woman sitting in his lap ran her fingers through his hair, flipping back his trademark blue-dyed lock. She bent down and kissed him. Peter sighed, glancing around the rest of the club at the other women there. Most were with someone; like Indigo’s girl, a lot ot them were really little more than accessories to the man’s image. A few of the ones who were alone seemed more self-possessed. They were there for themselves. If they chose to take a man home tonight, they wouldn’t be the accessories. If Peter hadn’t been watching Indigo...

He looked back at the gang-leader just in time to see him push the girl away from his face and off his lap. The other members of his gang were likewise shoving off the girls they had been flirting with. A thin, hatchet-faced man was coming through the crowd toward them, still dressed in a heavy overcoat against the bitter winter weather outside. Two big, bulky bodyguards were with him.

Peter had to force himself to stay relaxed and not sit up suddenly in excitement. Those bodyguards looked considerably more alert than Indigo’s gang. “Well, Mr.

Jubilee Arthurs,” he murmured to himself, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.”

The thin man glanced up, almost as if he had heard his name. Peter slouched further back into the shadows. It was entirely possible that he had. Jubilee Arthurs worked for Herculean Firearms, Inc. Which meant that he worked for Pentex, Herculean’s parent company. Which meant that, whether he knew it or not, he worked for the Wyrm. And the Wyrm had ways of protecting its more knowledgeable and favored servants.

But Arthurs just turned his attention back to Indigo’s gang. At a snap of his fingers, one of his bodyguards put a black briefcase on the tabletop. Indigo and his boys clustered around as Arthurs opened it up. Peter didn’t get a chance to see what was inside.

He could, however, listen in on Arthurs’ conversation with the gang. Earlier in the evening he had gotten close enough to one of Indigo’s men to plant a tiny bug on him. Other Garou might shun the use of technology, but the Glass Walkers reveled in it. Peter slipped an earphone into his ear and pressed a switch on the receiver in his pocket.

“... oh, yeah,” he heard Indigo croon softly, “I like this baby! How much?” Arthurs named his price in a quiet, confident voice. Indigo was silent for a moment, then replied, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“They are illegal, Indigo, and I’m not doing this wholesale. I am a retail operation.” Arthurs coughed quietly and sniffled. Peter saw him pull a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. What a shame — the man had a cold. “However, I can provide you with, say, fifty rounds of ammunition per item purchased. That’s just over seven clips free of charge.”

Peter cursed and resisted the temptation to slam his fist into the tabletop. That’s how the Wyrm tainted ammo was getting onto the streets! Arthurs was giving it away! Indigo seemed to like the offer. “Copkillers?” he asked

eagerly. The gang-leader probably had no idea what he was actually getting. All he saw was the lethal mystique of the illegal ammunition.

“That would be an extra charge.” Arthurs hesitated for a moment. “But I could probably arrange to get you Teflon-coated bullets at a discount if you’re particularly interested in them.”

Peter saw Indigo’s head turn to look at the other gang members. Each nodded, a small wave of agreement moving around the table. Indigo turned back to Arthurs. “We’ll take everything.”

“Done then.” Arthurs pulled something out of his breast pocket — Peter heard the click of a pen and the quiet scratch as Arthurs wrote on a piece of paper. “This is the total price. Cash, as usual.”

“Where and when?”

“A warehouse at the very end of Towns Road off Kipling. One week, midnight.” Peter surreptitiously wrote down the information on a napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. He would get it back to the other Garou in the sept, and jubilee Arthurs would have some surprise visitors to his warehouse next Saturday night.

“Can I keep this one?” asked Indigo.

“I’m sorry.” Peter could almost hear Arthurs’ ingratiating smile. “It’s my display model — it’s used. You’ll get brand-new items if you wait for the shipment.” There was a faint clunk as Arthurs replaced the gun in his briefcase, then a double click as he shut the latches. He handed the briefcase to his bodyguard. The circle around the table broke up and Arthurs shook hands with Indigo. “A pleasure.”

“Yeah.”

Peter shut off the receiver as Arthurs and his bodyguards walked away. Indigo’s gang gave each other high-fives in celebration and summoned their girls back over. Peter himself drained his glass of rye in victory. It had been a good night’s work. “Yes!” he muttered triumphantly.

“1 hope that’s your answer to most questions.”

Peter fumbled the earphone out of his ear and back into his pocket as he looked up. His gaze traveled over a short, black velvet mini-dress, past pale, white shoulders, to settle on a face framed by auburn hair. There was something imperfect about that face. The eyes, a pale yellow-green, were a little too far apart. The lips were just a little too thin. The nose, Peter realized, had been broken. The woman behind the face, however, carried it well and with confidence. “That depends on the question,” Peter managed to say casually.

“Got a light?” The woman gestured with a cigarette. Peter bit his tongue. “No. Sorry.”

She shrugged and flicked the unlit cigarette off into the crowd. “I should cut down anyway. May 1 sit?”

“Yes.” Peter smiled.

“Good.” The woman raised her eyebrow as she pulled out a chair. “How about buying me a drink?”

“Yes,” Peter said again, his smile growing. He waved for the waitress. “What are you having?”

“Same as you. Rye on the rocks. That’s one of the things that caught my eye.”

Peter wiggled two fingers at the waitress. She nodded. “One of the things?”

“Rye on the rocks, blond hair, good fashion sense, and the way you’ve been watching those punks all night. Are you a cop?”

If Peter had had a drink right then, he might well have spilled it in surprise. The woman had seen him watching Indigo and Arthurs. “I...”

She reached out and touched a finger gently to his lips. “Don’t tell me ‘no.’ If you were a cop, you’d be awfully young for surveillance duty. Or maybe you just look young.” She smiled, her teeth perfect behind the thin lips,

and took her finger away. “Are you a cop?”

A smile spread out across Peter’s face again as he began to catch on to the game that she wanted to play. “Yes,” he lied.

The drinks came. Peter paid for them. The woman just swirled the ice in her glass as she looked at him. Finally she said, “My name is Bryony.”

“I’m...”

“No. Don’t tell me.” She took a sip of her rye. “I don’t want to know.” A sly grin spread across her face. “There’s danger around you. Like around an undercover cop.” Peter leaned forward. Some people found the beast inside the Garou powerfully attractive. Instead of reacting to it with fear and mistrust, they found themselves reacting in... other ways. “Tell me about yourself, Bryony,” he said slowly.

She met his gaze squarely. “I’m in marketing. I work for an independent advertising firm.”

“One I’d recognize?”

“No.” She leaned forward, too, setting her drink down. “You might recognize some of the campaigns we worked on. Computers. Cars. Women’s shoes.” She paused. “Men’s underwear.”

Peter smiled, and she matched it with a broad grin. “What are you working on now?” he asked.

“Launching a new men’s fragrance.” She reached for her bag and pulled out a flat black card with a little vial of red liquid attached. All without breaking eye contact. “It’s called ‘Fever.’” She opened the vial and held it under his nose. “Smell. Take a good deep breath.”

He did. The scent of Fever was primarily spicy, a little perfumey, and sharp. “Ginger?” he guessed.

“A kind of ginger. Smell it again.”

Spicy. A little perfumey. Sharp. Then... dark. Intoxicating. Woody. “Birch? And...” He inhaled deeply. Warm. Drowsy. Heavy. Very heavy, but only under all of the other smells. Peter shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Mysterious, isn’t it?” She handed the vial to him. “Put it on.”

Peter poured some of the stuff into his palm, then rubbed his hands together and wiped them across his face. Bryony leaned in close to him and sniffed. Peter could hear her breathing, could feel it on his cheek. “I like it on you,” she whispered.

“It feels warm.”

“It does that. Do you like it?”

He turned his face a little bit, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “Yes.”

She smiled. “Good. Would you like to go someplace else, officer?”

Peter ventured to move his mouth a little closer. He could tell that she was wearing a similar kind of perfume, but with a discrete, light, feminine scent. He recognized the woody, birch fragrance. It was just as intoxicating as Fever — more so because she was wearing it. He rubbed at her ear with his nose and blew gently across her earlobe. Her breath caught. “Yes.”

“We’ll need to get our coats. It’s cold out there.”

Peter pulled away slightly and locked his eyes on hers. “I feel warm enough already.”

Bryony flushed and reached for Peter’s hand. “Do you have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Will it be all right until morning? I can drop you off again then.”

Peter smiled broadly. Over Bryony’s shoulder, he saw Indigo’s woman slap him and stalk away, straightening her dress, her face red. He brought his mouth back close to Bryony’s ear, close enough to feel the heat of her skin. “Yes.”

CHAPTER    FOUR

Roshen pressed them hard as they made their way up the Purus. On the first day, the day they had left Manaus, they paddled for two hours before the sun set and for almost an hour after that. Roshen wanted to get out of the area as quickly as possible in case Pentex patrols arrived, responding to reports sent out by the fomor on the steamboat. Windrunner gave Peter a pungent yellowish cream to keep the mosquitoes away. When they finally stopped, though, Peter’s arms were aching and his palms were raw and blistered, and he wished the Uktena’s cream were for sore muscles. That night, he did something he very seldom allowed himself to do. He undressed, then shifted form, and passed the night as a wolf, letting the healing energies of the wild work on him.

In spite of how tired he was, Peter found it next to impossible to go to sleep. Glass Walkers in general tended to favor their Homid over their Lupus forms. Perhaps it was because wolves seemed so out of place in the Glass Walkers’ urban habitats. Many Garou claimed the Glass Walkers were more human than wolf, and mistrusted them because of it. Peter himself did enjoy the occasional romp in the park late at night in his Lupus form, but normally he found it somewhat inconvenient. His wolf shape was small, lean, and sandy-colored, and Garou of other tribes frequently pointed out that he almost resembled a coyote more than a wolf. Mostly, however, the ever-present urban sounds and smells of traffic, even at their reduced nighttime levels, tended to irritate Peter’s sharp wolf senses.

The Amazonian rain forest was another matter. The night here was alive with odors and noises that he would never have noticed in his human form. Unnamed plants and night-blooming flowers, the rich, dark brown smell of naturally decaying vegetation, the watery scent of the river. The rustle and high pitched cries of bats flying through the forest canopy. I lie short scream of an animal (a pig of some kind, his nose told him when the wind brought the scent of blood a few minutes later) taken by a predator (a cat, his nose said, a jaguar). The long, almost silent whisper which, he realized with a start, was a snake slithering away. A big, heavy snake.

Just before it was time for his turn to stand watch over the camp, he finally gave up trying to sleep, rose, and went down to the river’s edge for a drink of water. Steps-Lightly, on the previous watch shift and also in wolf shape, glanced at him as he passed and nodded. Peter nodded back. The river water tasted earthy and strong, but his Garou metabolism would destroy any parasites that lingered in it. Peter looked up. The moon was a thin crescent tonight, barely shedding any light at all. The stars, here, away from the background lights of the city, were magnificent. Peter lifted his nose and sniffed at the night wind, searching for one particular scent. A sharp, spicy scent.

It wasn’t there. Instead, all that he caught was a lingering stench blowing down from the Black Spiral Dancer Hive of Hell’s Hand. It made him want to retch. He took another drink of water, then went to relieve Steps-Lightly. The Silent Strider relinquished his post to Peter and curled up a short distance away.

The wolf-senses that had kept Peter awake were perfectly adapted for watching in the night. After a while, however, Peter shifted into Homid form. The night was suddenly a lot darker, and quieter, and less full of intriguing odors. Humans did have some advantages over wolves, though. One was a lack of fur. Peter wore only a pair of loose boxer shorts in this shape, and, for a moment, he let the cool breeze play over his naked skin. As Roshen had mentioned, many Garou dedicated or mystically bound some basic item of clothing to them so that it would change forms with them if they didn’t have time to undress first. The hiking boots that he normally wore were dedicated to him as well as the boxer shorts. Peter, and most Glass Walkers, were human enough, however, to prefer wearing more clothing rather than less.

But it did feel good to go without clothes in the tropical night. Peter almost felt like a wolf, even in Homid form. He was briefly tempted to shed his boxers and stand nude in the moonlight by the river, at one with Gaia.

It wasn’t for that reason that he had changed forms, however. He reminded himself that he should return to his more sensitive Lupus form for the safety of the others. He was on watch, not on vacation. First, however...

Peter located his backpack by touch, then felt around within it until his fingers brushed the hard, round surface of a flashlight and the square shape of a book. He pulled them out. The book was sealed inside a plastic zipper bag. Working by touch again, he eased it out, placed it in his lap, and flicked on the flashlight. Its radiance was painfully bright, causing him to squint, but he forced his eyes to stay open. The volume was titled Plants of the Amazon. A bookmark stuck out about halfway through, and Peter opened to that page.

Pressed inside was a delicate, palm-sized, reddish-purple flower.

“That’s lovely.”

The words were spoken in a whisper, but they made Peter jump and slam the book shut. Fighting to keep his Rage from surging out of control, he just barely suppressed a startled cry that would have woken the other Garou.

It was only Steps-Lightly. He crouched in Homid form where he had gone to sleep a little while before. The light from Peter’s flashlight gleamed on his skin and made his eyes shine. “Sorry, Peter,” he apologized, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“N-no,” Peter stammered, “I’m sorry for waking you.”

He quickly replaced the book in its bag and the bag in his backpack. “I was just..."

“Checking to be sure your flower was all right? 1 understand. Travel can be rough." Steps-Lightly smiled. “What kind of flower is it ?"

“I don’t know, actually,” Peter replied smoothly. His heart was racing. “One of the Garou in Toronto keeps a hothouse. She asked me to find her a live specimen if I could.”

“Oh. It’s not listed in your book?”

“No.” Peter switched off the flashlight. “Good night, Steps-Lightly,” he said before changing back to Lupus shape.

“Good night, Peter.”

Peter watched Steps-Lightly’s body twist and shrink down into the form of a lanky wolf. For a minute, the two wolves watched each other in the darkness, then Steps-Lightly closed his eyes and slept.

While they were resting in the shade around noon the next day, Peter borrowed a knife from Brennan and cut the legs off his long pants. He had already put away his long-sleeved shirt in favor of a T-shirt. Brennan grinned. Peter just glared at him, daring him to say anything at all. He sprayed on some more of his cologne as well: the scent tended to fade quickly under the constant deluge of his sweat. Just before they pushed off into the water again, he gave himself another blast. Windrunner put on an elaborate act of gagging and choking at the smell, prompting laughter from the other Garou. Peter ignored them.

The rain forest was as fascinating during the day as it was at night. The calls of howler monkeys had boomed through the trees early in the morning, then dropped off as the heat and humidity climbed. They were replaced by the songs of hundreds of exotic birds hidden in the canopy of the trees. Occasionally, some of the birds would flash into view over the river, swooping from tree to tree as though they were playing tag.

Peter scanned the river banks, hoping for a glimpse into the dark interior of the forest, but he could see nothing. The plants on the bank were like solid walls of green, all of them fighting for sunlight. Here and there were open spots where a tree had fallen, crashing into the river, and the remaining plants had not yet grown together. The gloom beyond, however, was impenetrable. There were some short breaks in the green where game trails came down to the water, but they were too narrow to see through. By the time Peter glimpsed one, they were already past it. Not that he had much time to look, given Roshen’s driving pace.

There was surprisingly little wildlife visible besides the birds. They passed one or two alligators sunning themselves on a sandbar. Once they came upon a tapir drinking from the river. The animal disappeared into the rain forest as soon as it saw them. About the most numerous creatures Peter spotted were rodents, trom big capybaras peering out from under the greenery on the river banks, to some kind of muskrat-like animals swimming in the river.

For most of the day, the sun reflected brightly off the water, and Peter was glad of his sunglasses. Windrunner and Steps-Lightly paddled with their eyes squinted half-shut, while Brennan had smeared dark camouflage paint under his eyes like a football player. Roshen, not paddling, had shifted into Lupus form. His wolf shape was as scrawny as his human shape, but his fur was the beautiful pale gray characteristic of Silver Fangs. He lay stretched out in the middle of the other canoe with his eyes closed, depending instead on his ears and nose. Toward the end of the afternoon, though, heavy clouds moved in to cover the sun. The glare on the river went away, but not the heat and humidity. If anything, the atmosphere grew even more oppressive. Roshen opened his eyes and watched the sky carefully. If it started to rain, they would head for shore to wait out the storm.

It didn’t rain, however. Peter heard thunder in the distance, but no rain fell. It didn’t rain the next day either — there were just more hours of glaring water and endless green trees. Peter’s arms were growing accustomed to the rhythm of paddling the canoe, and he found himself nearly falling into a kind of moving trance as the muscles of his shoulders and chest smoothly worked the paddle. He had tied a cloth around his head under his hat as a headband to stop the sweat from dripping into his eyes. Stopping every so often to wring out the cloth and spray himself with more Fever was probably the only thing that kept him from slipping into a trance completely.

In the middle of the afternoon on the second day, Windrunner hissed at him to stop paddling. With a start, he realized that she, Brennan, and Steps-Lightly already had their paddles out of the water. Roshen, sitting up in the canoe,' gave three short yips, then a long, wavering howl. Frightened birds flew out of the trees all around them like dry leaves blown by a strong wind. Roshen waited a moment, then repeated his howl.

An answering howl emerged from the trees on the east bank of the river. The two howls matched each other, weaving through a complex series of harmonies and discords. Garou passwords. When the howls finally fell silent, the Garou on the east bank let out three yips just like Roshen’s first cries. Windrunner smiled and motioned for Peter to follow the other canoe as it turned toward the river bank. Steps-Lightly, in the bow, reached forward and brushed aside an entangled curtain of branches. The canoe vanished through the green veil. When Peter reached for the branches, however, it was like trying to find the opening in heavy drapery. The branches were solidly woven together.

“To your left!” whispered Windrunner. Peter found the split and drew the branches aside. Windrunner gave a swift stroke with her paddle and the canoe slid into the deep green cave formed by the trees.

Peter pulled his sunglasses off, but it still took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the heavy gloom. They were paddling up a relatively narrow stream that fed into the Purus. The banks of the stream were still fairly thick with bushes and low-lying plants, but the vegetation wasn’t nearly as dense as it had been out in the sunlight. He heard a rustle and looked up. A big, glossy black-pelted female Garou in Crinos form bared her teeth at him in a friendly grin. She held a heavy machete that looked like a dinner knife in her massive grip.

The stream ran about two-thirds of a mile inland before it rose into a series of shallow rapids. They pulled the canoes ashore in a pool at the base of the rapids. There were maybe ten other canoes there as well. “The outer edge of Sky River Caern,” Roshen said, once more in human form. He began unloading one of the canoes and dividing up the burden of their supplies. Brennan and Steps-Lightly each carried a box of smoke grenades. Windrunner carried Brennan’s satchel, as well as her own, and handed Steps-Lightly’s to Roshen. The Silver Fang slung his satchel and Steps-Lightly’s across his back. He also took his severed arm out of its bag and carried it openly. There was no one out here to see it but other Garou.

Only Peter carried nothing more than his own luggage — and he felt distinctly awkward carrying a suitcase and a big duffel bag through the depths of the rain forest. Windrunner looked at him sympathetically. “Do you want me to take your backpack?”

“No.” Peter shook his head stubbornly. “I can make it.”

“Suit yourself.”

Roshen led them away from the pool along a narrow trail and up a long, low rise. “Don’t step off the path!” he warned Peter.

The Glass Walker glanced into the forest. It was almost like twilight under the canopy of leaves. There were a lot of bushes and ferns between the big trees, but it wasn’t hard to see a reasonable distance ahead. Plant life was fairly limited in the gloom. “Why?” he asked. “Land mines or something?”

“Something,” Roshen replied. He hesitated as if reluctant to give away the secrets of the caern’s defense, but then relented. “There are fetishes planted off the path,” he admitted. “If someone were to try to get into the caern without following the trails, they would probably run into one.”

“What do the fetishes do?” asked Peter curiously. “Depends. The most common ones release spirits of confusion.”

Windrunner snickered. “We strung one of those up beside Brennan’s hammock one night. When he got up to take a piss — zap! He spent the rest of the night wandering around in circles looking for the latrine.” Brennan flushed. Roshen laughed loudly. “That’s the kind of thing that gives the pack of the Severed Arm its reputation,” he said proudly. “The craziest wolves in the jungle.”

Steps-Lightly smiled at Peter. “Mostly it’s Roshen that gets to play crazy. It gets him attention. The rest of us just follow along. Don’t believe what people say about him.” “What do people say?”

Roshen turned around and gave Peter a sly look. “In-bred, Petey. The noble Silver Fangs are more interrelated than the European aristocracy.” He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. “Some Garou think it’s affected our minds — I say, off with their heads!”

Peter groaned. Roshen grinned at him. “Would you believe I really am in line for the throne of the Netherlands?”

“No.”

“How about Liechtenstein?”

The blond Garou shook his head.

“A townhouse in Munich?”

“Save it for someone with a sense of humor, Roshen,” Brennan suggested.

Peter glared at the Fianna, but his retort was cut off by a sudden cry of “Roshen!” Up ahead, a Garou in Homid form swung down out of a hidden nest built among the sturdy climbers around a tree. He dropped about ten feet to the ground and came down the path to meet them. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. “How was your trip?” “Dull as a cocktail party, Cohen.” Roshen shrugged and mimed slapping something aside. His arm-club hissed through the air about two inches from Cohen’s nose. The Garou rocked backward to avoid it. “One fomor. Boom, it’s gone, and we’re back with some goodies courtesy of Pentex.”

The pack kept walking and Cohen walked with them. “Speaking of Pentex, have you heard the latest rumors?” “Heard them before I left, and they’re no rumors.” “Did you know that Golgol is here?”

That stopped Roshen, as well as the rest of the pack. “Golgol is here? At the caern?” demanded Windrunner.

“Yeah.” Cohen looked pleased with himself for having surprised them. “With Last-One-Out, the Shadow Lord elder. We’re going to be having a moot tonight. A rally moot to work us up for something.”

“Sheee-it. Is that right?” Roshen raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been away too long. We’d better get in there, drop this stuff, and get our ears to the ground again.” He indicated Peter. “This is our visitor. Peter Ward of the Glass Walkers...”

Cohen smirked at Peter’s luggage and gave an exaggerated sniff at the air. “A Glass Walker? Figures. I can smell your aftershave from here. Did you bring your TV with you, too, city wolf?”

Peter smiled at him. “No,” he replied lightly, “I didn’t think you had cable.” Cohen growled and twisted his mouth in an unappreciative snarl.

Roshen snickered. “Rumwrangler's expecting him, Cohen.”

“Fine-.” Cohen returned to his tree. “Just keep an eye on him,” he added, nodding toward Peter. “We don’t need anyone trying to build a new city in the middle of the caern.”

Peter rolled his eyes as they continued onward. “Was that supposed to be a joke?” He turned to Roshen again. “You trust that guy to be a guard? Who is this Rumwrangler?”

“Crick Rumwrangler of the Bone Gnawers tribe. Pie’s in charge of the Garou who protect Sky River. He’s one of the people who arranged for us to meet you in Manaus. Golgol...”

“I know who Golgol is.” Golgol Fangs-First was the High War Chieftain of the Amazon, the leader of the Garou’s holy war. The Garou of Toronto told stories about him. “Is Rumwrangler your boss, too?”

“No. The Severed Arm just does favors for him. He doesn’t have any borzoi packs under his command, but he still likes to know what’s happening outside the caern.” They reached the top of the rise. Peter paused, startled. Sunlight streamed down into a clearing, in which could be seen a large, ring-shaped, wooden structure. It was a basic South American Indian-style village. A few Garou, some humans, and some wolves lounged around it. “That’s it? That’s the caern? We just walked right up to it?”

Roshen laughed. “No. It’s a decoy. Nobody really uses it except to hang around in during the day. The center of the caern is over that way.” He gestured vaguely. “Our huts and shelters are scattered in a ring around the center, under the canopy so they’re hard to spot from the air. As for security...” He looked at Peter slyly. “Cohen was the only one who let you see him. We entered the bawn of the caern when we left the river.”

One of the Garou lazing around in the decoy village called out to Roshen. Roshen called back and raised his arm-club high. Swinging it wildly, he led his pack past the Garou and on toward the hidden huts. Several Garou yelled at them good-naturedly as they went. Roshen, Brennan, Windrunner, and Steps-Lightly all shouted back. Some of the Garou also chuckled at Peter and his suitcases, but most of their comments were teasing rather than malicious. Like the pack of the Severed Arm, many of the Garou were dressed in minimal, often distinctive clothing that marked their own pack allegiances.

Once they were past the false village, Roshen let the arm-club drop. Peter looked at him questioningly. The Silver Fang shrugged. “It’s part of the act. They expect it from me — I have a reputation to keep up.” He pointed to Steps-Lightly and Brennan, then to Windrunner. “You two take the grenades to the armory. You take our gear back to the hut. Petey and I are going to see Rumwrangler.”

Windrunner reached for Peter’s bags. Peter grabbed the suitcase before she could pick it up. He didn’t want to trust the case with anyone else until he knew exactly where it was going to be. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, “I’ll take care of this one.”

Steps-Lightly glanced at him. “Peter, you can’t lug a suitcase halfway across the caern and back. Let her take it!”

Peter looked from the Silent Strider to the Uktena. Were they suspicious? “I promise I won’t hurt it,” Windrunner told him. After another moment of hesitation, Peter handed it to her reluctantly. “Your backpack, too,” she suggested.

“Are you going to be able to carry all this?” Peter stalled.

Without replying, Windrunner shifted into Crinos form and grinned at him. She was about seven feet tall, with rich brown fur. She held out a hand that could easily have spanned a frying pan. “Gimme.”

Peter sighed, then pulled his cologne from his backpack and sprayed himself with it before handing the pack over to her. The bottle went in his pocket. Windrunner just rolled her eyes. Festooned with bags, a suitcase under one arm, she loped off into the undergrowth. Brennan and Steps-Lightly vanished in another direction.

Roshen glanced at Peter sideways. “You’re going to run out of that stuff the way you’re using it, Petey.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. Did Roshen...? “Naw,” he forced himself to say calmly, patting his pocket, “I’ve got lots left.”

As they walked through Sky River Caern, Peter began to pick out more wood and thatch huts and shelters hidden among the shadows of the trees. They varied in size — some were quite small while others were rather large. Most were medium-sized, maybe a little smaller than a small room in an average-size house. Peter guessed that they were sleeping quarters for individual packs. The large shelters were probably gathering or storage spaces. He couldn’t figure out the purpose of the smallest huts, however. They were no taller than he was, maybe a little broader, and covered in hides rather than thatch. Then he saw a Garou fling back the hide that covered the door of one and climb out, naked and wet. Condensation billowed out after him, thick even in the already humid air. The little huts were sweat lodges.

The structure that Roshen led him to was a little larger than most of the others, but not exceptionally so. It was decorated with trophies in the form of bones and broken weapons, fetishes, and totem images which were hung around the door. The doorway itself was covered by a simple blanket. Voices drifted through the blanket, loud voices that spoke with authority and confidence — and sometimes with anger. A number of Garou were clustered around the door. A couple were apparently serving as guards, keeping the others out. Not because anything was supposed to be secret — the Garou outside could hear everything that was said within the hut — but rather in order to give those inside an opportunity to talk without being interrupted.

Roshen, his severed arm still resting across his shoulder like a rifle or hairy club, squatted down next to one of the listening Garou. “What’s happening, Moose?”

The Garou, a Native American with short, bristly hair, shook his head. “Not much. The bigwigs are all inside: Golgol, Last-One-Out, Hateful Hand, Freya, Quiet Thunder, Jurgen, Rumwrangler, Indira. Arguing.”

“As usual. What about?”

“The rally moot tonight. A big raid coming up.” Moose yawned and scratched his head. “You know what for,” he added pointedly.

“The big one?” Roshen ventured. Moose nodded. Roshen whistled. “Cohen said rumors were going around the caern. Rumwrangler must really be letting things slip if Garou like Cohen know about this.”

“What...?” Peter began to ask, but Roshen gestured him to silence.

Moose grinned. “Golgol and Hateful Hand had Rumwrangler spread a few to rev people up for the moot. Most Garou don’t really know how big this is. They want it to be a surprise.” Moose settled back against a stone. “The bigwigs have even been careful not to mention it too loudly — at least not loudly enough for any of us outside to hear.”

Peter gritted his teeth in frustration. “What’s going on? What are you two talking about?”

Roshen smiled. “Drives you crazy, doesn’t it, Petey?” “Just tell me!”

“Hush. We’re not supposed to know.” Moose jerked his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward a pack of black wolves and dark-haired humans, all wearing black headbands, not too far away. Most of them were intent on listening to the arguments in the hut, but a few were watching Roshen and Moose. Some had noticed Peter and apparently recognized him as a Glass Walker. “I don’t think even they know for sure, yet

“And we wouldn’t want them to find out, huh?” Roshen’s grin grew even wider and goofier. His voice grew as well, becoming so loud that the other pack of Garou couldn’t have missed overhearing it had they tried. “We wouldn’t want the pack of the Gathering Storm to know that the Severed Arm knew what was happening before they did!” He swung his arm-club through the air a few times for effect.

The other Garou just looked away as if they hadn’t heard anything, but Peter knew that he had seen a couple of them snarl angrily. Roshen cackled wickedly and elbowed him in the ribs. “The Gathering Storm is a rival pack — one of the few pure tribal packs in the Amazon, all Shadow Lords, and they don’t let you forget it.” He sighed happily. “God, I love sticking it to them!”

Moose shook his head. “One-Arm, this dog-eat-dog competition is going to get you in trouble.”

“Everybody does it, Moose! I know your pack does.” “We don’t go out of our way to tick off other packs, though.”

“Roshen!” growled Peter. “Would you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Later, Petey!” the Silver Fang said merrily. His voice rose again. “When we have a less ignorant audience!” This time the pack of Shadow Lords stirred at Roshen’s words. The one-armed Garou just smiled at them, nodded to Moose, motioned for Peter to follow him, and strode up to one of the Garou guarding the door of the hut. “I have someone Rumwrangler wants to see.”

The guardian Garou shook his head. “Later, Roshen.” Roshen raised one eyebrow haughtily, putting on a show for the Gathering Storm. He settled his arm on his shoulder. “Rumwrangler sent the Severed Arm all the way to Manaus to meet him.”

“No. Rumwrangler is busy.”

“Rumwrangler told me to bring him as soon as we arrived.” Roshen’s haughtiness turned cold and threatening, the noble arrogance of the Silver Fangs coming to the fore. “Are you telling me that you want to get in the way of direct orders from Crick Rumwrangler?”

The guardian Garou looked down into Roshen’s eyes. “Rumwrangler is busy. He’s meeting with Golgol Fangs-First, and Golgol told me that the meeting was not to be disturbed.” He crossed his arms defiantly. “Are you telling me that you want to go against direct orders from Golgol Fangs-First?”

Behind them, someone snickered. Peter glanced back: it was one of the Shadow Lords. Roshen didn’t turn around. He just continued to lock gazes with the other Garou. The guardian stared at him blandly, until, finally, Roshen looked away. “Tell Rumwrangler I was looking for him,” he said quietly.

“1 will.”

“What’s the matter, One-Arm?” called a member of the Gathering Storm, one of the largest. “The glory of the Severed Arm wasn’t enough to get you inside?”

“I’d like to see you get in there, Grinder!” snapped Roshen. He led Peter back the way they had come.

“Why should we try?” another Shadow Lord laughed. “The Gathering Storm knows the virtue of patience. If we wait a little while, the Severed Arm will make a fool of itself and you won’t have to bother.”

Roshen flushed, and, for a moment, looked as if he might turn and hurl himself at the rival pack. Instead, he just kept walking. Peter could tell that he was angry, but the pack of the Gathering Storm would have been larger than the Severed Arm even if Brennan, Steps-Lightly, and Windrunner had been there. If Roshen had tried anything, the Shadow Lords could easily have beaten the tar out of him.

And that would only have made him look worse.

The Gathering Storm realized this as well, because they began taunting Roshen as lie walked .iway.

“Do you fetch bones for Rumwrangler as well?”

“A Glass Walker — the Severed Arm must be trying to raise its profile!”

“Love the cologne, Glass Walker! Maybe it’ll help you get a date with a fomor!”

Some of the Shadow Lords in Lupus form set up a mocking series of yips and whines. Finally, the big Shadow Lord, Grinder, bellowed out, “I screwed your sister, Roshen! Does that make me an honorary Silver Fang?” Roshen’s hand clenched around his arm-club so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Peter saw his eyes narrow in anger. It was one thing for Roshen to joke about the long history of aristocratic in-breeding and insanity among his tribe, but for someone else, especially a Shadow Lord, to accuse the Silver Fangs of incest...

It was Peter, however, who looked back over his shoulder and called out, “He doesn’t have a sister — you must be thinking of one of the other Garou you’ve slept with!”

The pack of the Gathering Storm fell silent instantly. Even Roshen drew a sharp breath of surprise. “Peter...” he muttered, sliding his hand into a better grip on his club, “you are an idiot!”

Then Moose began to laugh. So did the Garou guarding the door of the hut, and several of the other Garou who had been listening to the argument inside. A few of the Shadow Lords even had the temerity to grin, though their packmates quickly put a stop to that. Roshen sighed in relief, then began to laugh himself. He wiped his eyes and started walking again, his back straight and proud, leaving the angry Shadow Lords behind. “Petey, I take that back. You’re brilliant. That was perfect!”

Peter grinned with satisfaction. “It’s a gift. Glass Walkers don’t always fight with weapons. Now, will you tell me what you and Moose were talking about? What is

going on around here? Why the big moot?”

Roshen took a deep breath, trying to control his laughter. “All right.” He looked around, making sure that no other Garou were within earshot. “Like Cohen said, there’s going to be a rally moot — Golgol wants to get us pumped up for a major attack on Pentex.” Roshen’s voice dropped. “We found out about a week ago that one member of the Pentex board of directors is coming here. To Pentex’s base of operations in the rain forest — the Developers Forestry Group compound up on the Rio Negro.”

“You’re kidding.” Peter just looked at Roshen. “You must be kidding.” If Pentex was bad, the men who ran it were true terrors. They were secretive, shadowy figures, directing the destruction of Gaia from boardrooms around the world. They were also immensely powerful. Garou had met them before, and those who survived whispered that the creatures they had fought were so far corrupted by the Wyrm that they were scarcely human any longer. Some Garou said that the Pentex board of directors served the Wyrm directly and personally. “You have got to be kidding! Are you sure this wasn’t one of those rumors Moose said Rumwrangler was spreading?”

“Rumwrangler gave me the straight goods.” Roshen thumped his chest. “The director is apparently coming to inspect Pentex’s progress in the rain forest.”

“And Golgol wants to stage a strike while he’s here. Jesus.” Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead. The humidity in the air was once again approaching its heavy, late-afternoon weight. It seemed even more oppressive in the gloom beneath the canopy. Maybe it was just Roshen’s news that hung over Peter so heavily.

“A little more than you had in mind when you came down here, huh?” the Silver Fang cracked. “Most Garou underestimate what they’re getting into.”

“No kidding.”

They came back to the spot where they had parted company with Brennan, Steps lightly, and Windrunner. Roshen pointed down another trail, the way Windrunner had gone earlier. “That will get you to the Severed Arm’s shelter — straight on past two side paths, then left when the trail forks. It’s a fair ways, but you can’t miss it. The others should be back there by now.” He gestured the other way. “I want to go check in at the armory and see how the supplies made it in. You can come with me if you like.” “No.” Peter smiled. “I want to rest up for the moot tonight.”

Roshen laughed and slapped Peter on the back. “Don’t worry about that! A moot in the rain forest is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before — you wouldn’t feel tired even if you hadn’t slept for days. With no humans around for miles, a Garou can really cut loose!” He put his arm around Peter. “Come and see the caern!”

“No.” Peter shrugged off Roshen’s arm. “Sorry, but I really do feel like resting.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll see you later.” Roshen strode off down the path toward the armory, then turned around to call back, “Remember, two down then left. Otherwise you’ll wander straight into the latrine.”

“Latrines?” Peter yelled back. “There are trees everywhere and you use latrines?”

“One of Golgol’s rules — the caern belongs to everybody, so nobody marks territory while they’re in it!” Roshen disappeared behind a huge, creeper-covered tree.

Peter’s smile collapsed as soon as the Silver Fang was out of sight. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. A strike against one of the Pentex headmen. And he had just gotten there.

He began walking down the trail that led to the Severed Arm’s shelter. Major assaults against Pentex targets tended to have high casualty rates... very high. Pentex was willing, and more than able, to defend itself against Garou. The Garou of Toronto hail struck out at Pentex targets in the city often enough to know that, and if the rain forest was isolated enough for Garou to “cut loose” at a moot, who could guess what Wyrm-twisted creatures and spirits Pentex could unleash in its defense? Peter couldn’t risk being part of Golgol’s attack. He hadn’t come to the Amazon to die.

As he had told Steps-Lightly, he had promised to find a specimen of the strange flower he kept pressed in his book and take it back to Toronto. His quest was a little more urgent, however, than completing someone’s greenhouse collection. He had to find that flower and get back to Toronto before the attack took place.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he walked. He was going to need a lot of luck. The flower had come from the Amazonian rain forest, probably from south of the great river itself, but that was all he knew. Even half of the rain forest was a huge area to cover. There had been a purpose behind the close attention he had paid to the banks of the Purus — he had hoped against hope that he might stumble across a specimen as they traveled.

His strategy of smelling the night wind had a greater chance of succeeding.

Eventually he would have to let somebody in on his secret and ask them for help...

No! Peter shook his head. That was crazy! Who was going to help him? His sept in Toronto had given him a second chance. Who knew what other Garou, who didn’t know him, who didn’t feel they owed him anything, would do? And if Peter returned to Toronto without the flower, he wasn’t going to get another chance. There was nowhere else for him to go if he failed here. Eventually he would run out of Fever.

He walked on, listening to the quiet sounds of the rain forest and the Garou encampments spread out around Sky River Caern. Slowly, Peter became aware of a new sound up in the trees. It was a rustling, almost like birds silently taking wing among the leaves, but on such a massive scale that hundreds of birds would have to be hidden in the distant canopy. The sound was also sustained, where the flight sounds of birds would have laded after a moment.

It was rain, he realized after a moment. Rain falling up on top of the rain forest canopy. The sound of an enormous volume of water pouring down onto the leaves above. Peter looked up. Just in time for a fat drop of water, leaking through the layers of leaves above, to strike him squarely in the eye. He blinked and paused to wipe at his face with a curse.

Something must have shifted up in the canopy, because the next “drop” of water hit him like a water balloon.

For a second, all he could do was stand there, shocked and soaked. Then he shook his head, flipped his hair out of his eyes, and took another step forward.

Straight into another flying puddle dropping from on high.

He was being water-bombed by trees.

Helplessly, Peter started to laugh.

He was wet through to the skin. He was hot. He was exhausted. He was faced with the almost impossible task of finding a single species of flower in the vastness of the Amazonian rain forest. And he was getting even wetter as the rain began to percolate down through the trees in an increasingly heavy drizzle. He couldn’t help laughing — bitterly, almost insanely.

Tears began to pour down his cheeks, mixing with the rain. He fumbled the bottle of Fever out of his pocket and sprayed it across his face. With the tears and rain already there, it would do almost no good at all. He sprayed himself again. The laughter turned into sobs.

No. Choking, he stifled his sobs, and forced his hands to stop shaking. He stuffed the bottle back into his pocket. He was approaching the fork in the trail. The Severed Arm’s shelter would be to the left. Rut he needed some time pull himself together first . He turned right, heading toward the latrine.

CHAPTER    FIVE

Peter didn’t think that it could possibly be this difficult to find a latrine. He wandered along, however, for quite some way without seeing any sign of the latrine, either on or off the path. The rain was stirring up all kinds of wet, dark, jungle smells, masking the odor typically associated with a latrine. Its gentle but pervasive thrum drowned out any sounds that may have been helpful. At least the search gave Peter time to recover himself. He felt better again, more in control. Still, he was almost ready to give up and turn back when he spotted a faint side-trail. He turned down it, forcing his way through a thin screen of bushes.

It wasn’t the latrine. Instead, Peter found Steps-Lightly talking with another Garou. Both seemed quite comfortable in the rain: Steps-Lightly still wore the loincloth that all of the Severed Arm wore, while the stranger wore faded, battered fatigue pants. He was as muscular as Brennan, but far less hairy than the Fianna and almost the same height as Steps-Lightly. His hair, though he seemed young, was gray. Like Steps-Lightly, he had a tattoo on his face — a pattern of radiating lines above his left eye. The stranger was a member of the Stargazers tribe. He glanced up suddenly at Peter, his eyes hostile, and Steps-Lightly turned around. His hand was pressed flat against the Stargazer’s chest, as if to make a point.

“Uhh... looking for the latrine?” Peter stammered.

“Back down the trail about sixty feet and just off on the right,” Steps-Lightly replied quietly.

“Thanks.” Peter turned so sharply that he almost slipped on a patch of mud. He pushed his way back out

onto the trail.

The latrine was right where Steps-Lightly had said it would be, down a path that was almost hidden by dangling creepers. It was really nothing more than a small clearing ringed with trees and a few long, shallow trenches. Peter took care of his business quickly, and then left. He literally bumped into Steps-Lightly as the Silent Strider came down the trail.

They stared at each other for a moment before Peter glanced away. “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to barge in on a private conversation.”

Steps-Lightly shook his head, a little smile on his face. “It was nothing. That’s the problem with being around the caern — any caern. It’s hard to get any privacy.”

“You got that right,” Peter agreed. He turned and they began walking toward the Severed Arm’s shelter. “Was he anybody important? Someone I should know about?” “Fairly important, but not anyone you’re likely to meet again. Hi? name is Thunder Tiger.” Steps-Lightly looked at him sideways. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention him to the others. As far as they know, I went to the latrine, too. He’s from another pack — one that Roshen isn’t particularly fond of.”

“I can understand that.” Peter would have liked to have asked Steps-Lightly more about the gray-haired Stargazer, but the way he spoke suggested that the big Garou was not someone he wanted to discuss further. “We ran into a pack called the Gathering Storm by Rumwrangler’s hut. Roshen didn’t get along well with them, either.”

Steps-Lightly snorted. “Shadow Lords are full of themselves. No one gets along with them.” He fell silent for a second, then added, “Thank you, Peter.”

“Sure.”

At the point where the trails leading to the latrine and to the pack’s shelter diverged, they met Roshen again. He was grinning eagerly to himself if he had had two hands, Peter was sure that he would have been rubbing them together with glee. Accompanying him was a small, neat Garou dressed in khaki shorts and shirt. Aside from himself, the small Garou wore more clothing than any other Garou Peter had seen around the caern so far.

Roshen greeted them with a hearty wave of his severed arm. “Petey!” he called triumphantly. “Have I got a treat for you!” He gestured to the small Garou. “This is Crick Rumwrangler. Rumwrangler, Peter Ward.”

The Garou shook hands. “You’ve arrived at an interesting time, Peter,” the Garou commander said pleasantly.

“So I’m led to understand.” Peter cocked an eyebrow at Roshen. “I’m just wondering how it could get any more interesting.”

“You’ll see! You’ll see!” Roshen prodded them along the trail to the shelter. “I want everyone to hear this at the same time!”

The Severed Arm’s shelter wasn’t far down the path. It consisted mostly of a rather large lean-to, constructed, like most of the other structures around the caern, of rough wood with a thatched roof. Its open side faced the path and it was about as high as a reasonably tall man, sloping down at the back until the roof touched the ground. Hammocks were strung between the shelter’s sturdy support posts, while gear was stacked toward the rear. Peter spotted his suitcase and duffel bag with some relief. He wanted to change into some dry clothes, though to judge by Roshen’s excitement, he might not have the chance any time soon. Instead he satisfied himself with another spray of Fever.

A tiny fire smoldered just within the shelter. Windrunner was crouched beside it, and Brennan dozed in one of the hammocks. Roshen called out loudly as they approached and the Fianna sat up so quickly that he tumbled to the ground. He picked himself up, groaning. “What is it now?” he snapped.

“Mission, troops!” Roshen crowed happily, striding into

the dry shelter. “We have another mission!"

Windrunner grunted “Already? Don’t we get a little down time?”

“No rest for the ready!” Roshen dropped down by the fire. “This is a big one, too!” he looked up expectantly at Rumwrangler.

The Bone Gnawer looked down at Roshen as the rest of the pack and Peter joined him beside the fire. “Perhaps,” he suggested lightly, “I should just let you tell them the whole thing.” His tone was even but serious, and Roshen flushed. Peter restrained a snicker. A Garou who could put Roshen in his place! Rumwrangler settled to the ground as well, then glanced around at the pack. “I presume you all know about the visitor DFG is expecting from Pentex — that Roshen has told you what I told him?”

Everyone nodded and Rumwrangler continued. “We can’t let an opportunity like this pass us by. In the last two days, we’ve learned who the Pentex director is, when he’s coming, and where he’s going to be. We intend to stage a raid against Pentex’s Amazon headquarters while he’s there and try to kill him.”

A chorus of comments and opinions passed around the circle as the others remarked upon what Roshen and Peter already knew. Brennan’s voice was probably the loudest. “I’ve heard what happened the last time Pentex HQ was assaulted — it was a slaughter! There’s a fifty-meter defoliated kill zone around that place!”

Rumwrangler held up his hand. “Just remember that we killed more of Pentex’s fomori and soldiers than they killed of us, Brennan. But that was last time. This raid will be better planned, and, more importantly, larger. Golgol wants the Garou from both Sky River and Hollow Heart Caerns involved in the attack.”

Windrunner let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of Garou.”

“Yes.”

“So what’s our mission?” asked Steps-Lightly.

“We need a diversion as part of the attack. A big diversion.” Rumwrangler sketched a crude map of lines in the dirt floor of the shelter and pointed to a spot on it. “You’ve heard of the Caern of Rain Spirits?”

Again, everyone nodded — everyone except Peter. Windrunner leaned over and whispered to him, “A small caern up to the north. It’s very old, and was created by the handful of native Uktena Garou who lived in the Amazon before Pentex got here.”

“Very old, yes,” agreed Rumwrangler, “and also fairly powerful in spite of its size. The native Garou understand the spirits of the Amazon far better than any of us do. The Caern of Rain Spirits can control the weather over most of northwestern Brazil.”

Roshen broke in with a grin, unable to restrain himself any longer. “They want us to go to the Caern of Rain Spirits, and ask the Uktena there to create a truly massive thunderstorm over Pentex headquarters on the night of the assault!”

Reaction was mixed. Brennan smiled widely. Windrunner nodded. Steps-Lightly frowned. “The Caern of Rain Spirits is back down the Purus, then up the Amazon. We just came from that direction!”

“I know,” Rumwrangler sighed. “We tried to contact you, but without any luck.”

“Why not just open a Moon Bridge to the other caern?” asked Peter. “Pentex doesn’t watch you the way they watch us in Toronto. Wouldn’t a Moon Bridge be simpler and faster?”

“The Rain Spirit Garou are isolationist, Petey,” Roshen said. “They don’t really like having us here. We’re outsiders to them. They’re also very proud. Arriving by Moon Bridge, virtually unannounced, could well offend them, especially when we’re coming to ask for a favor.” He shrugged. “If we approach on foot, they’ll be much more inclined to listen to us.”

“Still,” demanded Steps-Lightly, “why us? Surely there were other good packs available here at the caern before we got back.”

Roshen gasped exaggeratedly. "Glory, Steps-Lightly! Glory! Don’t give the job to someone else when you can do it yourself!” He turned to Rumwrangler. “Don’t listen to him! We can do this!”

“You already have the mission, Roshen.” The Bone Gnawer shook his head. “But Steps-Lightly is right — we could have given it to someone else. We almost did. Last-One-Out had Golgol half convinced to send the Gathering Storm.”

That brought a collective grimace of distaste. Brennan spat. “Figures. Shadow Lords stick together. But those black-hearted bastards would have screwed it up for sure!” “I know! That’s why 1 — and some of the other Sky River leaders — suggested that we wait just a couple of days more and give the mission to you. Last-One-Out and the Gathering Storm were not pleased when Golgol listened to us.”

Roshen cackled with delight. “No wonder they weren’t too happy to see me today! So when do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. After the moot. We’ll settle your orders in the morning and you can leave when the heat of the day has passed.”

“When’s the raid? Who’s the Pentex director that’s coming in?”

Rumwrangler smiled mysteriously. “You’ll find that out at the moot tonight, just like everybody else. We have to spring some surprises on you.” He turned to Peter. “And welcome to Sky River Caern, Peter. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you earlier. I met your mother once through Mother Larissa in New York — she’s a remarkable woman.” “Thank you.”

“So have you thought about the role you’d like to play here in the Amazon? Most of the Glass Walkers who come here join war packs. Your relationships with technological spirits can have devastating effects on Pentex machinery.

I’ve seen Glass Walkers turn tree-cutting machines into heaps of scrap metal just by talking to them!”

Peter found himself smiling, and sincerely, too. Judging by Rumwrangler’s crude map, the journey to the Caern of Rain Spirits might take almost a week by canoe. As likely as not, the scenery would be as uniformly impenetrable as it had been on the trip up the Purus, but it would give him the opportunity to cover ground, sniffing the wind each night for the scent of the flower. He couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. Thank you, Gaia, he thought to himself. He had difficulty keeping his voice casual as he said, “I thought I’d like to join a borzoi pack.” “Certainly.” Rumwrangler nodded. “The Birds-Soaring pack just lost a member to fomori. You could...”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. “Actually,” he added hastily, “I was hoping to join the Severed Arm. If they’ll take me.” He glanced at Roshen.

The Silver Fang raised an eyebrow, then rose and stepped away from the fire for a moment, gesturing for the rest of the pack to join him. They huddled together, talking softly. Peter tried not to consider his alternatives if they didn’t accept him. He heard Windrunner raise her voice for a moment. “He paddles a good canoe.”

To which Steps-Lightly added: “He seems trustworthy.” Peter looked at Rumwrangler. He was staring up at the ceiling of the shelter, patiently waiting for the pack to make its decision. When Peter glanced back at Roshen and the others, they were breaking up.

Roshen looked Peter in the eye. “We can’t just accept you into the Severed Arm, Petey,” he said.

Peter’s jaw clenched in silent frustration.

“But we can take you along on a provisional basis.” The pack leader then offered a warm smile, as did Steps-Lightly and Windrunner. Brennan’s smile was a bit forced. “We’ll watch how you handle yourself on this mission. If we like what we see, we’ll get you one of these,” he tapped the severed arm tattooed across his chest, “when we come back

to the caern. Sound okay, Rumwrangler/"

“It’s fine with me.”

Peter grinned as the Bone Gnawer reached out and shook his hand. Windrunner slapped Peter on the back. Steps-Lightly, on his other side, did the same, adding, “We’ll get you into a loincloth yet — it’s the pack uniform.”

“Can we wait a little while on that?”

Rumwrangler chuckled, climbing to his feet. “I hope you survive both the rain forest and the Severed Arm, Peter!” He stepped out of the shelter. The hissing patter of rain on the top of the forest canopy had ceased, but there was still a steady dripping as water continued to percolate down through the leaves. “You’ll sit with them at the moot tonight.” He nodded good-bye to the pack as a whole. “It starts when the moon rises.”

^ ^ ^

Glass Walker moots always began with clockwork regularity,, precisely on time, and were usually conducted like corporate meetings with strict agendas. As the time for the rally moot at Sky River Caern drew closer, however, and none of the Severed Arm seemed in any special hurry to leave their shelter, Peter began to grow nervous.

“We’re going to be late to the moot!” he cautioned Roshen anxiously.

“Relax!” The one-armed Garou was stretched out in a hammock, rocking himself slowly back and forth. “We’re not on Glass Walker time down here. The moot will start when it starts.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to be there when it does?” Roshen sighed. “Okay.” He got up and splashed some water from a basin onto his face and through his hair. “We’re going!” he called out, grabbing his arm-club from where it was leaning against a post near the hammock.

Brennan glanced up. He was sharpening a knife by lantern light. “The moon hasn’t risen yet!”

“How can you tell?” Peter gestured up toward the sky-concealing darkness of the canopy.

“They’ll howl to signal moon-rise.” The Fianna slid his knife into a sheath and hung it beside his hammock. “We’ll have...”

Windrunner appeared out of the shadows. Steps-Lightly was with her. “Remember your first moot here, Brennan? You didn’t want to miss anything either.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet, then looked over at Peter. “You might only want to wear clothes that are dedicated to you. Rally moots can be pretty wild around here — you’ll probably change form a lot.”

“I have a spare loincloth,” Steps-Lightly offered.

“No, thanks.” Peter pulled off his shirt and shorts and stood dressed in just his boxers and his hiking boots. He found his backpack and sprayed himself thoroughly with Fever as well.

“Ready?” asked Brennan sarcastically, waving his hand in front of his face as the scent came wafting toward them.

“Ready!” Peter snapped. He tried to give himself one last squirt of cologne, but all that came out of the bottle was a feeble dribble. It was empty. Peter looked at it with some surprise: he had expected the bottle to last longer. “I told you you’d run out,” Roshen said.

Peter stuffed the empty bottle into his backpack. “I have more,” he replied.

The Silver Fang frowned, then took a deep breath. “Look, Peter. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. Maybe you don’t like to smell like an unwashed Garou, but the scent of cologne in the middle of the jungle is going to attract a lot of attention. Do you think you could use it a little less frequently?”

“I...” Peter kept his face as neutral as he could. He needed Fever. There was no way around it. But he couldn’t let Roshen and the others know that. “I’ll try. Sorry.” “Glass Walkers!” snorted Brennan. “Can we go now?”

The trails were dark: there was just barely enough light for them to see where they were going. The others seemed to navigate partly by memory and partly by instinct, but Peter quickly became lost. They should have been walking toward the center of the caern, but for all he knew they could have been heading back up toward the latrine. Then his balance shifted, and he could feel that they were mounting a gentle slope. He was fairly certain that there hadn’t been a slope on the way to the latrine. Occasionally, he heard the voices of other Garou, though the Severed Arm walked silently. The rain forest was silent, too, as if the forest animals anticipated the Raging moot that was approaching.

Suddenly, a long and strident howl rang out through the night. Other howls answered it, including one from right behind him that caused him to jump. It was, he realized, Steps-Lightly in Lupus form. Peter could half make out his big, lean form in the gloom. Most of the howls came from a distance to his left. They began to weave toge’ther, creating intricate, wild patterns. The moot was beginning. Instinctively, Peter turned in the direction of the original howl.

Roshen caught his arm. “Not that way!”

“But the moot...”

“Don’t worry. We have lots of time. It’s just the Opening Howl. They’ll sing for a while until all of us stragglers have made our grand entrances. Then things will really kick off.” He let Peter go. “Besides, you can’t get into the center of the caern that way, anyway. You have to follow the stream or you’ll never get there. The caern protects itself.”

Up ahead, Peter heard splashing water. They had returned to the stream that ran down to the Purus, or another stream very much like it. Below them would be the rapids that led to the pool where they had beached their canoes. There was a clatter of rocks and a change in the sound of the water as someone — Windrunner — stepped into the middle of the stream and began to wade against the current. Brennan followed her, then Roshen. Peter hesitated for a moment. Why couldn’t Windrunner have told him about this? His boots were going to be soaked. Steps-Lightly nudged him from behind. Peter stepped out into the stream.

The water was remarkably deep, coming up to his knees. The current was also surprisingly strong. Peter found himself forced to place his feet carefully or risk falling. He glanced back to see how Steps-Lightly was doing.

The Silent Strider was breaking the water easily, though a smaller wolf might have had difficulty. The water came up nearly to his chest. He could see Steps-Lightly more distinctly here, Peter realized. Looking ahead, he saw that there was a very faint silvery glow emanating from a break in the trees. As Windrunner led them out of the stream, the howls of the Garou were clearer, and sounded closer.

They were standing in a large, narrow clearing filled with Garou. Some were in Lupus form, others in Homid, and a few, particularly Rage-filled, in Crinos. The Garou stood, squatted, or sat in groups of four to six — their packs. Peter recognized the dark forms of the seven or eight members of the Gathering Storm. In almost every pack, at least one Garou was participating in the howling. Roshen found the Severed Arm a spot about midway along the clearing, fairly close to the center — exactly opposite the Gathering Storm, as it happened. Peter found it hard to believe that this was merely a coincidence.

The two packs faced each other across a slightly raised pile of bare rocks. The spring that produced the stream bubbled up out of that pile and poured a strong flow of water into the stream bed. A few other packs also vied to sit close to the water source. Around the spring itself stood the

Garou who must have been the leaders of the caern; Peter recognized Crick Rumwrangler as well as a giant of a man that could only be Golgol fangs First. Standing beside him was another Shadow Lord, probably Last-One-Out.

Overhead, the trees at the edge of the clearing spread out long branches, extending the canopy over almost the entire area except for a narrow band of open sky above the stream and the spring. This was the source of the faint silver light. At first Peter thought it to be moonlight. Then he realized that moonlight could be only a small part of it. The moon had just risen; besides, it would still only be a crescent tonight. The silver radiance came from starlight. The gap in the canopy was centered on the thin, distant light of the Milky Way.

A Garou standing with the caern leaders gave a final howl that brought the melody of the wolves to a crescendo. Then she nodded to Last-One-Out and stepped back. The Opening Howl was over. The moot had begun.

Last-One-Out raised his arms. He was wearing a simple, loose black robe. “We honor the totems of our people, the spirits that guide, protect, and inspire our tribes!”

“We honor the totems,” repeated the assembled Garou as a chorus.

“We honor Rat, who shelters the Bone Gnawers!”

“We honor Rat.” This time there were fewer voices in the chorus. Peter looked around. The order in which the tribal totems were honored was largely at the whim of the Garou leading the litany. Often, the least popular totems were named first. While all of the Garou assembled for a moot were supposed to voice their honor for each totem, in practice only the members of the tribes who followed an unpopular totem usually praised it in the litany. The totems of strong tribes tended to receive louder praise.

To judge by the unenthusiastic praise for Rat, there were very few Bone Gnawers at the caern. Bone Gnawers tended to be almost universally despised among the Garou.

And where Bone Gnawers were ranked at the bottom of the hierarchy of tribes, the tribe that was honored next was...

“We honor Cockroach, who counsels the Glass Walkers!”

“We honor Cockroach!” Peter shouted the name of his own tribal totem with pride. The other Glass Walkers present called out as well, as did, Peter realized with a start, the rest of the pack of the Severed Arm. Roshen grinned at him.

“We support each other,” he whispered. Steps-Lightly and Windrunner grinned as well. Brennan, though he had called as loudly as the rest of the pack, didn’t look at Peter at all.

Last-One-Out lead the Garou of the caern through all thirteen of the tribes and their totems. When he named the totem and tribe of one of the Garou in the Severed Arm — Owl for the Silent Striders, the water-spirit Uktena for the Uktena, and Stag for the Fianna — Peter joined the pack in honoring the totem.

“We honor Falcon, who serves the Silver Fangs!”

A murmur rippled through the Garou of the caern as Last-One-Out called out the totem of the aristocratic tribe of Garou. Peter saw Roshen clench his teeth. By tradition, the Silver Fangs were named second-to-last in any litany, the honor of last place being reserved for the tribe that was hosting a moot. At Sky River, that honor would belong to the Get of Fenris, Golgol Fangs-First’s tribe. In theory, then, Last-One-Out should have named eleven of the thirteen tribes before naming the Silver Fangs. He had only named ten. There was a growled threat in the voices of Roshen and the Silver Fangs when they replied, “We honor Falcon!”

Last-One-Out ignored them. “We honor Grandfather Thunder, who rules over the Shadow Lords!”

The Shadow Lords present bellowed, “We honor Grandfather Thunder!” Last-One-Out smiled. The

Gathering Storm sneered at the Severed Arm.

“Bastard Shadow Lords!” snarled Roshen. He looked as if he were ready to leap across the spring, rip through the caern leaders, and tear into the rival pack. Steps-Lightly and Brennan each put a hand on his shoulder and held him down.

“We honor,” shouted Last-One-Out triumphantly, “the wolf Fenris, who guides the Get of Fenris!”

“We honor Fenris!” Once again all of the Garou called out, giving honor to their hosts and also to Golgol, their great High War Chieftain. Golgol nodded in confident acceptance of their praise.

Last-One-Out’s role was not over yet. “We honor the totem of the caern, the spirit that lends us his strength, and power, and watchful eye! We honor the totem of the Sky River Caern! We honor Howler Monkey!”

“We honor Howler Monkey!”

For a moment, Peter felt his hair stand on end, as though he and the entire clearing were being watched — watched h^ something truly immense and powerful. Then sudden whoops of howler monkeys erupted from the canopy of the rain forest in response to the Garou’s tribute. Howler Monkey was honoring the Garou in his turn.

The howler monkeys’ booming calls became the backdrop for Last-One-Out’s final tribute to the spirits. The old Shadow Lord raised his arms to his shoulders, holding them out straight. The broad sleeves of his gown made him look almost spiritlike himself in the darkness. Several Garou gave enthusiastic howls, already caught up in the moot although they were still only going through the preliminary rituals. “We honor the spirit who is the totem of all living creatures, the spirit who is more than a totem, the spirit who is the Mother of us all! We honor the spirit of the Earth itself!” Last-One-Out’s arms shot straight up into the air and he roared, “We honor Gaia!” “We honor Gaia!” The howls of the Garou, combined with the calls of the howler monkeys, were almost deafening in their savage joy. The exhilaration of the assembly was like a wave. Some Garou spontaneously shifted into Lupus form, wailing madly. Peter found himself on his feet, jumping up and down and shouting in jubilation. Last-One-Out held his rigid pose for several minutes, then swept his arms down.

“Let Sky River Caern open its power for the benefit of Gaia and her children!”

The Garou fell silent instantly, as though they had been expecting this. Even Peter was silent, sensing the power of the moment. The surface of the spring-fed stream was rippling. Suddenly, its blackness cleared. It became as still and perfect as a mirror, reflecting the strip of sky above in precise, magical clarity. Like a river filled with the starry night sky.

Golgol Fangs-First stepped into the silence without hesitation.

“Packmates...” he began simply. He got no farther. The crowd of Garou was cheering again, yelling for its great hero. Peter was yelling as well, swept up by the fervor of the Garou. The awe that the crowd felt for the man before them was infectious. Even at home in Toronto, Peter had heard stories about Golgol Fangs-First, of how he had stepped into the growing conflict in the Amazon, seized the Garou gathering there by their tails, and shaken a sense of discipline into them. Under his leadership, the Garou had gone from making haphazard, half-successful, hit and run raids against Pentex to staging tactical strikes with surgical precision. What might have been a losing battle for the Garou had become, under Golgol, an even shot at victory.

But there was more — Golgol had brought the fractious tribes of the Garou together in the Amazonian rain forest. Where Get of Fenris and Shadow Lords and Black Furies and Silver Fangs and other tribes had fought amongst themselves, dividing their forces before Pentex, Golgol had forged a tenuous unity of purpose. He had declared himself High War Chieftain, commander of all the Garou in the Amazon, defeating any other elder who challenged his right to the position. Shadow Lords had fallen before him. Black Furies had fallen before him. Silver Fangs had fallen before him. Get of Fenris, already knowing his reputation, had simply stood aside and followed him. Instead of becoming a tyrant, though, Golgol had consulted the other tribes, establishing a War Council of elders to act as his advisers.

And Golgol still fought beside other Garou in strikes and raids.

Golgol Fangs-First was a true hero of the Garou.

He waited until the cheers had died down, then began again. His voice was heavy, the voice of a warrior, and carried a strong German accent. Golgol was nearing his sixty-fifth year, but he was still fit and muscular; the gray in his hair was the color of iron. “Packmates,” he repeated, “there is a plague in the rain forest.”

Peter’s shouts died in his throat even as the cheers of the other Garou redoubled. Steps-Lightly shot him a concerned look. “Is something wrong, Peter?”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “No. I just... I just bit my tongue. Too excited.”

But Golgol was talking again and Steps-Lightly was listening to the High War Chieftain. Peter turned back to him as well, forcing his face to assume the same rapt look of attention that every other Garou wore. Surely Golgol’s choice of words was just coincidence — but it struck so close to home. Garou often spoke of the Wyrm’s activities in terms of ravaging disease. That was all Golgol had meant. It must be.

“There is a plague in the rain forest,” Golgol said. “The plague isn’t spread by touch or by diseased breath or by tainted blood. It is spread by machines and men with chainsaws. It is spread by greed. It is spread by lies and false hopes. The plague kills plant and animal life alike. It kills trees, it kills birds, it kills monkeys and jaguars and

Garou and, when it has consumed the Amazon, it will kill humans around the world.”

He paused to draw a breath. Peter realized that everyone in the crowd, himself included now, was caught up in the old Garou’s words. He had forgotten the sudden fear of the moment before. There was complete and total silence. “This plague is not a natural disease.” Golgol stepped down off the little mound above the spring and moved through the crowd of Garou as he spoke. He passed Peter and put his hand on the Glass Walker’s shoulder for a moment. “It is a plague driven by a force with a purpose. That purpose is the destruction of Gaia, our Great Mother.” Golgol moved on. “The force that drives the plague is the Wyrm, and the name of the plague...” He paused, “...is Pentex.”

The crowd might as well have been the trees of the forest. They stood absolutely still, bound by the force and passion of Golgol’s speech. Golgol was pushing them toward carefully directed anger. Peter could feel the beginnings of Rage stirring in him like coals in a fire, a hatred for Pentex and the Wyrm. The righteous Rage that Golgol was stoking would smolder slowly at first, then burst into unquenchable flames. Clean flames of Rage that would cleanse Gaia of the Wyrm’s plague.

Golgol walked on through the crowd, pausing occasionally as though speaking directly to one Garou or another. Peter saw him stop by Moose. “Every plague has carriers. The plague of Pentex is carried across Gaia’s body by the dark men that sit on its Board of Directors.” He turned to look out at all the Garou in the clearing. “Some of you have heard rumors that one of those men might be coming here. A carrier of the plague of Pentex here, in the Amazon. Those rumors... are true.”

Something snapped in the assembled Garou, a flood of anger breaking through a dam of restraint. Garou howled terrifying screams of Rage. Some transformed into Crinos form, great claws slashing at the air. Peter realized that he was grinding his teeth together so hard that it hurt. Beside him, Roshen trembled with fury, though he had known the truth for days. Abruptly, he burst into Crinos form. If he was scraggly and small as a Homid, in Crinos he was magnificent, with silver-white fur and shining eyes. “Kill him!” he screamed, brandishing his severed arm, “Kill!”

Golgol was there instantly, seizing the brute Crinos by both shoulders in the grip of a comrade-in-arms. “Yes!” he yelled, over the howls of the crowd, “Yes! We will kill him!” He whirled around and leaped back up onto the mound over the spring. “In a month!” He stabbed his finger at the narrow gap of open sky. “When the moon is again a waxing crescent! We will stab at Pentex’s headquarters like lightning! Like a silver klaive! We will kill the carrier!”

“A name!” someone roared, “Give us a name!”

The High War Chieftain’s face twisted. “The name of the carrier,” he spat, “is Francesco! And sharpen your claws, packmates — he is also a Dancer of the Black Spiral!”

Garou howled for blood, and Peter’s voice was among them. Rage was like a spirit stalking the clearing, striking out with long talons, sending anger surging through every Garou it touched. Black Spiral Dancers! Traitors to the Garou! Traitors*to Gaia! Garou who walked with the Wyrm and listened to its dark whispers! Peter howled with angry lust for blood, riding on the crest of Golgol’s driving words and the sweeping, seething madness of the Garou around him. His arms and legs, back, and chest swelled as he shifted into Crinos form, sandy hair sprouting across his body, claws and sharp teeth blossoming, bones stretching and growing in the sweet pain of enraged transformation. His senses were suddenly those of the beast, and the clearing was a riot of brilliant starlight and sharp odors. He seized Brennan, also in Crinos now, and howled in his face, “Kill! Kill Black Spiral Dancer!”

“Kill Pentex!” Brennan howled back. He punched at Peter with a closed fist, grinning with anger. Peter allowed the punch to strike, then hit back. “Kill!” they screamed at each other, working their anger higher and higher, “Kill!”

“Kill Pentex!” howled Golgol. He remained in Homid form, though his features grew more and more bestial as he spoke. “We are Garou! We serve Gaia!”

“Serve Gaia!” the Garou of the caern shouted back. “We are her warriors! We will kill Pentex!”

“Kill Pentex!”

“Our Rage gives us power!”

“Rage!”

Golgol shifted suddenly into Crinos form, an immense monster thirteen feet tall. He squatted, slamming his fist into the ground. “Give Rage back to caern! Now hunt!” he bellowed.

“Rage! Hunt!” This was the Revel, the final part of the moot, when anger ran high, and the Garou embraced their Rage. Part of that Rage would be funneled back into the caern, empowering it and its totem spirit, and making them stronger. The Garou would erupt out of the center of the caern and sweep into the rain forest in a wild hunt for Wyrm creatures or anything else that got in their way. The caern would draw on their wild anger. The crowd of Garou turned toward the trees — there might be only one way into the caern center, but for angry Garou there were many ways out.

And suddenly the darkness exploded into blinding white light and screaming whines.

Peter fell back, shocked and frightened. The Crinos might have been a brutal, Rage-filled killing machine, but it was also an unthinking animal. The lights and the noise confused him. Other Garou were scrambling around, startled. Someone snapped at him in panic. He snapped back. Overhead, more lights burst with cracks and pops, sending down showers of colored stars. The lights were, for a moment, reflected in the Sky River. Then the stream trembled and the stars that gleamed on its surface vanished. The colored lights were all that was reflected.

“No!” snarled Last-One-Out, “No!” He seized Golgol’s arm. “The caern has closed!”

The Get of Fenris howled in anger. “Raptors!” he shouted at the milling Garou. “In the forest! Hunt them!” He jumped off the mound and began pushing Garou into the trees. “Hunt them!”

Peter found himself thrust out of the light and into the shadows, running through the dark, the smells of Garou, the jungle night, and sharp gunpowder in his nostrils. Off in the distance, he could hear the noise of other Garou crashing through the undergrowth. Flustered, he felt his Rage slip from him. He let his Crinos shape fall away as well, becoming human once more.

At least in this form he could think more clearly. The lights and screaming noises, he realized, were fireworks. He could still hear them exploding above the forest canopy and catch glimpses of flares and roman candles burning on the forest floor. The trees and plants were all wet enough that there was no danger of a fire. It hadn’t been an attack, only a disruption of the moot before it could reach its climax and the caern could be recharged.

He turned around. The lights of the flares had robbed him of what little night vision his Homid form had — as he was sure they had been intended to do. He considered resuming Crinos shape, but decided against it. The flares would blind the Crinos as well. Peter also preferred to be able to think clearly in a confusing situation. He took two cautious steps forward in the dark.

The huge, hairy form of a Crinos loomed out of the shadows. Peter yelped and fell backward.

“Hush!” The figure dwindled abruptly. “It’s me — Windrunner.”

“Shit! You just about gave me a heart attack!”

“You shouldn’t be wandering around in Homid shape.

There are still a lot of Garou out here with their Rage controlling them.” Windrunner helped him to his feet. “They don’t know you and you can’t run if you can’t see, hear, or smell them coming. Go Lupus and get back to the shelter.” She started to change again.

“Wait!” Peter grabbed her. “What’s going on?” Windrunner snarled. “Ghost Raptors. A big pack of renegade Garou. They go around breaking up our moots and tricking our raiding parties. They’re a nuisance.” “Have they gone over to the Wyrm?”

“Not as far as anyone can figure out. We don’t really know what they’re up to, because they do fight Pentex.” She spat. “If you find one, try to capture him — or her. Just be careful. They’re slippery.” Roshen’s shadowy form expanded into Crinos and she faded into the darkness.

Peter took her advice, shifting into Lupus shape. The night came alive again with scent and sound and sight. He could smell the stream that led back to the center of the caern and followed his nose to it. Once he found that, it wasn’t hard to locate the trail and figure out where he was. He started back to the pack’s shelter, slipping silently through the undergrowth beside the trail rather than trotting directly along it. He didn’t think that he wanted to meet either an enraged Garou from the caern or one of the Ghost Raptors.

The trail split. Peter hesitated for a moment, crouched down in the bushes. This wasn’t the fork that led to the shelter and the latrine. It was some other division of the path. He tried to remember if he had been here before.

While he was thinking, a figure came running up one of the branches of the fork. It was a Garou in Homid form. About thirty feet behind and chasing after it were several CrinoS'form Garou, big black creatures. They wore black headbands — the Gathering Storm. The Homid paused, pulling a flare out of a pocket in its pants. With its free hand, it sparked a lighter, applied the flame to the wick and tossed the burning flare back toward the Shadow

Lords. The black Garou howled as the flare burst into sudden, blinding light. The Homid figure swiftly turned and disappeared down the path.

Peter had gotten a good look at it as it lit the flare, however. The Homid was wearing faded, worn fatigue pants, its hair was gray, though its face was young, and it had the symbol of the Stargazers tattooed above its left eye. Peter snarled softly in confusion.

It was Thunder Tiger.

CHAPTER SIX

Peter wheeled his car into the parking lot and jumped out almost before it had stopped moving. There was a battered old pick-up truck parked in the orange glow of a nearby streetlight and he ran to it, twisting around momentarily to activate his car alarm and almost wiping out on an unseen patch of ice. He caught himself before he could fall, however. The driver of the truck already had the engine running and Peter climbed inside. “Christ, Alex. Sorry I’m late.”

“You should be.” The driver shoved the gear stick and put the truck into first. He was older than Peter, but not by much. His hair, cut short, was light red, and he wore round glasses on his unshaven face. He looked more like a student than a Garou. He was wearing a pair of black coveralls and thrust a similar pair at Peter as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto Kipling Avenue. “And this is your set-up. Everybody else has already left to get into position. I was waiting on you.”

Peter stripped off his gloves and heavy jacket and struggled into the coveralls. “Trojan and Margie in the auto-body shop across from the warehouse, and Calamity and Pretty Boy waiting in the Umbra?” He slipped a pair of twin semi-automatic pistols into the pockets of the coveralls.

“Yeah.” Alex glanced over at him. “You were just with Bryony again, weren’t you?”

“What was your first clue?” Peter groaned and stretched in the narrow confines of the truck cab. “My just-got-laid smirk?”

Alex wrinkled his nose. “The smell. That cologne she pushes stinks when it starts to wear off.”

Peter reached out and patted the other Garou’s cheek. “How long has it been since you've had it, Alex? You’re just jealous.”

“Get your hand away from me! It smells like shit!” Sighing, Peter reached into the pocket of his discarded jacket and produced a bottle of Fever. “I know. You’re right. I think Bryony’s company has a real loser product here.” He sprayed the cologne on his face and squirted a little bit on his hands. “Smells incredible when you put it on, then like horse piss when it starts to fade. Makes me sweat like a pig after a while, too. Bryony says it’s the chemistry of the stuff, that it’s supposed to make you warm, but if that’s true, it’s working overtime.”

“So you put more on?” Alex shook his head.

“Do we have time for me to stop and take a shower?” asked Peter sarcastically.

“I don’t know why you bother wearing it.”

“Because it drives Bryony crazy.” He raised the red bottle as if in a toast. “Here’s to her!”

“Here’s where we get out,” Alex said flatly. He parked the truck in a narrow laneway. Peter opened his door —-and stepped into a snow drift that came halfway up his shins. He grunted. Bryony’s bed had been a hell of a lot warmer.

They had only come about four blocks from the parking lot where Peter had left his car, and they were still a block from the warehouse on Towns Road where Jubilee Arthurs would be meeting with Indigo’s gang. The meeting itself, scheduled for midnight, would not take place for about another half hour. Peter doubted very much that Indigo would think to post lookouts near the meeting site or to send gang members ahead to scout for police or rival gang members, but he wouldn’t have put that kind of foresight past Jubilee Arthurs. He wanted Garou ready and waiting when the meeting took place.

He and Alex trudged through the snow in the laneway, then cut across some railway tracks and through a yard littered with the rusted husks of old cars. The moon was only a crescent, but combined with the reflective white of the snow and a few scattered streetlamps, it turned the area into a patchwork of dim light and deep shadow. In their black coveralls, Alex and Peter blended well with the shadows. They took their position between two buildings across the narrow street from the warehouse. Margie had scouted it out the day before. It was empty. Jubilee Arthurs was using it as a drop spot only — Peter had initially worried that it might be an active Pentex operation. That would have complicated their plans.

There was no sign of Pentex lookouts. The area was abandoned — at least, it looked that way. Peter knew, however, that two Glass Walkers would be lurking in the auto-body shop beside the warehouse, while another Glass Walker and a Black Fury ally would be hiding invisibly in the spirit space of the Umbra. He envied the two Garou in the shop. Although the night air was still, it was also bitterly cold. The Garou in the Umbra would be worse off, however; they would feel the spirit of winter most acutely. At least they could wait in Lupus or Crinos form.

Alex flicked the light on the dial of his watch. “Twenty minutes,” he whispered. Peter nodded. The red-haired Garou was silent for a few more minutes, then asked quietly, “How’s Cassie?”

“Mom’s....” Peter paused for a moment, trying to find the right words, “...doing better. Critter thinks she’s stabilized. She might be recovering.”

“Does he know what caused it yet?”

Peter clenched his teeth. “No.”

Four days ago, Cassandra Spitfire had fallen ill, her body shaking, her skin damp with cold sweat, and her limbs too weak to move her from her bed. Critter, a Glass Walker who had studied both human and veterinary medicine, was unable to figure out what was wrong with her. While Garou could contract diseases, their healing abilities usually eliminated them in a day or so, before the

symptoms became really serious. Critter was mystified.

He had done his best, however. Peter had sat by his mother’s bedside for two days, watching her thrash weakly about in a listless delirium. On the second day, she had seemed better, though three Garou who had come to visit her had become sick as well. Cassandra had managed to sit up and take a little light food, although she had no appetite. She had also ordered Peter away from her for his own protection, alternately cursing him for being so stupid as to stay with her when the disease was so contagious and praising Gaia that he hadn’t contracted it. Peter had thrown himself into planning this ambush, and into his whirlwind passion with Bryony, in an attempt to forget about his mother’s illness.

“They’re starting to call it the snow plague,” Alex said. “Gavin and Treads-the-Lines are trying to keep word of it from getting out of the city.” He glanced at Peter. “They think it could start a panic.”

“And they’re worried about other Garou trying to take advantage of the situation and move into the city.” Any of the Get of Fenris, Fianna, Children of Gaia, and Shadow Lord packs in the countryside and bedroom communities around Toronto would have loved to sweep into the city and take over for the ailing Glass Walker leader. There were barely twenty Garou in Toronto to begin with — only their own cunning and the hostile, Wynn-ridden environment of Toronto’s streets kept the other Garou away. With four of their number already laid low, they were hanging in a precarious position.

Alex hesitated, then added, “I hear old Moses Yonge-and-Queen caught it yesterday.”

“Shit.” Peter had seen the Bone Gnawer only recently. Five down. And he tried hard to tell himself that the sweat he had noticed on Critter’s brow and the tremble in his hand had just been his imagination.

A car turned off broad Kipling Avenue and onto Towns Road, its headlights raking the length of the street. Peter and Alex pressed back into the shadows. “Time?” Peter asked.

“Ten minutes to midnight.”

The long, sleek, black car pulled up by the warehouse and stopped, idling. Two big men got out and scanned the area. They held submachine guns in their massive hands, barely concealed behind the folds of their coats. Bodyguards. One knocked on a rear window of the car. It slid down and Jubilee Arthurs stuck out his hatchet-thin face. “Look around,” he ordered.

Peter shot Alex a sharp look, but the other Glass Walker was already pulling something out of his pocket — a burned-out light bulb. This was no ordinary light bulb, however. It was a talen, an enchanted item that the Garou had created, which held a captured spirit. Alex dropped the bulb to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. The glass shattered without a sound. Inky black darkness oozed out of the bulb as the spirit within, a spirit of shadows, was released. The elemental darkness hid them completely. One of Arthurs’ men stopped only a few feet away, then turned and walked back to the car. “Nothing,” he reported.

“Are you sure?” Arthurs asked tightly.

“Positive.”

“Good.” Arthurs produced a key and handed it to the man. “Go up to the roof of the warehouse. You know what to do if there’s trouble.” The big man grinned, shifting his gun arrogantly as he took the key. A feral smile crossed Peter’s face. The man wouldn’t live long. One of the Garou lurking in the Umbra would follow and kill him in minutes. Probably silently. Arthurs slid the window up again, leaving his other bodyguard waiting in the cold.

He had to wait for almost a quarter of an hour. Indigo and his gang were late. It was five minutes after midnight before they arrived in two flashy sports cars, one fiery red, the other electric blue. Indigo hopped out of the blue car and strode over to the black Pentex vehicle. Members of his gang — seven of them followed. Jubilee Arthurs got out of his car to meet them. A third bodyguard followed suit.

“Eleven to six,” Alex murmured. He was already counting the man Arthurs had sent to the roof of the warehouse as a casualty.

“Watch the boys from Pentex,” Peter reminded him. “They’ll be the toughest.” He slid his pistols from his pocket. The metal was icy against his bare skin. He could feel himself beginning to slip into the narrow focus that came before a fight.

“Indigo!” called Arthurs. “I’m pleased you could make it!” The arms-dealer’s cheery smile gave no indication that he was upset at having been kept waiting. He stepped briskly along to stand beside the trunk of his car. His feet crunched in the cold, dry snow. “You have the cash with you, of course.”

“Of course.” Indigo signaled and one of his gang stepped forward with a gym bag. Arthurs, in turn, motioned for one of his bodyguards to take it. The big man did, then unzipped the bag and dug through the contents. “Looks like a square deal, boss.”

“Excellent.” Arthurs unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid. There were several compact wooden crates inside. “Your weapons.” Members of Indigo’s gang started forward eagerly.

Peter tensed. The ambush would come down the moment the gang touched the guns. But Indigo called his men back. “We were supposed to get ammo, Arthurs.” “It’s here.” Arthurs pushed the lid off one of the crates and pulled out a black and red box. He slid that open, revealing shiny bullets standing upright in a foam tray. The light glinting off the bullets was tinted ever so slightly green. Wyrm'tainted. Arthurs handed the box to Indigo. “Teflon-coated copkillers, as per your order.”

Indigo grabbed the box. “Beautiful!”

When the gang touched the guns, Peter drew a slow,

deep breath and aimed for Jubilee Arthurs’ head.

It wasn’t clear what Arthurs sensed. Peter hadn’t made a sound. Arthurs’ attention was focused on Indigo as he signaled his gang forward to unload the cargo. Arthurs’ bodyguards hadn’t noticed a thing. It must have been Arthurs’ unnatural, Wyrm-granted gifts that warned him, because suddenly his hatchet-faced head came up sharply, as though he were a dog catching the scent of a wolf. “Ambush!” he shouted, dropping to the ground.

“Shit!” Peter spat. He squeezed off two quick shots, but hit only the side of the car. Arthurs’ bodyguards had their submachine guns out and pointing at the alley. Indigo and his gang were drawing guns as well, nothing compared to the weapons Arthurs sold, but still deadly. Alex and Peter dove out of the alley, leaping for cover behind a big, steel garbage bin, as the Pentex bodyguards opened fire, spraying the shadows with bullets. Arthurs was scrambling to his feet and pulling his own weapon, a big, heavy revolver, out of his coat.

Then Margie and Trojan exploded out of the auto-body shop, smashing right through the big front window, rolling to their feet in the street behind Arthurs and the gang. Both Garou wore the same black coveralls as Peter and Alex and both held guns in their hands. Their purpose, however, was only to distract the attention of the humans and confuse them for a moment. It worked. Indigo’s gang was caught completely off guard. The Pentex bodyguards stopped firing. Arthurs glanced up.

In that second, Pretty Boy and Calamity stepped out of the Umbra in Crinos form, howling and slashing out with their huge talons.

Humans didn’t like the brute Crinos form of Garou. In fact, they feared it. On a deep, primal level, it inspired an instinctive terror in them, a response that couldn’t be controlled, and which reduced them to unthinking beasts. Many times they refused to believe that they had seen a werewolf at all, explaining it later as a big dog or a “hairy psycho.” Garou called that terror the “Delirium,” and it was as much a shield against the humans as it was a curse. It could also, however, he a weapon.

Most of Indigo’s gang froze for a moment, then screamed, fleeing in helpless panic. A couple passed out and were left behind. Indigo himself held out a little longer, shouting and firing several rounds from his gun. The shots were wildly off target, though, and when Calamity turned to glare at him, Indigo turned pale, his gun dropping from feeble hands as he fled after the rest of his gang. In its mad flight, the gang completely forgot that it had arrived in cars.

Arthurs’ bodyguards were another matter. Pentex employees were often conditioned or treated to resist the Delirium. They might not have known what the Garou were, but they didn’t fear them. One bodyguard turned toward the Garou in Crinos form. The other aimed for Margie and Trojan.

Unless the bodyguards were armed with silver bullets, their weapons could do no harm to the Crinos Garou. Their Rage would heal them. Margie and Trojan were still in Homid form, though, and out in the open with no cover. Peter jumped out from behind the garbage bin and let out a short, sharp yelp. Glass Walkers knew how to communicate with the spirits of all kinds of technology, from complicated computers to the simplest of switches. Computers might have been beyond Peter’s own capability, but not guns. The submachine gun of the bodyguard aiming at Trojan and Margie jammed, the spirit in it responding to Peter’s wishes. Trojan dropped his own guns and leaped for the bodyguard, shifting into Crinos form in midair.

The other bodyguard’s gun still worked, however. He squeezed its trigger, firing at Calamity and Pretty Boy. Calamity jumped up high, powerful muscles propelling her into the air and over the bodyguard to land safely behind him. Pretty Boy was slower. He tried to dodge, but his legs seemed to give out on him. The bodyguard’s bullets found their target before he could regain his footing. Then Calamity was grabbing the man from behind, lifting him over her head, and savagely slamming him down to the ground. He tried to get his gun up again, but she kicked him, crushing his shoulder. Trojan had the first bodyguard on his back, and the two were struggling. The man was strong, but the Garou would prove stronger.

Arthurs... Peter whirled around. Where was Arthurs?

There was a sudden glare as the red and white reverse lights of the Pentex car came on. The car roared as it shot backwards — straight at him. Peter hurled himself to the side to avoid it. Alex dove in the other direction. Jubilee Arthurs was at the wheel. He had the driver’s side window down, and leaned out to fire behind him, keeping the Garou off-balance. Peter threw himself flat to the ground. Every time Arthurs fired his revolver, bilious green fire flared from the muzzle.

Arthurs slammed the car into drive again, wrenching the steering wheel around toward the road and stomping on the gas pedal. His narrow face was a mask of anger. Calamity looked up to see the car hurtling toward her and jumped away, dragging the wounded bodyguard with her. Trojan was in no danger. Margie began blasting away at the car with her gun, but to no effect — the vehicle was armored and Arthurs’ open window was facing away from her.

Pretty Boy was still climbing to his feet. He didn’t see the car until it was almost too late. He just barely managed to lurch backward, out of its path, blood from his wounds staining the snow red.

Arthurs shot the Garou anyway as he sped past. The blast from his gun knocked Pretty Boy back to the ground. The Pentex car turned sharply at the end of Towns Road, fishtailing as it took the curve onto Kipling Avenue. Arthurs was gone, though Margie still howled and fired after him.

Peter ran through the snow and shadows to Pretty Boy.

The other Glass Walker was coughing up blood. Arthurs’ bullet — or whatever the revolver fired — had caught him in the stomach, leaving a horrible, blackened wound. “Alex!” Peter shouted, cradling the injured Garou. Pretty Boy was dwindling, shifting spontaneously from Crinos back to his natural human form. That was never a good sign. It often meant a Garou was on the verge of death.

Alex dropped to his knees in the snow, pressing his hands to the hideous injury made by Arthurs’ Wyrm-tainted weapon. The red-haired Garou had a gift of healing — the wound slowly began to close. Pretty Boy was still coughing blood, though. Alex looked up at Peter and shook his head.

Peter closed his eyes for a moment and groaned. “What happened, Pretty Boy? What the fuck happened?”

The dying Garou shook his head weakly. “I don’t know. My legs... they just collapsed. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t get away fast enough.”

Alex’s hand moved to touch Pretty Boy’s face. He jerked it away suddenly. “He’s clammy!” he whispered harshly.

The snow plague. “No. It can’t be.” Peter shifted Pretty Boy in his arms. “He’s been sweating in the cold, that’s all. I was working out with him yesterday. There’s no way he can be sick!”

Pretty Boy grabbed weakly for Peter’s arm. “Just today...” His breath caught.

A moment later, Pretty Boy died.

Peter was silent for a moment, then growled. “I want Arthurs.”

“No.” Alex stood up. “If it wasn’t for the plague, he wouldn’t have been injured and he wouldn’t have been hit a second time.”

It was true. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears of anger and grief. The Garou could fight Pentex. They couldn’t fight the mysterious snow plague. “Then find out where it’s coming from!” he hissed. “Find out before we all get it!”

CHAPTER   SEVEN

Crick Rumwrangler sent a runner to fetch the Severed Arm the morning after the disrupted moot. It was about ten thirty and the pack was still mostly asleep — the hunt for the Ghost Raptors had gone on long into the night. The renegade Garou had eluded all of their pursuers, however, vanishing into the jungle like the phantoms for which they were named. Peter, waiting back at the pack’s shelter, had spent most of the night alone and alert in case Ghost Raptors or enraged Garou from the caern happened past in search of a stranger to attack. The rain forest had resounded with frustrated howls, shouted curses, and the occasional explosion of fireworks in the night. Peter had seen nothing, however, until Windrunner and Steps-Lightly, then later Brennan, and finally Roshen, had stumbled into the shelter to collapse in their hammocks.

He had taken advantage of the time alone to unlock his suitcase and transfer a fresh bottle of Fever to his backpack. After a moment’s consideration, he had taken out two more bottles, wrapped a spare shirt around them for padding, and placed them in his backpack as well. If they were leaving for the Caern of Rain Spirits the next day, he wanted to have a traveling supply of cologne packed and ready. He was going through the stuff more quickly than he had anticipated, probably overcompensating for the way it seemed to fade so much more quickly under the constant deluge of his sweat in the humid rain forest environment. The bottle that he had just finished should have lasted a week longer.

The others were deep in exhausted sleep when the runner arrived. Peter was the only one awake, sitting a short distance away from the shelter and reading over his book on Amazonian plants. He was listening carefully for any sign that the rest of the pack was stirring, ready to put his book, and the reddish purple flower it contained, away the moment that they did. Even so, he missed hearing the approach of the runner until the other Garou had almost reached the shelter. He just barely had time to slide the book back into its protective plastic bag before the Garou saw him. The runner took no notice of the book, however, and left as soon as he had delivered Rumwrangler’s summons to Peter. When the runner was gone, Peter breathed a sigh of relief, tucked the book away in his backpack, and moved through the shelter, waking the rest of the pack.

“It’s times like this,” Windrunner groaned as she climbed to her feet, “that I really miss coffee.”

“And a shower,” agreed Brennan. He realized abruptly that Peter was still standing behind him and added, “Not that a Garou needs soft human comforts. I’m sure Glass Walkers would have found a way to bring a portable shower into the rain forest.”

“No,” Peter replied sourly, “we would have found a way to warm up the rain.”

The pack followed Roshen back along the trails to the trophy-bedecked council hut. There seemed to be no sign of the chaos of the previous night. It was as if the jungle had swallowed everything up. Or as if the activities of the Garou had simply had no effect upon it.

The Garou themselves showed abundant signs of the aftermath of the Ghost Raptors’ raid. Peter saw far fewer Garou around the caern than he had seen the previous day, and he presumed that most of them had, like the Severed Arm, slept through to the late morning. When the pack ducked through the blanket doorway of the council hut, he discovered that the leaders of the Garou bore evidence of the night before as well. Rumwrangler had a bandage on his shoulder. Last-One-Out had burn marks on his arms. A couple of other caern leaders, also present, had similar minor injuries that their Garou healing abilities had been unable to take care of. When Golgol Fangs-First squeezed his muscular bulk through the doorway moments after the Severed Arm had settled itself, he and Peter proved to be the only completely uninjured Garou present. And Peter was fairly certain that Golgol had not been hiding in a shelter all night.

Fortunately, neither the High War Chieftain nor anyone else seemed to notice his rested, unwounded condition. Without ceremony, Rumwrangler produced a map of the Amazon and spread it out on the dirt floor. Golgol leaned forward to point at a spot just north of the Amazon, a good ways west of the mouth of the Purus. He grunted their orders simply. “This is the Caern of Rain Spirits. Take canoes upstream to it. Arrange with the Uktena for a thunderstorm — the biggest one they can manage — to strike here.” He moved his massive finger across the map, back down to the junction of the Amazon and the Rio Negro. “Pentex’s Developers Forestry Group compound, on the night of the next waxing crescent moon. It should begin sometime during the day and end at moonrise. Heavy lightning would be nice.” Golgol looked up. “Make it clear that they’re welcome in the assault as well, if they care to join us. Any questions?”

Roshen and Steps-Lightly both moved forward to look at the map. Almost immediately, they began making comments and suggestions: about the journey, about the timing of the trip, and about the proper way to approach the Uktena and their caern. The Garou leaders answered them with suggestions of their own. Golgol tended to agree with most of Roshen and Steps-Lightly’s ideas, and suggested different approaches when he disagreed. Last-One-Out criticized almost every comment that the two made, but without offering any alternatives. Eventually, Golgol shot him a glance so hard and sharp that the Shadow Lord simply sat back and kept his mouth shut.

Finally, everything was settled. The trip to the Caern of Rain Spirits would take about five days. Two days of easy paddling down the Manaus, then almost three days upstream against the current of the Amazon. They would beach the canoes near the caern, then walk inland to reach it. They would make their camp outside the caern, and Windrunner would approach the Uktena first, seeking permission for the pack to enter. When she received it (while the Uktena of the caern disliked visitors, it seemed that they seldom turned them away without a hearing), the others would enter as well and deliver Golgol’s request. Last-One-Out had asked what they would offer the Uktena in return for the favor, and although only Golgol had the power and status to be able to give him a baleful stare, all of the others had shared the High War Chieftain’s opinion. There was no need to bargain with the Uktena for their services. The attack on Pentex’s headquarters would benefit the Uktena as much as it would all other Garou. If they were to demand payment for producing the rain storm, they were not fit warriors for Gaia.

The pack would leave Sky River partway through the afternoon, after the hottest part of the day was over. It was close to noon when they emerged from the council hut. The heat and humidity were truly oppressive. Roshen yawned and stretched. “What now?” asked Peter.

“Sleep!” grunted Windrunner.

Roshen grinned. “I was thinking of a sweat bath, myself.”

“In this kind of heat?” Peter blinked and looked at the Silver Fang as though he were mad. “Shouldn’t we be getting ready to go?”

“By doing what?”

Peter shrugged. “Getting our supplies together. Gathering gear. What are we going to eat?”

On the hurried journey up the Purus, fearful of fomor pursuit, they had traveled on dried meat, fruit, and a cereal-like mush made with cold water. Those provisions were nearly gone by the time they reached the caern. But

Roshen just shook his head. “You think we eat like that all the time when we’re traveling? That’s just emergency food. We’ll stop by the quartermaster’s before we leave and pick some up. Most of the time we stop and forage a bit

— it’s pretty easy to find a good peccary.” He smacked his lips. “As for gear...” He shrugged. “I’m packed. There’s nothing I need to take.”

“Me, either,” added Windrunner. She wandered off toward the shelter. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good enough.” Roshen reached out and pulled Peter into a rough hug. “How about it, Petey? A sweat bath sound good to you? Even in a place like the rain forest, you wouldn’t believe how refreshing a good sweat can be.” “I don’t know.” He had sprayed himself with Fever before coming to the council hut. A sweat bath would just make the cologne wear off even more rapidly than usual. “I think maybe I’d rather go back and sleep like Windrunner.”

Roshen grinned nastily and abruptly twisted Peter around, pulling him down into a headlock. “Who said you had a choice?”

“Roshen, I...”

“Brennan, can you give this guy a noogie for me?” the one-armed Garou asked. “Steps-Lightly, grab his legs. We’ll carry you in if we have to, Petey, but one way or another, you’re going to have to loosen up a bit!”

Peter groaned. Unless he wanted to fight his way out, there was no way around this. “All right!” he snarled. “Put me down! But can we at least find a fairly large sweat lodge? I hate being squished up together with other sweaty people.”

The sweat lodge that they eventually found wasn’t really big enough to satisfy Peter, but it was still one of the largest available. Sweat lodges just weren’t built big

— it was easier to trap sufficient steam in a smaller space. Some other Garou were just finishing with the lodge,

so it was already good and steamy, with hot rocks ready in a fire outside the door and water in a bucket within. Brennan, Roshen, and Steps-Lightly stripped off their loincloths in seconds. Steps-Lightly had already ducked inside and was bringing in more hot stones with a pair of long, heavy tongs before Peter was undressed. Roshen howled rudely as the Glass Walker turned around and dropped his boxer shorts. “Oh yeah! Take it all off, Petey!”

“Fuck you!” Peter hurled the shorts at Roshen and climbed in through the tiny doorway of the sweat lodge. It was actually surprisingly large inside and even after Roshen and Brennan had joined him and Steps-Lightly, they weren’t at all cramped. The floor of the lodge was covered in leaves, with the fire-heated rocks in a cradle at the center. Brennan threw some water over the rocks, sending up a fresh cloud of steam.

They sat in silence for quite some time, with one or another of them sprinkling a little more water over the stones occasionally or reaching outside with the tongs for another hot rock, until sweat was pouring so thickly over Peter’s skin that he began to wonder if the steam was simply condensing on him. He glanced over at Steps-Lightly through the mist-filled air. The Silent Strider was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest and his head down. Peter still hadn’t told him about seeing Thunder Tiger the night before.

He wiped the sweat off his face and chest. Should he mention the incident to Steps-Lightly? Did he already know that Thunder Tiger was a Ghost Raptor? If the Stargazer was, indeed, one of the renegade Garou — Peter was basing his assumptions only on the fact that the Gathering Storm had been chasing him. That and, he supposed, the fact that Thunder Tiger had used the same tactic of blinding his opponents as the Ghost Raptors had.

“Roshen,” he asked suddenly, “who are the Ghost Raptors?”

Roshen gave a low growl. “A pain in the ass!”

“Besides that.”

“A royal pain in the ass!” Roshen had been stretched out, lying on his side. He twisted around and sat up. “They’re a rogue pack. They didn’t like the way Golgol was fighting the war, so they ran off to fight it their own way.” He spat onto the hot rocks in the middle of the lodge. ‘“Their own way’ includes attacking other Garou.” “Did they kill anyone last night?” Peter kept one eye on Steps-Lightly, watching for any reaction. The tall Garou, however, might as well have been sleeping.

“No,” grunted Roshen, “I don’t think anyone even got really seriously injured — a few slices for Garou unfortunate enough to stumble right into a group of Ghost Raptors, some stupid accidents, that’s it.”

Brennan snickered. “I heard Last-One-Out got burned trying to catch a flare and throw it back at a Ghost Raptor.”

That provoked a snort from Roshen. “Shadow Lords — who cares?”

“So what exactly were they doing?”

“Breaking up the moot.” Steps-Lightly finally lifted his head. His voice was as disparaging as Roshen or Brennan’s when he spoke. If he knew Thunder Tiger was a Ghost Raptor, he wasn’t letting on. “Trying to inconvenience us. They stopped the moot before we could recharge the caern with a Revel.” He unfolded his legs. “They’re taunting us. Just the way they taunt us by breaking up our attacks on Pentex, or leaving the results of their raids behind where we’ll find them. Dead fomor bodies. Broken Pentex equipment. They’re making a name for themselves, just like any pack would.”

“Yeah,” nodded Brennan. “They say that the Ghost Raptors have allied themselves with a local Amazonian spirit. They can move through the rain forest like...” he grimaced, “...like ghosts.”

“How did they get into the caern last night?” “Somebody told me they’d heard that this Amazonian

spirit the Ghost Raptors follow has greater power than the caern totems,” Brennan muttered. “The spirit can get them past any defenses we or the caern totems set up — either that or the spirit just asks the caern totems to let them in and the caern totems agree.”

Roshen slicked back his hair. “They’re wild cards,” he added angrily. “Golgol has declared them outlaws. There would be glory like you wouldn’t believe for the pack that finally caught them, but...”

Steps-Lightly completed his sentence for him. “But no one can find their homebase. Almost everything we know about them, including the part about the spirit-ally, is just stories.”

“The spirit-ally isn’t a rumor,” insisted Brennan. “They say it’s just like a pack totem, only more immediate. It possesses their leader all the time and gives them instructions.”

“Uh-huh. And do you have any proof of this?” “Everybody knows it’s true! It’s in all the stories I’ve heard, just like the name of their leader: White Father.” Brennan pointed at Steps-Lightly. “I’ll bet he was here last night!”

“That’s how stories get started,” said Roshen. He leaned back, supporting himself on his arm. “Remember that the stories also say I’m crazy.” He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

“Crazy like a fox,” grunted Brennan. “I’ll tell you something else though, and I’ve seen this with my own eyes. I know what they look like!”

“What? All of them?” Steps-Lightly remarked in a mocking tone.

“Not all of them. Just in general. I got a good look at a bunch of them last night.”

“How good a look?” asked Roshen. “Every time I thought I had one, it turned out to be someone from the caern.”

“A real good look, just as they were setting off some fireworks. They were wearing sort of a pack uniform, just like us or the Gathering Storm. All of them were dressed...”

If Peter hadn’t been watching Steps-Lightly, he would have missed the lightning-fast look that the Silent Strider shot him just before he reached out and dumped water — probably more than was necessary — onto the rocks. The hiss was almost, but not quite, loud enough to drown out Brennan’s words. If Peter hadn’t known what he was listening for, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make them out at all. But he did know, and he could make them out. All of the Ghost Raptors were dressed in faded, old fatigues.

“I think we need some new rocks,” Steps-Lightly said quickly as the hiss of water died out. “Whose turn is it to get them?”

Roshen nodded across the lodge. “Peter’s.”

Steps-Lightly passed Peter the tongs. Peter took them casually, without meeting his gaze. The Silent Strider knew about Thunder Tiger. That was why he had asked Peter not to tell the others about seeing them together. And if he had been meeting with Thunder Tiger yesterday afternoon, then he must have been expecting the raid last night.

Now, it was obvious, he wanted the Glass Walker out of the tent long enough for him to change the topic or at least to get Brennan past his story about what the Ghost Raptors looked like. He must realize that Peter would recognize the description as matching Thunder Tiger’s clothes. Peter could play along with that — suddenly, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do either.

Roshen sniffed as Peter leaned close to him in order to reach out the door. The Silver Fang made a face. “Shit, Petey! What a stink! Sweat lodge rule number one: no farting in the lodge!”

The Fever. Peter turned his lean into a quick, desperate scramble out of the lodge. “Sorry.” He dropped the hide covering the doorway behind himself, then remembered the tongs in his hands, lifted the hide, and passed the tongs in to Roshen. “Listen, I think I’ll go back to the shelter and sleep some, okay?”

“Sure.” Roshen smiled. “But didn’t the sweat feel good?”

“Yeah. Great.” Peter dropped the hide again, grabbing his clothes and ducking around a corner of the sweat lodge before Roshen could reach out with the tongs. Roshen had gotten a whiff of the fading scent of Fever. Hastily, Peter shifted into Lupus form and picked up his clothing in his mouth. His boots gave him trouble, however. He turned back into a man, pulled the boots on, and shifted again. With the boots as part of his wolf shape, he wouldn’t have to carry them. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he could have put on his boxer shorts as well. He didn’t dare stop to shift again, though — he needed to get more Fever! He set off back toward the pack’s shelter, trotting swiftly and dodging any Garou that he saw. He prayed that Windrunher would still be asleep.

She was. Peter crept up to his backpack, dropped his clothes, and changed into Homid form. He pulled out the first bottle of Fever his hands reached. Stepping away from the shelter, and not even bothering to get dressed, Peter drenched himself in the scent with a sigh of relief.

The pack left Sky River Caern without incident about two hours later. The first night, having paddled until well after dark and still tired from the night before, they ate the dull rations handed out by the caern’s quartermaster without £ven making the effort to hunt. The second night, however, Brennan ran down a peccary and they feasted on it. The Fianna offered to build a fire so that Peter could cook his meat like a human, but the Glass Walker just glared at him and joined the rest of the pack in eating it raw. They ate in Lupus form, except for Windrunner, who ate in Crinos, holding part of the peccary almost daintily in her big claws and picking at it with her teeth like a human might pick at a chicken leg.

They consumed almost all of the peccary that night or the next morning. There wasn’t much point in keeping it, since the humidity and hot sun would start it rotting before nightfall. The next night they made camp at the mouth of the Purus, where Windrunner had waited while her packmates had met Peter in Manaus. The Uktena disappeared into the jungle and returned with three fat ground birds in her hands. “I spotted a bunch of these here last time. I was hoping they’d still be around.” She thrust one at Peter. “Pluck it. These we eat cooked.”

Peter just stared at the bird in his hand until Steps-Lightly showed him how to strip the feathers away. Windrunner chopped up the naked fowl with a machete, then roasted the pieces on a wooden spit over the fire.

The meat basically tasted like a cross between pheasant and turkey. It was good, and Peter was ravenous. He was tearing into a third piece, the juice of the meat running down his chin, when an odd, prickling sensation came over him, as though someone were watching from the deep shadows of the rain forest. He turned casually to drop a bone on the ground behind him and glanced into the darkness. He could not see anything unusual, but when he turned back to the fire, the sensation returned.

“Does anyone,” he asked quietly, “get the feeling we’re being watched?”

Windrunner nodded. “Yes! I’m glad somebody else noticed it, too.”

Roshen sniffed the breeze. “I don’t smell anything, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing out there.” He finished off the piece of meat in his hand. “Steps-Lightly, Windrunner, you’re with me. Brennan and Peter, wait here. Howl if there’s trouble.”

Steps-Lightly shifted into Lupus form and disappeared into the shadows. Windrunner and Roshen glided after him in Homid shape. They didn’t worry about trying to appear casual. If there was .something out (here, they would either find it or frighten it away. Peter looked over at Brennan. The Fianna was staring after his packmates wistfully.

“You’d rather be off prowling the night?” he asked conversationally.

Brennan blinked and gave him a sudden hostile glare. “I pull guard duty. That’s what I’m built for. Roshen, Windrunner, Steps-Lightly — they’re the ones who are best at sneaking around quietly.”

“Okay!” Peter said, growing defensive. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” There was one last piece of bird left on the spit. Peter reached for it.

“Hands off!” snapped Brennan. “You’ve already had three! That one’s mine!”

Peter froze, then sat back away from the fire, his hands open. “Fine.”

“Fucking greedy Glass Walker.” The burly Garou snatched up the meat and bit into it savagely. It was almost as though he were going out of his way to be irritating.

Which he was, Peter realized. Brennan had looked down on him since the moment they had met, but this was the first time they had been alone together. If Brennan could provoke Peter into a fight now, there would be no one to stop them. And he could take whatever peeve he had against the Glass Walkers out on Peter. Peter felt his Rage beginning to rise. Two could play at that game. Brennan would find that Glass Walkers were not the soft cityboys he might think. Peter reached for his backpack, got out the bottle of Fever, and gave himself a long, slow spray.    /

Just as he had expected, Brennan made a comment about it. “There are no humans around here,” he snarled, wrinkling his nose. “None of us are impressed by all of your perfume.”

Peter dropped the cologne back into his pack. “When was the last time you had a bath, Brennan? Or are you

afraid of getting your flea collar wet?”

Brennan had just ripped a big mouthful of bird off the bone. His jaws ground together in slow anger. “At least,” he spat, sending bits of half-chewed meat spraying out of his mouth, “I smell like a real Garou, and not some leashed urban mutt!”

“I suppose you’d know.” Peter shrugged almost carelessly, forcing his voice to remain level in spite of his own anger. He wouldn’t let himself give in to his Rage before Brennan did. “I guess a dog on a leash is the only thing that can’t run away from you.”

The Fianna bit right through a bone and glowered at Peter. Peter returned his stare with vicious confidence. “Glass Walkers live in the Wyrm’s belly,” Brennan growled finally.

“Fianna,” Peter hissed back, “dance the Black Spiral!” He had been expecting Brennan to explode in a howl of rage when he finally lost control of his temper. Instead, the other Garou suddenly surged across the fire like a silent wall of hairy muscle, ramming into Peter and slamming him backward to the ground so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him. Brennan rolled off quickly to crouch just behind the Glass Walker, waiting for him to get up. He hadn’t bothered to shift out of human form. “Would you feel more comfortable with a Homid’s gun in your hand, Peter? Can’t fight like a Garou?”

Rage washed over Peter like a flood. “I can fight!” he roared, twisting to his feet. He shifted shape as he moved, tearing through his clothes and assuming Crinos form. He lashed out at Brennan. “I can fight!”

Brennan laughed at him and leaped backward, avoiding one swing of Peter’s big fists, then ducking under another. “Even as a Crinos you fight like a human!” Abruptly, Brennan was a big, black wolf, dodging behind Peter to snap at the back of his legs. The wolf’s teeth could easily have torn out the ligaments behind his knees — instead, Brennan nipped at Peter’s long sandy tail, tugging on it, then tripped him as he whirled around. He lunged in at Peter’s exposed throat, but Peter brought his massive hand up under Brennan’s chest, lifting and throwing him as he charged, sending him flying across the campsite and into a clump of bushes. He dove after him, ready to take advantage of the Fianna’s dazed condition.

A big white arm seized him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back. “No!” howled Roshen angrily. The Silver Fang was in Crinos shape as well. He threw Peter to the ground. “No fighting!”

Peter rolled instantly to his feet and reached for the pack leader, completely lost in his Rage. Roshen caught his arm, then kicked him in the stomach. Peter fell back. More hairy Crinos arms seized him, shoving him down to his knees. Windrunner and Steps-Lightly. Roshen stalked forward. “No fighting!” he rumbled. “Submit!”

“No!” Peter spat defiantly.

“Submit!” Roshen stared down at him, his gaze harsh and commanding. He bared his teeth savagely. “Submit!” Brennan'staggered out of the bushes and stood beside him.

Peter snarled and rolled his eyes, but there was nothing he could do. Steps-Lightly and Windrunner held him fast. Slowly, he bent his head back, exposing his throat to Roshen in a show of submission.

“Good.” Roshen shrank back into Homid form. “When I say no fighting within the pack, I damn well mean it! And you’ve been using that damn cologne again. I can smell it.” His face was flushed and irritable. He punched Brennan in the shoulder. “You egged him on, didn’t you?” The Fianna whined like an innocent puppy and Roshen scowled. “You did. I know it. Starting tomorrow, you two share a canoe.”

Brennan yipped in protest. Peter, his anger slowly fading, groaned as he returned to his human shape. Steps-Lightly helped him to his feet. Windrunner grabbed the rags of his clothes and shoved them at him. “Here,” she said, “get dressed.”

Peter took the rags stiffly and dumped them on the fire. He removed a fresh shirt and shorts from his backpack — then wished he hadn’t burned his ruined clothes. There was now precious little in the backpack to pad his bottles of Fever. But he turned back to the rest of the pack as if nothing were wrong. “Did you find anything?” he asked casually.

“Only a scent,” said Roshen.

“Of what?”

Steps-Lightly sat down by the fire. “Garou.”

That night they kept watch two at a time. It wasn’t clear who had been watching them. Brennan thought it might have been Ghost Raptors. Windrunner suggested Black Spiral Dancers — they were relatively close to Hell’s Hand Hive. Roshen rejected that idea. Black Spiral Dancers, he said, had a very distinctive smell. It was easy to distinguish their putrid scent from that of normal Garou. His feelings were that it had been the Shadow Lords of the Gathering Storm pack, trying to sabotage their mission out of jealousy.

Whoever the mysterious watchers had been, the Severed Arm put their canoes into the water of the Amazon while the sky was still rosy with pre-dawn light, eager to leave them behind. True to his words of the night before, Roshen put Peter and Brennan together in one canoe. The Fianna and the Glass Walker paddled in hostile silence.

Late in the afternoon it began to rain.

It was the first time Peter had experienced an Amazon rain storm while in the open. There was no sudden darkening of the sky as he was accustomed to seeing at home in the north. Instead, the afternoon just continued to grow hotter and more humid until it was almost like being in the sweat lodge again. Then the rain started, coming in from the northwest like a gray veil sweeping over the trees and down the river. One moment there was only humidity — the next, heavy drops falling from the sky in a downpour. Peter was drenched through to the skin before he could even get his sunglasses off.

They kept paddling for a little while longer. The rain, if heavy, was warm, and no impediment to river travel. Roshen, however, kept his eyes on the sky and the rain falling ahead of them. As the downpour began to grow even heavier, he signaled for them to take shelter on the riverbank.

“Why?” yelled Peter. “We can keep going!”

“Look behind you!”

Peter glanced back. There was nothing behind them except the shrouded length of the Amazon. Brennan gestured down to the bottom of the canoe. The Fianna was somewhat heavier than Peter and the back of the canoe, where he sat, rode slightly lower in the water. There was already almost an inch of water gathering around his knees.

“This rain’s going to keep up for a couple of hours at least! Over there!” Roshen pointed to a game trail that broke the green wall of the river bank. Peter joined Brennan in paddling quickly toward it.

They drew the canoes up under the trees, unloaded them, and tipped them over to drain and dry out as much as possible. The cover here was thinner than the heavy canopy of the deep forest, and everything was already soaking wet. Even a little farther from the river, things were still damp. Windrunner scoured around and managed to find a little dry wood for a fire while the others strung up a tarp for shelter. She didn’t find very much, though. Pete looked at the tiny pile dubiously. “That’s not going to do much to dry us off,” he remarked.

Windrunner snorted. “Lay your clothes out in the canoe tomorrow. They’ll dry up fairly well.”

“But what about tonight?” It was still warm, but Peter didn’t want to be stuck in wet clothes all night.

Steps-Lightly shrugged. The pack’s loincloths would dry

quickly, and wouldn’t be much of a concern even when wet. “Don’t you have any more clothes in your backpack?” He did, but they were padding the bottles of Fever. “What am I supposed to do with the wet clothes, then?” he demanded.

“That’s your problem,” Windrunner said with a grin. “Your choice: get dry, stay wet, go naked, or spend the night in Lupus shape.”

Brennan smiled nastily. “If you dressed like the rest of the pack...” he began.

Roshen cuffed his shoulder sharply. The Fianna fell silent while Roshen said, “The fire’s going to be for cooking, Petey.”

“Someone’s going out hunting in rain like this?”

“Not exactly hunting.” Roshen stooped and pulled something out of his satchel. A simple collapsible fishing rod. Brennan groaned.

“We’re going to be hungry,” he complained.

In fact, Roshen ended up catching two very respectable fish, as well as a few smaller ones. They cooked quickly over the little fire and even Brennan couldn’t complain anymore. The pack ate just as the sun went down. They were all in human form — Peter had decided to risk taking the last padding away from his cologne and dress in his dry clothes. They wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. His Fever would be safe. He would just have to be careful until his clothes were dry again. After supper, Roshen and Steps-Lightly scouted the area to make sure they were alone. This time, however, they took Brennan with them and left Peter and Windrunner to guard the camp.

They returned with nothing to report. Whatever had been watching them last night clearly had not followed them upriver. There didn’t seem to be any need for more than one Garou to stay awake at a time to guard the camp. Roshen took the first watch. The others curled up in whatever form they preferred and went to sleep until they were needed. Peter stripped off his clothes and stuffed

them back into his pack. He would sleep as a wolf.

It was becoming easier to ignore the rain forest night. Peter still woke unexpectedly at times, but he had less trouble falling asleep. It was also more comfortable to curl up on the cool, often damp ground as a wolf than as a human. The exertion of paddling all day tired him out as well. Peter slept without dreaming. Windrunner actually had to shake him several times to wake him when it was his turn to keep watch.

He padded softly around the camp while the Uktena settled down on a blanket. She always slept as a human. When she was finally asleep, he crept, as he had done for the past several nights, a little bit away from the camp and put his nose to the night wind, searching for the fragrance of the reddish-purple flower he carried.

And, once again, Peter could smell nothing of it.

The night wind carried many scents. While he had been asleep, the rain had stopped. The breeze had shifted, and now blew from the south, across the Amazon. The smell of the river was strong, but beneath it were dozens of other distinct odors. Some of them Peter could put a name to — trees and plants that smelled like their relatives in the north, others that he had encountered some time in the past week. Many of the odors, however, were like nothing he had smelled before, although they reminded him of exotic spices or herbal medicines. None of the various scents matched that of the flower.

He sniffed at the wind for a long time, the returned to the camp and lay down away from the remains of the fire, nose and ears alert for movement in the darkness. His mind, however, was on the flower.

What if he couldn’t find it?

He had to.

Maybe... maybe he should ask the Severed Arm for help. He put his head on his paws and thought it through. The pack might well have seen the flower in its travels. If they hadn’t, they might at least know where to begin looking.

But if he did ask for help, what would he tell them? The same story he had told Steps-Lightly? That the flower was for a friend with a greenhouse? Or did he dare to tell them the truth? Brennan already hated him. What would the Fianna do if he found out what was really going on? What would the rest of the pack think?

How long could he keep his secret, anyway? Until he ran out of Fever, he supposed.

A soft rustle tickled his ears and a nearby scent intruded upon his senses. He recognized both. Steps-Lightly was rising, ready to take his shift. Peter silently relinquished his post to the tall, lean wolf. Shifting briefly into Homid form and giving himself a spray of Fever, he returned to the little bed of leaves where he had been sleeping before.

This time, however, he couldn’t get to sleep. It wasn’t the sounds and scents of the rain forest that kept him awake: it was the flower. That damned flower! What if he couldn’t find it? Peter rolled over. He had to! But what if he couldn’t? He twisted around. What would happen when he ran out of Fever?

Finally he curled himself up into a tight ball, assuming a fetal position, and flicked his tail up over his nose. He lay very still, trying to drop into sweet oblivion.

When sleep finally came, though, it brought dreams. Silent dreams, half real, the dreams of shallow sleep. Peter was drowning in spicy red cologne. Other Garou were trying to save him, reaching out for him. Frantically, he tried to get away. The scent of the Fever turned putrid, sickly. He was clinging to a giant red-purple flower as though it were some kind of life preserver. His skin was cold, suddenly, and clammy, and it felt like it was crawling...

Peter forced his eyes open. For a moment, the visions of the dream stayed with him, playing themselves out in the darkness. But he could smell himself again — the odor of the cologne was still strong and sweet on his skin. He blinked and the dream went away. He lifted his head and looked around.

Steps-Lightly was gone.

Peter scrambled to his feet, careful, for the moment, not to wake the others. It might be nothing. The Silent Strider might just have left the campsite to empty his bladder. There was no sign of any trouble, no indication of a struggle. Peter trotted over to the last place he had seen Steps-Lightly sitting and sniffed the ground. Steps-Lightly’s scent was strong and still warm. He had been here only moments ago. Peter followed the scent to the edge of the campsite, then hesitated. What if Steps-Lightly really was just taking a bathroom break? He wouldn’t appreciate the interruption. He was also downwind of the campsite, so Peter couldn’t simply smell for him on the breeze. Still... he stuck his nose through the bushes at the edge of the camp.

Steps-Lightly’s scent. And another scent, slightly stronger, as if someone had been standing in the bushes for several minutes. The scent of another Garou. The two scents mingled, then faded into the shadows.

Peter glanced back toward the rest of the pack. They all seemed to be sleeping. Stealthily, he crept after Steps-Lightly and the unknown Garou, although he already had a fairly good idea of who the second Garou was. The only question was: what would Thunder Tiger be doing here?

Glass Walkers could be as silent and furtive in the wilderness as any other Garou. Peter found Steps-Lightly and Thunder Tiger together behind a gigantic tree not far away. They were in Homid form. There was no doubt that the second Garou was Thunder Tiger. His gray hair was distinctive and he wore the faded fatigue pants of the Ghost Raptors. Peter couldn’t see the tattoo over his eye, however. He couldn’t see much of his face at all. The Glass Walker froze in shocked surprise.

Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly were kissing. Strongly and passionately, chest to chest, holding each other close.

Finally, Steps-Lightly pulled back a little bit and took a deep breath. “God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

“I know.” Thunder Tiger stared up into Steps-Lightly’s eyes and traced the muscles of his chest with a finger. “I wanted you last night. But they knew I was there — tonight I stayed in the Umbra until they were all asleep.” “You have to be careful. The pack isn’t blind.”

“It’s hell!” the gray-haired Garou hissed with more violence than Peter had ever heard from a Stargazer, though maybe it wasn’t so much violence as frustration. “I know you’re there all the time. Paddling up the river in the real world while we paddle in the spirit world. Sometimes 1 think I can almost see you!”

“Hush.” Steps-Lightly hugged Thunder Tiger closely. “Sometimes I think I can feel you there. We’re lucky both of our packs were heading in the same direction for once, even if you’re in the Umbra. We’re lucky that White Father ordered you to take part in the raid on Sky River.” Thunder Tiger grinned. “You asked him to make me come, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” replied the Silent Strider with a matching grin. “If you spent all of your time acting as his bodyguard, I’d never get to see you. White Father understands.” He kissed Thunder Tiger on the forehead and ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s my duty!”

“It’s not your whole life!” Steps-Lightly’s hand trailed around the back of Thunder Tiger’s neck, then up under his jaw and chin, tilting his face up. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

They kissed again.

Peter turned quietly and returned to the camp. He settled back into his bed of leaves, unsure of what to think. Steps-Lightly didn’t just know Thunder Tiger — they were lovers. Steps-Lightly didn’t just know Thunder Tiger was a Ghost Raptor — judging by the way he had talked about speaking with White Father, he might even be a Ghost

Raptor himself! Peter closed his eyes and curled up again, but stayed alert for the Silent Strider’s return. It was quite a while before he heard Steps-Lightly come back into the camp.

CHAPTER   EIGHT

Peter’s clothes did not get dry the next day. Brennan continually and deliberately let water from the blade of his paddle drip over them as they lay stretched out in the middle of the canoe. Maybe he thought that, because their canoe was behind the other and because Peter had his back to him, no one knew what he was doing. But Peter knew. Each time he twisted around to look behind him, his clothes seemed a little wetter. He just didn’t care anymore.

He was watching Steps-Lightly, trying to decide if the fact that the Silent Strider was a Ghost Raptor meant that he was some kind of traitor to the Severed Arm. The pack was the most basic of Garou social units, just as it was the basic social unit of wolves. Ties to the pack were incredibly strong. Sometimes they could surpass ties of kinship. Packs were teams, families, and friends for Garou. When you were fighting the creatures of the Wyrm, you wanted to know that your pack was there to back you up. To betray the pack was an act of extremely deep treachery, as offensive to Garou as... as...

Sex with another Garou.

Peter tried to lose himself in the rhythm of paddling, but inevitably his gaze wandered back to Steps-Lightly. That night Peter pretended to sleep while keeping one half-open eye on Steps-Lightly as the lean Garou sat his watch. After a time, Peter sensed movement in the ferns by the edge of the camp, and saw the flash of gray hair and tanned skin. Steps-Lightly glanced quickly toward the sleeping pack, then trotted off into the rain forest to join Thunder Tiger. He was gone for about an hour. When he returned, he “woke” Peter to take the next shift: His expression betrayed nothing.

When Peter put his nose to the wind after the Silent Strider had gone to sleep — and he was sure that he was asleep — he didn’t just search for the scent of the flower. He also searched for Thunder Tiger’s scent, or the scent of any other Garou who might be a Ghost Raptor. He found nothing at all. Once again, the Stargazer had met with Steps-Lightly downwind of the camp. He considered entering the Umbra and hunting for the Ghost Raptors there, but decided against it. He could easily blunder right into them, and, alone in the Umbra, he wouldn’t have the Severed Arm to support him.

The following morning was the fifth since the pack had left Sky River Caern, the ninth since Peter had arrived in Manaus. The rainstorm has slowed them down somewhat. While Roshen had hoped to make contact with the Uktena at the Caern of Rain Spirits by nightfall, it was already late afternoon by the time he ordered the pack to land and beach the canoes. They still had a several-hours-long walk inland to the caern ahead of them.

“Well, fearless leader?” asked Steps-Lightly. “Do we try to make it today or do we stay here and hike tomorrow?” “We hike today.” Roshen slung his satchel over his shoulder and picked up his arm-club. He pointed the club north as though it were a cavalry saber and he were commanding a charge. “Ever onward!”

They left the canoes concealed behind a dense bank of lush ferns and began to walk. Brennan and Steps-Lightly took Lupus shape and ranged ahead, scouting their path. It was hard to judge distance in the dim, crowded shadows under the rain forest canopy. Peter guessed that they had traveled maybe a mile or so when Brennan came running back to them. He shifted into Homid form and panted, “We found the scent of fomori!”

The way that Roshen held his arm-club changed abruptly. It wasn’t a toy or swagger stick anymore — it was a weapon. “Where?”

“Maybe half a mile ahead. Steps-Lightly thinks they

Came through this way about two days ago.”

“How many?”

“A lot. Maybe eight, plus a dozen or so humans.” Windrunner whistled. Roshen nodded grimly. “Which way were they going?”

“West.”

“All right. Get back with Steps-Lightly. Stay close to each other. If there’s trouble, howl. Otherwise stay quiet. And wait for us on the edge of the forest. We’ll camp there tonight.”

“Got it.” Brennan turned back into a wolf and vanished into the jungle gloom.

Eight fomori and a dozen humans. That equaled two or three of what Pentex called its “First Teams,” and most members of Pentex’s First Teams had been treated to resist the Delirium. They wouldn’t run away from Garou in Crinos form, just one First Team was usually a match for a pack of Garou. “Is this kind of thing common around here?” Peter asked, his concern apparent in his voice.

“No,” Windrunner replied. “At least not common in the Amazon as a whole. Right around the Caern of Rain Spirits, it’s not unusual.”

Roshen led them forward again, though this time with a little more caution. “The caern is one of the oldest in the rain forest, established by the native Uktena well before Pentex came. Maybe before Europeans came up the Amazon. It was one of Pentex’s first targets, and they like to keep a strong presence around it in case the Uktena finally let their defenses slip.” His face grew dark. “What Pentex did to the caern is truly evil.”

“What did they do?”

“You’ll see.”

And he did. As they walked, the signs of human encroachment on the jungle began to appear more and more frequently: tire tracks that ripped into the soil; an aluminum pop can; the plastic rings from a six pack of beer; huge trees brought down with chainsaws, then apparently left to rot. This wasn’t mere human presence. It was an invasion, a violation of the rain forest.

When they reached the place where Brennan said they had found evidence of fomori, Roshen shifted into Lupus form and hopped around with his nose to the ground. He was nodding when he turned back into a human. “Fomori. No doubt about it.”

“Here,” said Windrunner, pointing up into the trees. The massive trunks were pocked and chipped from gunfire. Smaller branches and leaves had been shredded. Something was rotting nearby. Peter pulled aside some severed branches that had fallen to the ground. Underneath were the bloated remains of a sloth. Its body was riddled with bullet holes, and two of its limbs were broken as though it had fallen helplessly from the canopy above. It probably had. He dropped the branches back into place.

“Sport hunting with automatic rifles?” he muttered in disgust.

Roshen nodded again.

They moved on. Peter began to realize that, even though it was close to dusk, there was light ahead. Daylight.

They came to the edge of the rain forest.

The area beyond had been clearcut, probably a few years ago. Trees and plants were starting to grow back in, spreading from the shadows of the old-growth forest out into the devastated area. The cover was light, though. Without the trees to hold it in place and protect it, the topsoil in the area had baked in the tropical sun. Away from the ancient trees, the new plants were thick and tangling, impeding vision and movement. The whole area seemed ragged — like patches of crabgrass growing through cracked asphalt.

“It’s even worse closer to the caern,” Roshen commented quietly. “Pentex thought that pushing a clearcut through the forest around the caern would break

the Uktena’s spirits.”

Windrunner stood a little taller, proud of her tribe’s tenacity. “But it didn’t.”

Steps-Lightly and Brennan came trotting through the ragged regrowth and resumed Homid shape. “Nothing’s moving out there,” Steps-Lightly reported. “This young stuff thins out and disappears about a mile on.”

Roshen looked up toward the sky. The bloody glow of sunset was visible through the new trees. “We’ll camp back in the old growth. There’s more shelter there.” He gave a little shiver. “And I think we’ll all feel a lot more comfortable.”

They made no fire that night, and they ate only rations. No one hunted — there was nothing to hunt. The night around the clearcut was silent. The only sounds drifted in from the surviving rain forest to the south or farther away to the west, east or north. Peter had no idea how large the clearcut was. Roshen had said that the only reason Pentex hadn’t cut all the way to the river was because they wanted a buffer zone against casual traffic — some of their forestry crews and tree-harvesting methods were too blatantly unnatural for normal humans to see.

When he breathed in the night air during his watch, Peter couldn’t smell anything, either. The wind came straight across the scar of the clearcut. There were no animals, very few birds, and the scent of the vegetation was completely different from that of the rain forest. Underneath it all was a dark, heavy smell. A very, very heavy smell. Peter took a second, deep breath, filling his nostrils, but hope sank in his heart even as he did so. It was a familiar odor, but not the scent of the flower. He lay down with his head on his paws, disheartened.

In the morning, Roshen decided to change their plans. “We all go with Windrunner to the edge of the caern and wait for her there. It’s a fair distance across the clearcut — I don’t want anyone out there alone. We’ll cache our gear here.” The Silver Fang shot Peter a glance before he could even open his mouth. “And yes, Petey, that includes your backpack and your precious cologne. We’re going to the Uktena with empty hands.”

Peter swallowed his angry words. There wasn’t any point in arguing. Besides, he could slip a bottle of Fever into his pocket and no one would be the wiser until they were well away from their camp. He had taken to using it secretly in the last few days anyway. “What about your arm-club?” he asked instead. “What if fomori find the cache?”

“My arm-club is different. And we’ll just have to hope that they don’t. But Brennan’s good at hiding things.” The Fianna gave Peter a snarling grin. “Don’t worry, Peter. Your human goodies will be safe!”

They left the old-growth forest in the middle of the morning. The regrowth at the edge of the clearcut was much thicker than anything under the canopy of the rain forest, and it slowed them down considerably. They also had to be on guard for the detritus of the humans who had logged the area. Litter that couldn’t be broken down by the elements was everywhere — glass bottles; pieces of metal; slowly rotting plastic; a broken chainsaw, discarded without anyone having made the effort to fix it. Peter tripped over something hidden in the undergrowth and discovered bones. Steps-Lightly glanced at them, then nudged the skull out into the open with his foot. It was deformed, with bone spufs growing from the arches of the cheeks and up on the forehead.

“Fomor,” he spat. “There was a lot of fighting around here.”

Windrunner shook her head. “Why would anyone want to become a mutant for Pentex?”

“Sometimes they aren’t given a choice. Sometimes they’re tricked.” Peter picked up the skull and pointed into the eye sockets. The backs of the sockets were filled with irregular, cancerous, bony growths. The fomor would have been in excruciating pain when it was alive. It might have been half blind. “They don’t know what they’re really getting into.”

“You know a lot about fomori?” grunted Brennan suspiciously.

Peter dropped the skull. It clattered among the other bones. “Pentex is powerful in Toronto. We see a lot of fomori there.”

“Do you make a regular habit of talking to them?”

Peter forced his expression to remain placid and pushed the red haze of his Rage away. Even so, his voice was bitter. He met Brennan’s gaze with hostility. “I know someone who was tricked by Pentex.”

The Fianna glared back at him for an instant and then dropped his eyes. Roshen put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

They started walking again. As Brennan and Steps-Lightly had said the day before, the regrowth thinned out about a mile beyond the edge of the old rain forest. For the first time, Peter saw the true devastation of the clearcut.

For miles and miles, there was literally nothing left of the rain forest. The ground, exposed to the sun, the wind, and the rain, was a dead red-brown color. All that grew in it now were a few patches of tough, scruffy grass. Peter could smell the residue of chemical defoliants. The only signs of the great trees that had once grown here were the stumps that studded the ground and the wreck of a huge logging truck just to the east. It lay in a twisted, halfburned heap, damaged beyond repair by some explosion. The immense logs that it had been carrying had been thrown up to come raining back down over top of it like giant jackstraws. There was a dark space within — the gaping holes between the logs and the way that their tops stuck out jaggedly reminded Peter of the fomor skull.

Walking across the clearcut was like walking across an unending and totally empty parking lot under the noonday sun on the hottest and most humid day of the year, while wearing a heavy sweater and breathing in the lingering odors of car exhaust. Pentex had turned this place into a desolate hell. After only about twenty minutes, Peter yearned to pull his hidden bottle of Fever from his pocket and spray his sweating face. He knew it was only his imagination, but he felt sure that the stink of the stale cologne was already oozing from his skin.

Windrunner, in the lead, steered them around a wide patch of bare ground. The soil here was a more intense red than was normal. “If you see any more dirt that color,” she advised them, “don’t walk in it. It will burn you.” Peter noticed that she also chose to move upwind of the contaminated soil.

It took them just over two hours to cross the clearcut. What would a caern in the middle of destruction like this look like? Peter had his answer shortly; they were approaching a large tract of trees that rose up out of the clearcut like a ghost of the rain forest. Exactly like a ghost or a sun-blasted skeleton, Peter realized as they got closer. The trees were gray and virtually leafless, almost unreal. There was very little undergrowth. Peter could see straight into its depths.

They stopped and Windrunner went on alone, heading toward the single structure of a round native village in the center of the dying trees. The others waited outside. Finally, Peter could starid it no longer. He took out his Fever. Roshen glanced at him and snarled. “I told you not to bring that!” He reached for the bottle.

Peter stepped away before the Silver Fang could take it. “Give me a break, Roshen! I reek!”

“It’s true,” agreed Steps-Lightly. Peter started. The tall Garou was standing a little bit behind him. “He does.” Roshen growled. “All right. But that’s it — I don’t want

to see or smell that stuff again until we’re back at Sky River. This isn’t Toronto.”

Nodding, Peter sprayed himself with Fever. His hand was shaking a little bit. He hadn’t realized Steps-Lightly had been so close to him. He gave himself an extra squirt, earning a glare from Roshen. “Enough, Petey.”

It was almost half an hour before Windrunner returned. There was a young native Garou with her, cord necklaces around his throat and streaks of paint on his face. “I am Jubati,” he said in rough English. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” replied Roshen humbly.

Jubati escorted them through the gray trees and up to the entrance of the village, then paused. “The elders will talk to Roshen One-Arm and our sister Windrunner alone,” he told them. “The rest of you will wait with me inside.”

Entering the Caern of Rain Spirits made Peter feel as though he were both the center of intense scrutiny and, at the same time, utterly invisible. No one in the village looked at the pack of the Severed Arm directly, at least not that Peter noticed. Everyone was watching them, however. When Windrunner and Roshen separated from the pack to walk across the center of the village toward the old Garou elders waiting at its far end, their path was clear — as though people had just casually moved out of their way. Jubati led Peter, Brennan, and Steps-Lightly into the shade of another part of the village and offered them water. Every time someone walked past them, Peter knew that they were being closely examined.

“Jubati,” asked Brennan, “what happened to the trees around the caern?” He spoke a little more quickly than usual, as though trying to fill up the silence. Apparently, Peter wasn’t the only one feeling uncomfortable.

“Pentex dropped chemicals from the sky,” Jubati said, sitting down cross-legged on the ground. “We fought to keep them out of the caern. They couldn’t come in on the ground, so they tried to destroy us from the air.”

“You’re lucky the defoliants... the chemicals didn’t work very well.”

Jubati shook his head. “They worked. King Thunder, our caern totem, saved us. He brought heavy rain to wash the chemicals away before they had a chance to kill the trees completely.”

Peter looked around the village. It was much smaller than the encampment at Sky River Caern. There were perhaps thirty men and women present — no children, he noticed. Half of the people weren’t Garou at all, but Kinfolk of the native Uktena. Only a handful of the Garou were of this tribe. The rest were White, Black, or North American Indian. “I thought you didn’t allow outsiders to stay here,” Peter commented to Jubati.

“These are not outsiders,” the Uktena replied. “They are our brothers and sisters and cousins.” He gestured about. “Our ancestors came to the Amazon many centuries ago. The other Uktena are our brothers and sisters. The Wendigo of the far north are our cousins. Until Pentex came to the rain forest and the other Garou came to fight them, the Uktena and Wendigo were only stories to us. The Wyrmcomer tribes were legends.”

Brennan flushed with anger. “Wyrmcomer?”

“Our name for you.” Jubati met the Fianna’s angry gaze with one of his own. “These were the Pure Lands once. Gaia scoured the Wyrm from the land, then led people who were free of the Wyrm here. Three tribes of Garou came with the people: the Uktena, the Croatan, and the Wendigo. The Wyrm had no place here until Europeans brought it from across the sea. Your tribes came here along with the Wyrm. And you fought us!” He looked away, his anger fading into sadness. “The Uktena and Wendigo tell us our cousins, the Croatan, sacrificed themselves to stop the Wyrm. They succeeded then, but it came again. And in our isolation, we did not even know they were dead.” Peter had heard the story of the Croatan sacrifice. It was a tale that was sometimes told at moots. He also knew how poorly the European tribes of Garou had treated the native tribes: just as poorly as the European humans had treated the Native Americans. The Garou, at least, should have known better. Didn’t they all serve Gaia? Their common cause, however, had never stopped Garou from fighting among themselves. He looked away as well, unsure of what to say. Steps-Lightly was silent.

Brennan, though, was not at a loss for words. He snorted. “That was centuries ago! We’re not like that anymore! You don’t think you can trust us?”

“Pentex has brought the Wyrm to the Amazon and who has declared himself our champion?” Jubati asked bitterly. “A Wyrmcomer.” He nodded toward Roshen and the elders. “You approach us with respect when you need the power of King Thunder. When you don’t, we are little brothers left to play in the mud while you fight for us. Only a few among you earn our trust by treating us with respect.” “Like the Ghost Raptors pack?” Brennan sneered nastily. Steps-Lightly looked up. Brennan didn’t notice. “You’re supposed to be buddy-buddy with them.”

Jubati frowned. “The Ghost Raptors are true warriors of Gaia. They serve her interests, not their own. I’m sorry you can’t see that.”

“They pull raids on us! They mess us up!” howled Brennan angrily. This time a few heads around the village did turn in their direction. “They...” Steps-Lightly put his hand on the muscular Fianna’s arm and shook his head sharply. Brennan fell silent, though his expression was still angry.

“Maybe you should ask yourself why they do so.” Jubati got up. Peter wasn’t sure now whether the look in his eyes was outrage or sorrow. “Wait here until your packmates are finished. You know the way out of the caern.” He walked away, across the village, to lie down in a hammock.

The three Garou were silent for a moment, then Steps-Lightly snapped at Brennan, “Are you ever going to learn

when to keep quiet?”

“They’re allies of the Ghost Raptors! And calling us ‘Wyrmcomers’ and bad-mouthing the War? Jubati is an arrogant...”

Steps-Lightly drew back his fist and punched him in the jaw. Brennan was so shocked that he just stared at the Silent Strider, who proceeded to turn his back on him. Brennan glanced at Peter, but Peter refused to meet his gaze.

It took just under an hour for Roshen and Windrunner to finish dealing with the Uktena elders. Peter watched them from across the village. The elders were clearly in no hurry. Since Roshen had no idea what was happening with Peter and the others, neither was he. To judge by the way he was waving his arm around and laughing, it seemed to Peter that Roshen and the elders were swapping jokes. At one point he began to swing his severed arm around as well, and Peter realized that he was probably telling the story of how he lost it. The Uktena elders roared with laughter and approval.

Eventually, however, they settled down to business, huddling together as if they were conspirators in a dark room. When they sat up again, all of them were smiling. One of the elders shouted something and a Kinfolk brought over a big skin bag full of some liquid. The elders each raised the bag and drank from it expertly, shooting a stream of pale liquid into their mouths. Roshen, with one hand, couldn’t manage. One of the elders helped him. Peter heard Brennan snort again, and knew what he was thinking. After what Jubati had said to them, he couldn’t believe that the elders’ friendliness was completely genuine. Peter couldn’t really believe it either.

When Windrunner had drunk from the bag, Roshen and one of the elders shook hands, and the two returned to the pack. Roshen was grinning like a maniac. “That went well!” he crowed as they left the village. “One mother of a rainstorm will knock on Pentex’s door at the next crescent moon, and when they answer... crack!" He slashed the air in front of him with his hand. “Lightning right up the wazoo! Better than a burning bag of shit on the doorstep!” He looked at Brennan, Steps-Lightly, and Peter. “What did you guys talk about with Jubati?”

“Not much,” Steps-Lightly replied casually. “What was in that bag?”

Roshen licked his lips. “Something alcoholic. I’m not sure exactly what.”

Windrunner looked around to make sure they were alone, then made a face. “It was foul.”

“Picky, picky!” sneered the Silver Fang.

“Roshen, it had lumps!”

They walked out of the dying trees around the village and across the clearcut. After a day’s exposure to the sun, the barren soil was even hotter than before. The sky felt very close to the ground, the oppressive humidity making it droop like a soggy gray wool blanket. There was no wind at all. The air was dead. It was going to rain shortly — Peter was learning to recognize the difference between imminent rain and the Amazon’s normally high, late-day humidity. They passed the truck with its fallen logs and entered the regrowth. Even its scant shade was blissful by comparison to the heat in the clearcut. The rain forest, when they entered it again, was almost cool.

They found one of the pack’s satchels about ten feet away from the camp, on the near side of a thick screen of bushes.

Roshen threw up his arm and brought them to a halt as soon as he spotted it. “Shit!” he murmured. “Brennan?”

“I hid everything!”

With a glance, Roshen dispatched Steps-Lightly to slip up and peer through the bushes. Peter could feel his heart pumping in his chest. They had had visitors to their campsite. The visitors might even still be there. Steps-Lightly parted the bushes carefully. The others waited in

silence while he examined the campsite. Finally, he called back, “All clear — but you’re not going to be happy!” They pushed their way through the greenery.

Their gear had been taken out of Brennan’s cache and scattered across the rain forest floor. Their rations were spoiled. The minimal spare clothing that they carried had been scattered around. Roshen’s fishing rod was broken and tossed into some bushes. Windrunner picked up a disassembled handgun with a curse. Peter hadn’t even known she’d been carrying one with her. He didn’t spare much time for her, however. The pumping of his heart had turned into a terrified racing. He whirled around. His backpack! Where was his backpack?

“Fomori?” demanded Roshen to nobody in particular. Brennan dropped into wolf form momentarily and sniffed around the campsite. He returned to Homid shape. “Garou!” he spat. “And I’d bet it was Ghost Raptors!” He snatched up his satchel from the ground — it was filled with dirt. “Damn them!”

Peter found his book on Amazonian plants on the far side of the campsite. It was dented, as though someone had thrown it carelessly through the air, but it was still wrapped in plastic. He grabbed it.

“How long ago?” Roshen asked Brennan.

“I don’t know. A couple of hours, maybe. The Ghost Raptors will be long gone by now, though.”

“Peter!” called Steps-Lightly. Peter spun around. The Silent Strider was crouched near a tree a few feet into the rain forest. The trunk of the tree was wet and slightly scarred. There was a mess of broken glass and thin red cardboard at its base. A sudden, tiny whisper of wind brought the distinctive smell of Fever to Peter’s nose. Steps-Lightly reached out to poke at the glass. “Isn’t this...?”

“No!” Peter sprinted across the fifteen or so feet that separated him from the tall Garou, shifting into Crinos in midstride. “Don’t touch it!” He grabbed for Steps-

Lightly with the extended reach of his Crinos arms, dragging him away from the tree before the lean Garou’s fingers made contact with the broken bottles. Peter almost flung him away. “Don’t touch it!”

He dropped to his knees beside the tree. His Crinos form fell away as he raked his own hands through the glass. Both of his bottles of Fever were shattered. Whoever had raided the camp had found them and hurled them against the tree. But what had they done with the cologne first?

Fever oozed out of one battered box; the broken bottle was still inside. It had still been sealed when it was thrown against the tree. But the other bottle...

The other bottle was only scattered glass. There was no second box. Peter turned his head, hunting for it. He spotted it some ways away. He had stepped on it as he ran to stop Steps-Lightly. The second bottle of Fever had been opened.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck.”

“Peter,” asked Steps-Lightly, squatting down beside him, “What’s going on?”

Peter snapped his head around to look at him. “Did the Ghost Raptors do this?”

“What?” Steps-Lightly blinked in surprise. “I don’t...” “Just tell me!” Peter screamed. His traveling supply of Fever was gone. And if another Garou had used it... “Did the Ghost Raptors do this?"

Steps-Lightly narrowed his eyes and gave him a hard stare. After a moment, he said softly, “Yes.”

“Find out if any of them touched the Fever or used it.” Steps-Lightly opened his mouth to say something, but Peter cut him off. “Do it! I know you can!”

“Peter...”

One bottle. Against his leg, Peter could feel the weight of the bottle he had put in his pocket before they left for the Caern of Rain Spirits. One partially used bottle of Fever that would have to last him until they returned to Sky River. One bottle.

His mind whirled. One bottle. He lurched to his feet. “Don’t touch that!” he gasped, pointing to the tree and the broken bottles. “Don’t go anywhere near it!”

He scratched at his arm, the plastic-wrapped book still in his hand. Thank Gaia, he still had it! He scratched at his other arm almost convulsively. Suddenly he was itching all over. He had to get away from the other Garou, at least for a little while. “Don’t touch it!”

Peter fled into the rain forest without looking back to see if the Severed Arm had understood him.

CHAPTER       NINE

Somewhere west of the campsite, Peter almost tumbled down the steep bank of a small river. He grabbed at the thin branches of a low-growing tree for support and balanced precariously on the edge of a slippery six- or seven-foot drop down to water that was brown with silt. He was hot and sweaty, and his skin still prickled, as though pins had been stuck all over his body.

He had been running... he didn’t know how far, or for how long. He had simply run. Anything to get away from Roshen and the pack. He had run until he thought he might collapse, and then kept running. Sweat was pouring off him, soaking his clothes and hair.

The stink that fading Fever left behind was very strong.

Taking a step back from the edge of the riverbank, Peter dropped his book to the ground, pulled off his hiking boots and his socks, then peeled away his shirt. The awful smell of the cologne as he pulled the sodden garment over his head was almost unbearable. He choked, hurling the shirt away. He stripped off his shorts and boxers as well, and quickly scrambled down the bank to the river. It flowed out of the clearcut around the Caern of Rain Spirits, but other than the load of silt that it carried, it did not appear polluted. The water smelled clean. Peter plunged in.

The river was fairly shallow, only just barely waist high, and the bottom was sandy. Peter had to lie down in order to submerge himself. He stayed underwater for as long as he could, letting the sun-warmed water gently wash over and past him. When his breath began to run out, he forced himself to stay down longer, until he saw sparks of light behind his closed eyelids.

The water felt good as it washed everything away: the fading Fever, his sweat, the heat of his exertion, his panic. He might have been happy to stay there forever.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t. He had only one bottle of Fever left, and it had to last through a journey of at least five days. His panic returned. He exploded back into the world of air and reached out to grab a handful of clay mud from the river bank. Like the river water, the mud was clean. It smelled of Gaia. The Wyrm had yet to corrupt it. Peter hoped that Gaia wouldn’t be offended by his use of it. He slapped it onto his skin and scrubbed desperately until his skin was tingling from the abrasion.

He already knew it was useless, though. He had tried washing before. Nothing would work. The smell always came back.

And he had only one bottle of Fever left. He grabbed more mud.

He had scrubbed his chest and arms, coating them in mud, when he heard a quiet cough from above him. He looked up. Steps-Lightly was seated on the edge of the river bank. The Silent Strider looked at him grimly. “We need to talk.”

“Oh?” Peter sank down into the water, rinsing the mud

away.

“Yes. About what just happened back there. About what’s going on with you and your cologne. And this flower of yours.” He held up Peter’s book, then put it in his lap and leaned forward. “And what you know about Thunder Tiger and me.”

Peter froze, then rose out of the water and reached for some more mud. He stretched his arms around to scrub at his back. What was he supposed to say to that? He had shouted at Steps-Lightly back at the campsite out of desperate fright. There was no way the rest of the pack could have missed hearing him.

The tall Garou must have mistaken his silence for contempt. His eyes narrowed and he sat back. “All right.

How long have you known? Back at Sky River when you were trying to find the latrine?”

“No.” Peter shook his head and looked up reluctantly. “I really thought you were just talking.”

Steps-Lightly snorted. “I can’t believe that! We practically had our arms around each other!”

“What was I supposed to think? I wasn’t expecting to see two Garou putting the moves on each other! Especially two male Garou!” He looked down again and was silent as he scrubbed. After a moment, he said, “I saw Thunder Tiger the night of the Ghost Raptors’ raid. I realized you knew he was a Ghost Raptor when you tried to keep me from hearing what Brennan was saying in the sweat lodge.” He hesitated, almost looked back up at Steps-Lightly, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. “Then I saw you when you met with him three nights ago. After it had rained. That’s when I realized you were...”

“Lovers?” Steps-Lightly supplied. He shrugged. “The pack knows I’m gay.”

“Do they know you’re in love with another Garou?” The words slipped out before Peter could stop them. He bit his tongue and looked up at Steps-Lightly. The Silent Strider’s face was blank. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” replied Steps-Lightly coldly. “You’re not getting away that easily. You’ve got questions — ask them. Then I’ll ask you mine.” He waited.

Peter flushed and stooped over to scrub at his face. When he had rinsed the mud away, he asked without looking up, “How can you betray your pack?”

“What? Betray my pack by falling in love with a Ghost Raptor, or betray my pack by falling in love with another Garou?”

“A Ghost Raptor.”

“Tell me how I’m betraying them.”

“You led the Ghost Raptors into Sky River Caern so that they could disrupt the moot,” Peter said angrily. “And they followed you here so they could raid the camp while we were gone. And they’re outlaws. And you’re a Ghost Raptor yourself.”

“First, I’m both a Ghost Raptor and part of the Severed Arm.” Steps-Lightly tapped his chest, indicating his severed arm tattoo. “The Ghost Raptors are more than just a pack. It’s like having a level of loyalty between pack and tribe. There’s nothing necessarily incompatible about it. Second, the Ghost Raptors are outlaws only because Golgol Fangs-First doesn’t like the fact that we won’t obey him. Third, the raid on the camp...” He sighed. “All right, that was my idea. I suggested to Thunder Tiger that he might want to make things inconvenient for us.”

“That sounds like a betrayal to me.”

“You’ll notice that my stuff was thrown around as much as anybody else’s, and also that nothing was damaged except for rations, which we don’t really need, and your cologne.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry about that.”

“What about the attack at the caern?” Peter demanded. “You told Thunder Tiger that you asked White Father to send him on the raid.”

Steps-Lightly shifted uncomfortably. “I asked White Father to send him the next time the Ghost Raptors staged a raid on Sky River, just hoping that I would be there when they did. Think about it -— we only found out about the moot when we got back from Manaus and you saw me with Thunder Tiger that afternoon.”

“So how did they get into the center of the caern?” “Believe it or not, Brennan actually got something right. Remember back in the sweat lodge when he said that the Ghost Raptors have a native spirit ally that got them past the caern’s defenses? We do. Her name is Panthesilea.” Steps-Lightly spoke the word with a mixture of reverence and familiarity. “She’s the collective spirit of the Amazonian rain forest itself. If she wants to, she really can order the caern totem spirits around. She was the one

who got the Ghost Raptors into Sky River.”

“Why would she want to?” Peter slicked back his hair. He was still standing in the river up to his waist. “Why are the Ghost Raptors fighting the other Garou?”

“Because Golgol’s way of fighting the War is starting to damage Panthesilea’s environment, Peter!” Steps-Lightly swept his arm around. “The rain forest is full of spirits. The spirit world has its own ecology — every spirit plays a role in supporting the environment of the physical world. If you start taking spirits out of their world, the physical world suffers. That’s just what the Garou have started doing. In order to fight Pentex, they’re capturing spirits and binding them into fetishes to make weapons. It’s not quite as bad as the damage that Pentex inflicts, but it’s not necessary. Panthesilea wants the Ghost Raptors to stop the Garou from making more fetishes or abusing the spirits without cause.” He gestured back over his shoulder in the direction of the camp. “This was supposed to be a warning: don’t abuse the caern totems. Golgol doesn’t really need a lot of rain and lightning for his attack on Pentex.”

“And the disruption of the moot?”

“Thunder Tiger told me that Last-One-Out was going to use some of the power generated by the moot to create a particularly strong fetish. They were there to make sure that he didn’t get the chance.” He sighed again. “There’s a fine line between betrayal and duty to a higher cause.” “I suppose so.” Peter fell silent. He knew Steps-Lightly was waiting for him to say something else, something about the Silent Strider’s relationship with Thunder Tiger. He couldn’t quite bring himself to ask about it, though.

Steps-Lightly didn’t give him any choice. “As for loving Thunder Tiger...”

Peter splashed his hands through the water suddenly. “I don’t need to hear this. 1 don’t care.”

“You do need to hear it.” He met Peter’s gaze. “What is it about my being gay that upsets you? That I find men attractive?” Peter didn’t answer. “That you’ve never met a gay Garou before?”

This time Peter’s gaze flickered. Steps-Lightly nodded. “Is that it?”

“No! I know gay humans.” Peter retorted. “I have gay friends.”

“But you never really thought that Garou could be gay, did you?” Steps-Lightly leaned back. “Nobody ever does. But we can be. Humans do it. Wolves do it. Why not Garou?”

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“No,” agreed Steps-Lightly, “I don’t suppose it does. I think most Glass Walkers tend to be pretty neutral about it, just like Silent Striders. Stargazers just nod and say ‘it’s the path of your life.’ Silver Fangs tend to think it’s all right for Garou to sleep with males as long as they do their duty to the tribe and procreate occasionally, too.” He glanced down at Peter. “But what about two Garou sleeping together?”

Peter took a deep breath. That was it exactly. He looked up at Steps-Lightly. “That disturbs me,” he confessed.

“Why?” Steps-Lightly sat forward sharply. “Because the ancient Litany law of the Garou says it’s unnatural? Think about what’s behind that part of the Litany — the mating of male and female Garou produces metis. Sterile, deformed metis. But so what if they’re not always pleasant to look at? Metis are usually a lot nicer and a lot more balanced than most Garou.” He spat abruptly. “Did you know that Windrunner is a metis?”

“No,” Peter said in surprise. Windrunner a metis? But she was... nice. Balanced. Not at all unnatural. “She can’t be!”

“Because she’s not deformed? She got off lucky — her deformity doesn’t show in Homid form and it’s not too obvious in Crinos. But you’ll never see her in Lupus form unless she really knows you well. She doesn’t care if people know she’s metis, but she’s still sensitive.”

“What is it?” Peter asked curiously. “What’s her deformity?”

“She doesn’t have a tail.”

Peter blinked. Steps-Lightly stabbed a finger at him. “See what you just did? You know Windrunner, but reacted to a deformity and to a stereotype that you might not have known about otherwise!” He lifted his right hand. “Why is it unnatural for Garou to mate with each other? Because it produces metis.” He lifted his left hand. “Why are metis unnatural?”

“Because they’re deformed?”

“Anybody can be born deformed!” Steps-Lightly said angrily. “You’re colored like a coyote in Lupus form, aren’t you? A lot of Garou would look down on that. Metis are considered unnatural because they’re different.” He dropped his hands. “Garou have never been good at accepting things that are different. Gay Garou are doubly different. We’re attracted to our own sex — and we’re the only Garou that can ‘mate’ with each other without producing metis. We’re outside of the law. No metis, so mating isn’t unnatural, right? Straight Garou aren’t sure what to say about that. What does the Litany say about male Garou mating with male Garou, or females with females?”

“Nothing,” responded Peter quietly.

“Exactly.” Steps-Lightly let Peter think for a moment, then added, “So tell me what the deal is with your cologne.”

Peter clenched his teeth. The Silent Strider had trusted him enough to tell him the truth about the Ghost Raptors. He had trusted him enough to speak frankly about his love for Thunder Tiger. Now he expected the same trust in return. It would be good to tell somebody about the Fever. And if he ever needed an ally, it was now. “I...”

But what were running with the Ghost Raptors and loving another Garou beside his own secret? The Ghost Raptors served the Amazon itself — as Steps-Lightly had said, it was a duty to a higher cause. Steps-Lightly’s love for Thunder Tiger was also a higher cause, unnatural in the eyes of many Garou, but still worth fighting for. The secret behind Fever was far darker and much more dangerous. His heart almost stopped and his stomach knotted. “I...” He spun around, staring across the river. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Peter could imagine the scowl that must be on Steps-Lightly’s face. “Then what about the flower in your book?”

“No.” Peter’s voice broke uncontrollably. He could feel tears at the corners of his eyes, and he bent his head to wipe at them.

“No one can keep a secret forever.” Steps-Lightly paused. “The Fever and the flower are connected. Something is really wrong, isn’t it?”

Peter nodded without turning around. He raised his head again. Just in time to see a single clump of small trees on the far bank of the river shake.

The air, still heavy with impending rain, was absolutely calm.

They had seen no animals in the area of the clearcut large enough to make trees shake. They had seen no living animals at all.

The Ghost Raptors might still be around. But why would they be spying on Steps-Lightly, one of their own?

Peter caught a glimpse of something big and orange through the leaves. Whatever else they might be, the Ghost Raptors were not orange.

“Fomor!” he screamed, lunging for the river bank. The steep bank was slippery with mud. Peter couldn’t get a grip on it — and the more he tried, the more muddy and slippery his own hands and skin became. Steps-Lightly was on his feet instantly, then dropping to lie flat on the ground. There was a sharp crack from behind Peter and something hit the river bank beside his hand with a dull splat that sent up a little spray of mud. A bullet. More cracks, gunshots, rang out. Peter heard a nasty, deep, rolling laugh. More than one fomor. Maybe an entire Pentex First Team. And Peter was a fish in a barrel, completely exposed. His naked back was suddenly cold. Pentex’s soldiers could pick him off anytime. They were toying with him. “Steps-Lightly!” he yelled desperately. “Help!”

A long, hairy arm appeared as Steps-Lightly reached down from the top of the riverbank. The Silent Strider had taken Crinos form. “Grab hold!” he growled. Peter snatched at his clawed hand. For a moment, his mud-slick palms just slid against fur, but then Steps-Lightly closed his fist and hauled him up.

“Just shoot them!” screeched a voice from the far bank. Peter looked over his shoulder in mid-air, trying to see what they were up against. He got a vague impression of fatigue-clad humans and misshapen fomori, their guns gleaming in their hands. The speaker was an unnaturally tall, skeletally thin man. He looked as though he were walking on stilts. Peter only got a brief look at him, though, because he suddenly raised a rifle and took aim at the Garou across the river. Peter twisted around, trying to get his feet on the bank, but the fomor’s gunshot rang out too quickly. Steps-Lightly howled in sudden pain as a streak of blood appeared along his arm. His grip failed. Peter dropped. The fomor with the deep laugh guffawed again.

Peter just managed to catch the edge of the bank. His feet scrambling against the mud, he clawed desperately at the ground above. One hand came down on top of something soft, something loose. Peter yelped as he lost his purchase and slid backwards again. The thing in his hand slid down the muddy bank into the water.

Steps-Lightly snatched at Peter’s wrist with the hand of his uninjured arm, dragging him up to safety just as a storm of gunfire broke against the river bank. The stilt fomor screamed in anger.

Peter rolled away from the bank, seizing his clothes and boots, and snatching his book from where Steps-Lightly had dropped it. He looked over at the Silent Strider. “Are you all right?”

“No!” Steps-Lightly snarled. His upper right arm was bleeding profusely, though it looked as though the fomor’s bullet had only grazed him. The wound, however, showed no signs of healing. “Silver!”

“Shit!” The First Team was using silver bullets. There were splashes as the fomori and the humans waded into the river in pursuit of them. Gunfire sprayed into the trees overhead. There was no way the two Garou would be able to fight Pentex’s monsters. They would have to run and hope they could lose the First Team in the jungle. Peter jerked on his boxers. His shirt, flung aside in disgust earlier, was lying off in the bushes somewhere, too far away to worry about right now. He grabbed for his shorts.

But his hand found only dirt. There was no sign of them. He looked around wildly. Where were they? Where was the bottle of Fever? “My shorts!” he snapped at Steps-Lightly. The Silent Strider growled, eager to be away, but pointed toward the river bank.

Peter scrambled over, his belly to the ground. His heart was thundering in his chest. “They’re not here!” he hissed back to Steps-Lightly. “Where did...”

The soft, loose thing that his hand had found, that had almost sent him plunging back into the river. The thing that had instead fallen into the water itself. The fomori and their silver bullets momentarily forgotten, Peter stuck his head over the bank of the river. He saw his shorts... half submerged in the water, buoyed up only by trapped air. Then even that support bubbled away and the shorts sank. Pulled down by the weight of the bottle of Fever in their pocket.

“No...” Peter whispered, stunned.

The stilt fomor screeched again, and the humans of the First Team dropped to their knees in the water of the river, bringing up their guns. Peter felt Steps-Lightly seize hold of his ankles and wrench him back from the edge of the bank. “Move!” the tall Garou roared. He hurled Peter’s boots into his chest. “Move!” Out in the river, the tall fomor screamed and ordered its troops forward again.

Peter just grasped the boots. He had no Fever at all now.

Steps-Lightly howled in his ear. “Fomori! Remember?” He reached for Peter’s shoulders, ready to shake him out of his daze if necessary.

No Fever. “No!” Peter snapped his arms up, pushing Steps-Lightly away with the boots in his hand.

“Then come!” Steps-Lightly shifted forms, shrinking into Lupus shape.

Peter, however, jammed his feet into his boots and exploded into Crinos form, his boots and boxers becoming part of his body. Steps-Lightly whined at him, already poised to flee. Wolves could run faster than the huge, bestial Crinos. But Peter shook his head and grabbed his book. It was too large to carry in his mouth while he was running. He would need the Crinos’ hands to hold it. Even if all of his Fever was gone, he couldn’t lose the flower inside the book!

They ran. Somewhere behind them, a fomor shouted, and, seconds later, a gunshot blasted through the trees. The First Team was over the river bank. The cover provided by the rain forest undergrowth was heavy, but not heavy enough to hide a Garou fleeing in Crinos form. Peter crashed through the bushes and ferns like a steamroller. Steps-Lightly was virtually silent by comparison, even though he ran awkwardly, favoring his wounded leg. A bullet cracked into a tree trunk very close to Peter’s head. The terrified beast within him urged Peter to drop his book and run as a wolf, but Peter fought back his fear. He needed the flower.

The hail of bullets increased as more First Team soldiers joined the first, then suddenly became much more sporadic. Peter risked a glimpse backward.

The fomori and humans were pursuing them again, the humans firing only when they had an opportunity to do so without hitting their inhuman teammates. The stilt fomor was gliding between the trees on all fours like a spindly ghost, its elongated arms serving as a second set of legs, its gun strapped across its back like a narrow, lethal saddle. Three smaller fomori were racing forward as well, moving as quickly as wolves. They were short and slight, but their bodies were covered in sharp, thorn-like barbs. Another fomor, more slow, ran with the humans. It was the one with the deep, nasty laugh. Its skin was a bright and lumpy orange, and its mouth stretched in an unnaturally wide grin as it guffawed. Five fomori. Maybe as many humans with guns.

They were outnumbered. These might be the fomor and humans that the Garou had scented yesterday, returning from the west. If so, they were lucky that there were fewer of them. Peter burst into a sprint, legs pumping as fast they could, arms sweeping heavy bushes aside. Steps-Lightly, although wounded, had already vanished ahead of him into the undergrowth. Garou could run for miles. Peter just had to hope that the First Team’s stamina was lower.

There was a hiss, like a snake, behind him, and something leaped onto his back. Peter howled as a thousand needles dug into his skin. One of the barbed fomor! Peter tried to wrench and slash at it as he ran, but the thing was fighting him as well, clawing at his eyes. It was all he could do to keep its hands away from his face. The fomor screamed and hissed again in glee. Peter’s stomach went cold. The other two like it could only be steps away from tackling him as well.

Abruptly, though, hairy bodies were flashing through the bushes beside him, matching his pace before erupting into Crinos form and leaping into his wake to face the pursuing fomor. The rest of the Severed Arm.

The fomor on his back squealed and lashed out at a new target. “Don’t stop!” yowled Windrunner. Peter glimpsed her arm slashing out at the fomor, talons flashing, then the creature’s weight was gone from his back. New pain blossomed where its barbs had dug into him. Peter yelped but didn’t stop running.

From behind him, there were thuds and howls as Brennan and Roshen dispatched or disabled the other barbed fomori. The rest of the First Team shouted as they saw the new Garou. Renewed gunfire broke out. Brennan, in Lupus form, came surging past Peter like a black wave. Windrunner dropped into her wolf shape as well.

In spite of the danger of the First Team behind him, Peter couldn’t help glancing at her haunches as she ran on ahead. Steps-Lightly had been right. The Uktena had no tail.

Roshen was beside him suddenly, a white-furred monster running through the shadows, his arm-club held tightly. There was yellowish goo dripping from the fetish weapon, and some of the fomori’s barbs clung to it. “Too many to fight!” he panted. “Too hard to lose! Head to clearcut! Run for caern!”

Roshen had had the same idea as Peter — outrun their foul pursuers. Once into the clearcut, the Garou would be able to race to the distant safety of the Caern of Rain Spirits, leaving the First Team gasping behind them. The Garou would have the advantage of their lithe Lupus or powerful Crinos forms to get them through the heavy undergrowth. The fomor and humans would have a harder time of it.

And then there was a deafening crack of thunder from overhead. In its wake, Peter recognized the pattering hiss of heavy rain falling on the jungle canopy. He smiled to himself. Gaia was on their side. Surely the humans and fomori would break off the pursuit in (avor of seeking shelter.

But they didn’t. When Peter and Roshen hit the green tangle of the new growth at the edge of the rain forest, the First Team was still on their heels. Two of the little barbed fomori were after them again as well. And Peter realized something else: two huge Crinos smashing their way through undergrowth left a broken, open trail behind them. The fomori and humans weren’t stupid. They used the path that Peter and Roshen were making. The Garou wouldn’t have any advantage over the First Team here. He howled in frustration as he slashed at the wet plants with his free hand. And they had no choice! It was either tear their way forward to safety or stop and face certain death — neither he with his precious burden nor Roshen with his missing arm could get far as wolves.

The First Team still had to move slowly, however. The trail that Roshen and he were leaving was narrow and treacherous. The fomori would have learned from the pack’s sudden appearance before and they would be on guard against further attacks from Garou lurking in the brush. Occasionally the humans let loose a random volley of bullets, but Roshen made sure that he and Peter stayed low and changed their direction frequently.

Peter’s heart was pounding again. His Rage wanted to lash out at Pentex’s soldiers. He was tired of running. Rainwater mixed with sweat dripped from his fur and into his eyes, stinging them. The wounds inflicted by the barbed fomor, slowly healing, were painful as well. But Peter held back his Rage. Even with all of his anger rushing through him, this would not be a fight he could win. He forced himself to keep running.

A howl echoed out of the distance.

It was not a howl Peter recognized. For a moment, he dared to hope that the Garou of the Caern of Rain Spirits had somehow learned of the Severed Arm’s danger and

were coming to their aid. But only for a moment.

The howl was strange. Eerie. And other howls joined it in a dissonant chorus. It was a sharp and grating sound, like fingernails scratching against a blackboard. Peter came to a sudden halt, and Roshen sucked in his breath. Pentex’s First Team cheered.

Black Spiral Dancers.

A pack of the insane, traitorous werewolves was out in the clearcut. Far out, to judge from the sound of their howls, but coming closer, probably attracted by the sound of gunfire.

“Faster!” Roshen snapped. “Find the others!”

But the rest of the pack found them first. As the regrowth began to thin out —- exposing Peter and Roshen to the full downpour of the rainstorm — Steps-Lightly appeared. The Silent Strider was in Crinos form now. His wounded arm was bleeding heavily, torn further by his running. He would probably not be able to run at all in Lupus form. “Black Spirals!” he growled. “What now?”

“East!” Roshen pointed down the clearcut along the edge of the regrowth. “Lose Pentex, then deal with Spirals!”

The pack fled, Brennan and Windrunner emerging from the new growth to join them. They could all move more quickly here, free from the entangling underbrush. The Black Spiral Dancers were somewhere off to the north, toward the center of the clearcut. Wiping the water from his eyes as he ran and peering through the heavy rain, Peter could just begin to make out the shapes of wolves running across the distant ground. It was a big pack, some of the Black Spirals, the faster ones, charging ahead of the others. Behind the slower Black Spirals there came another, still slower group. “More fomori!” snarled Peter. This was probably what had happened to the rest of the fomori whose traces they had found the day before — they had joined up with a pack of Black Spiral Dancers.

Steps-Lightly looked as well, and suddenly his breath hissed between his teeth. He squinted, holding a hand above his eyes to shield them from the rain. “Not all Black Spirals!”

The Silent Strider was right, Peter realized. The Garou ahead of the Black Spiral Dancers were not simply faster Black Spirals. In fact they weren’t Black Spiral Dancers at all, but other Garou fleeing before the Wynn-corrupted werewolves, herded along like sheep!

Suddenly, a single gunshot rang out. Windrunner screamed and collapsed, tumbling forward. Blood stained her flank. Peter glanced back. Where they had emerged from the regrowth at the edge of the clearcut, the stilt fomor was just lowering his rifle. Humans were pouring out into the open. The barbed fomori were already chasing them again. The Black Spiral Dancers howled with delight.

Brennan shifted into Crinos form and picked up Windrunner as easily as if she were a puppy. The Uktena was still alive and not in serious danger, but she wouldn’t be able to run any further. Roshen whirled around, searching the landscape. “Shelter!” he roared. “Make a stand!”

“There!” Peter pointed to the east. Not far away was the toppled logging truck they had seen on their way to the Caern of Rain Spirits. The hollow under its fallen logs would be big enough to provide shelter and give them a chance to defend themselves against the minions of the Wyrm. They wouldn’t have to worry about getting burned out with fire, either —: the old logs would be too rain-soaked to catch easily.

“Good!” Roshen led them toward the truck at a dead run. The Pentex First Team couldn’t be far behind. Peter risked a glance back and saw that they weren’t. The barbed fomori and the stilt fomor were moving across the open ground of the clearcut like running insects.

The Severed Arm made it to the logging truck first and scrambled into the shelter of its logs. The space within was surprisingly large, the size of a spacious, if irregular hut, and reasonably dry. Brennan set Windrunner down. She had shifted into Homid form, gritting her teeth against the pain of the silver bullet in her leg. “Guns?” Peter asked Roshen.

“None!” The Silver Fang dwindled into human shape so that he could speak more easily. “Windrunner’s was the only one and we didn’t get it back together before we heard the gunfire.” He slammed his arm-club into the ground. “We left almost everything behind at the campsite.”

Peter took human form as well. His boots, undone, were loose around his feet, and his boxer shorts were soaked. “No guns? None at all?”

“We usually get the drop on Pentex and it’s easier for a scout pack to move if we don’t have to carry heavy artillery.”

“Roshen!” growled Brennan. The Fianna was peering through a gap between the logs. “Look!”

Both Peter and Roshen joined him. Outside, the Pentex First Team had stopped about fifty feet away from the logging truck. The stilt fomor was screaming something at a Black Spiral Dancer in Homid form. The other Black Spirals were harrying their Garou captives, keeping them off-balance, but herded together. There were four captives as compared to eight Black Spirals, plus a handful of fomori. The stilt fomori gestured through the rain toward the logging truck and the cornered Severed Arm. The Black Spiral laughed — almost a giggle — and yelled to his packmates. The other Black Spirals howled. They began driving their captives toward the truck.

“They’re putting us all in together!” muttered Peter. “I don’t like this!”

“At least we’ll have allies, Petey,” Roshen replied. “Maybe together we can come up with a way to get out of here.” He turned toward the entrance to the shelter as four very wet, panting, shaking Garou came stumbling inside.

“Welcome to Club Mud!” he greeted them, smiling broadly.

The other Garou froze, glancing at each other and looking to their apparent leader, a large gray wolf with yellow eyes. Steps-Lightly inhaled sharply. Peter glanced at the newcomers again, taking a closer look.

The gray wolf had a strange marking above his left eye. Thunder Tiger! And if he was here...

Even as Peter realized the significance of Thunder Tiger’s presence, the other Garou assumed their Homid shapes. All of them wore some kind of battered, faded fatigues. Brennan snarled. Roshen’s smile vanished and he lashed out at Thunder Tiger with his arm-club. “Ghost Raptors!” he roared.

CHAPTER TEN

Thunder Tiger leaned back and let Roshen’s heavy blow whistle past his shoulder, then slid forward while his opponent was off balance to jab sharply at the Silver Fang’s gut. Roshen, however, spun all the way around, following the momentum of his arm-club. Thunder Tiger’s jab glanced off his side. The great arm-club came swinging around again, forcing Thunder Tiger to dodge away. Letting loose a deafening howl, Roshen took a step forward.

Then, suddenly, Steps-Lightly was between the two Garou. “No!” he shouted. Peter didn’t miss the sharp glance that he gave Thunder Tiger before facing Roshen. “This is what they want — too many Garou crowded into a small space, fighting each other. We can’t do this.”

“Yes, we can!” snorted Roshen. Thunder Tiger dropped into a defensive crouch that looked like a martial arts maneuver. The other Ghost Raptors were spreading out behind him as best they could in the cramped space under the tumbled logs. “They’re Ghost Raptors!”

“What good is fighting them now going to do? We’re all trapped here together.” The Silent Strider pushed Roshen back. As long as they were both in Homid form, Steps-Lightly had the advantage of height and mass.

“He’s right, Thunder Tiger,” hissed one of the Ghost Raptors, a woman with a sharp face and dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She put a hand on Thunder Tiger’s shoulder. Peter wondered if she knew Steps-Lightly as well. “We might be able to get out of here if we work with each other.”

“I’m not the one who’s attacking, Joan.” Thunder Tiger seemed to speak almost without moving his lips. All of

his attention was focused on Roshen.

Steps-Lightly looked down at his pack leader. “Well?”

“We can take them, Roshen!” urged Brennan. The Fianna tensed his hands as if eager for a fight.

Roshen narrowed his eyes, looking first at the Ghost Raptors, then at Steps-Lightly. “Peter,” he said slowly, his voice edged with suspicion, “asked you if the Ghost Raptors had been the ones to raid our campsite. He asked you to find out if any of them used his cologne before they trashed it.”

The silence that fell over the log shelter was so complete that Peter could hear the rain falling on the metal shell of the logging truck. Steps-Lightly’s eyes became distant and inscrutable. Peter found himself drawing a shallow breath and looking out at the Pentex First Team and their Black Spiral Dancer allies as they pulled back to about seventy-five feet from the shelter, and settled down to wait in the rain. Anywhere but at the two Garou. Finally, he heard Steps-Lightly ask, “Are we all going to ’cooperate or are you going to do something stupid?”

“Why did Peter ask you about the Ghost Raptors?”

“I...” Steps-Lightly hesitated and Peter almost bit his tongue. He wished that he had been quiet back at the campsite. What else could he have done, though? He had had to find out if any of the Ghost Raptors had come in contact with his Fever. He still did. He risked a glance back over his shoulder — and met Steps-Lightly s gaze for an instant. He looked away again in shame.

“I know them,” Steps-Lightly finished.

Brennan spat. “I don’t believe it!” Peter turned around again, carefully avoiding Steps-Lightly’s eyes, just in time to see Brennan stomp over to kneel beside Windrunner. Roshen just stared at Steps-Lightly.

“We’ll talk,” he said tightly after a minute. He lowered his arm-club. “For now, though, I guess the Severed Arm can work with the Ghost Raptors.” He grimaced sourly as

Thunder Tiger relaxed. “But I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to,” the Stargazer shot back. The Ghost Raptors didn’t move from around him. Peter suspected that, like Roshen, Thunder Tiger was a pack leader. “Just as long as we get out of here in one piece.” “Any suggestions on how we do that? The last time I counted, there were just as many Black Spirals as there are of us, plus fomori, plus Pentex goons with silver bullets.” Roshen shoved Steps-Lightly away and pointed at Windrunner. “One of my pack took a bullet in the leg. She’s out of the fight.”

A big Ghost Raptor, as tall as Steps-Lightly and twice as broad, snarled. “The Black Spirals killed one of our packmates.”

Steps-Lightly sucked in his breath. “Whines-a-Lot? That’s why he’s not with you?”

Thunder Tiger nodded soberly.

From the back of the shelter, Brennan grunted in disgust. Roshen glared at him. “He was still a Garou, Brennan.”

“He was a Ghost Raptor.”

That set off a rumbling growl among the Ghost Raptors and from Steps-Lightly. Peter took a deep breath. This wasn’t helping them at all. They would never get out if they kept bickering like this — and Peter wanted out quickly. The log shelter was cramped with nine Garou packed into it. They had to escape... especially him. Peter could already smell the stink that came with the fading of his cologne, made worse by the exertion of his flight from the fomori.

The tight space inside the shelter was worse than the sweat lodge at Sky River Caern.

“We can escape through the Umbra,” he suggested boldly.

Both Roshen and Thunder Tiger turned to look at him. So did Steps-Lightly, though Peter tried not to meet his eyes. Roshen nodded. “Maybe.”

“But Black Spiral Dancers can step sideways into the Umbra as easily as we can,” Thunder Tiger grunted. He came over and peered out of a gap between the logs. Peter stepped aside to give him room. Thunder Tiger frowned, but didn’t say anything. He just studied their enemies, squatting or standing in the mud that the rain created from the barren dirt of the clearcut. “Some of them might have already.”

Peter shook his head. “They haven’t. There are still eight of them out there. Even if they do come after us, we’ll leave the fomori behind. It’ll be an even match. Eight of them, eight of us.”

Thunder Tiger looked at the members of his pack. The blond woman and the big man nodded. The fourth Ghost Raptor, a Silver Fang so pale he was almost an albino, added, “We’ll be in the Umbra before the Black Spirals. We can ambush them this time.” There was a deep, hungry anger in his words.

The Stargazer glanced at Steps-Lightly as well, as though expecting him to nod along with the other Ghost Raptors. But Steps-Lightly looked to Roshen. The one-armed Garou’s mouth twisted. Brennan spoke up before he could answer, however. “Figures the Ghost Raptors would follow the advice of a Glass Walker,” he said. “Running away is a coward’s tactic.”

Roshen bared his teeth and shifted his grip on his arm-club. “Brennan...” he said, his voice threatening. Brennan glared at his pack leader as if he would challenge him.

Windrunner broke the tension between the two by reaching out and locking her hand tightly around Brennan’s arm. “You seemed pretty eager to run from the fomori before,” she reminded him through teeth gritted against the pain of her wound. “Now help me up and let’s get out of here!”

Brennan flushed and half-supported, half-lifted the Uktena as she climbed to her feet. Roshen looked back to Thunder Tiger. “We’ll need something shiny.”

The pale Silver Fang produced a small mirror, just as Steps-Lightly drew the knife that was strapped to his arm, and Windrunner fumbled for a highly-polished button stitched to her halter top. Garou were far closer to the spirit world than humans were, but they still needed the aid of some kind of reflective surface to step sideways into it. Each of the Garou in the shelter fixed their gaze on one of the shiny objects presented. Peter stared into the reflective depths of the gray storm light that flashed off Steps-Lightly’s knife. The light was distorted ever so slightly, a reflection of the physical world that was at once both similar and dissimilar, an intangible duplicate. He let the reflection draw him in and over...

... across the barrier the Garou called the “Gauntlet,” into the spirit world of the Umbra. Peter looked away from Steps-Lightly’s knife, and started suddenly in shock.

The Umbra was normally a reflection of the most natural aspects of the physical world. The creations of humans were usually only vaguely represented here. Sometimes they gained an Umbral presence if they were very old and associated with intense emotion. More often, the human activities that the Umbra reflected were those which drastically altered, or were exceptionally destructive to, Gaia’s environment. Cities often had a unique Umbrascape. Peter had likewise expected to find the devastation of the clearcut reproduced in the Umbra.

He had not, however, expected to find the tangled heap of the burned-out logging truck and its cargo of logs present in the spirit world. In the Umbra, the Garou stood within what was almost a cathedral-like space, with three walls formed by gigantic, natural timbers and the fourth by twisted metal. All four walls were complete — the entrance to the shelter in the physical world did not exist here. There weren’t even any gaps between the logs.

There was no way out.

“What in Gaia’s...?” Roshen wandered over to one of the timber walls and ran his hand across it. The timbers,

huge logs, were quite solid. Things in the Umbra might have been made of spirit-stuff, but they weren’t insubstantial. “How is this possible?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Thunder Tiger glanced at the albino Silver Fang. “Wycliffe?”

The Silver Fang shook his head. “No."

Roshen glanced at Windrunner, but she shook her head as well.

“Doesn’t matter.” The big Ghost Raptor produced a large machete from a sheath on his back. “We can cut our way out.”

He drove the machete deep into a crack between the gigantic logs just as Wycliffe shouted, “No! Ten Pigs — don’t!”

The walls shuddered as if they were alive. An unearthly scream erupted out of the air — no, Peter realized suddenly, multiple screams. He whirled around just in time to see a huge spirit stagger out of the wall of twisted metal.

The spirit was clearly that of the logging truck, a crazy amalgam of the truck and a burly man. Its eyes were headlights, its mouth a radiator grill and its chin a heavy bumper. A hood ornament hung around its neck like a pendant. It wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the air-brushed word “Stud”; the air-brushing resembled something that might have appeared on the side panel or hood of a truck. The spirit’s muscular arms were, literally, like pistons. With them, it hugged other, smaller spirits to its broad chest.

The other spirits looked half-dead. They were thinner and weaker than the logging truck, but there were more of them. Peter wasn’t sure how many more. They grappled with the larger truck spirit, twisting around and struggling to get away as it clutched at them.

“The logs!” Windrunner gasped.

She was right. The smaller spirits were the spirits of the logs that the truck had been carrying. All the spirits were slightly charred and blackened, just as their manifestations were in the physical world. They also looked angry. The log spirits were the source of the screams. They shrieked at the Garou as they fought against the logging truck. The truck spirit itself broke off wrestling with the logs just long enough to point one massive arm at Ten Pigs, the big Ghost Raptor. “Get out!” it rumbled. Its voice was like a truck’s horn, so loud it made the air shake. “All of you — get out!”

Peter felt a sudden, sickening dizziness. Abruptly, all of the Garou were back in the physical world. A loud burst of thunder was just dying out in the sky above. Ten Pig’s machete was quivering in the logs of the shelter. Outside in the pouring rain, the Black Spiral Dancers and fomori were nearly killing themselves with laughter.

Roshen staggered over against a wall and retched. Other Garou were sitting down heavily, also nauseated from having been dumped out of the Umbra so quickly and unexpectedly. Thunder Tiger glared out at the Black Spirals. “They knew!” he spat. He looked over at Peter. “They knew we wouldn’t be able to escape that way!”

The heavy rain died out a couple of hours after the sun set. It was replaced by one of the hottest nights Peter had yet to experience in the rain forest. The humidity refused to dissipate — Peter’s boxer shorts and boots, soaked by the rain, remained uncomfortably damp. The air in the crowded shelter was thick with the heat of the Garou packed into it. A few Garou from both packs had taken their smaller Lupus forms in order to provide more room for the others, but it had done little good. The shelter still felt cramped, sticky, and hot.

Outside, the Black Spiral Dancers and the Pentex First Team had set up camp. They had found dry wood somewhere and built a merry fire. Peter could pick out the stilt fomor talking to a shaggy Black Spiral while their team and packmates laughed or slept or roasted unidentifiable bits of meat over the fire. They seemed to be enjoying themselves while they waited for the trapped Garou to go mad with desperation.

Peter had found himself a nook close to the door and squeezed himself into it, his plastic-wrapped book still clutched in his hand. There were a couple of good-sized gaps between the logs around him and he had an excellent view of their captors. The other Garou probably thought he was keeping an eye on the evil forces outside. In fact, Peter had chosen the nook because it was about as far away as he could get from the other Garou. He had also hoped that the gaps would make the smell of fading Fever dissipate more quickly. Without wind, however, the odor just lingered in the air around him.

The Ghost Raptors and the rest of the Severed Arm had slowly mingled together. Wycliffe, the pale Silver Fang, and Windrunner retreated to a far corner of the shelter to discuss the strange entangled log and truck spirits that had prevented their escape in the Umbra. Roshen, Steps-Lightly, Thunder Tiger, Ten Pigs, and Joan sat or crouched in the middle of the shelter, alternating between whispered discussions and long periods of silence. Brennan, in wolf shape, lay outside their circle. He was angry, though it was hard to tell who he was angry at: their captors, the Ghost Raptors, Peter, Roshen, or Steps-Lightly.

Steps-Lightly himself seemed unusually moody. Although he was sitting with the clustered circle of Garou, he wasn’t saying much. He had also positioned himself between Ten Pigs and Joan, away from both Roshen and Thunder Tiger. Peter could guess why. The Silent Strider didn’t want to face his pack leader, while he was afraid to get too close to his lover in case the other Garou came to suspect the nature of their relationship. It wasn’t clear whether the Ghost Raptors knew about the two of them or not, but it certainly wouldn’t help the uneasy peace in the shelter if Brennan and Roshen found out.

Another hour went by. At least Peter thought it was an hour. Time passed like dripping water. The fomori, Black Spiral Dancers, and humans outside began to sing rough, obscene songs. Occasionally, some of them would slide off into the darkness and out of sight, and return to the camp from the other side. They were circling the burned-out truck and its load of dumped logs to be sure the Garou weren’t sneaking out. Peter could see a Black Spiral Dancer in wolf form sitting far enough away from the fire that the light wouldn’t interfere with its night vision. It was watching the shelter. There was an odd phosphorescence to its fur, like glowing fungus or radiation. Peter shifted slightly, and the Black Spiral turned to stare right at him. Peter glanced away before he could meet its mad gaze.

“The Garou at the Caern of Rain Spirits!” Roshen said with sudden inspiration. The other Garou raised their eyes. “They must patrol the clearcut! They’ll see what’s happening and help us!”

Thunder Tiger shook his head. “No. They don’t come over this way very much. They won’t find us.”

“Do you know that for sure?” challenged Roshen. “They’re our allies.” Thunder Tiger scratched at the dirt with a twig. “I know how they patrol.”

Brennan snorted and shifted back into Homid shape. “Do you know how we patrol, too?” he snarled.

His comment was pointed. Steps-Lightly flushed. But Thunder Tiger looked back at the Fianna with calm assurance. “Steps-Lightly has never told us anything improper.”

“But he has told you things — like where we were going and the location of our campsite, maybe?”

Roshen glowered at the muscular Garou. “Enough, Brennan. Save it until we’re out of here.”

Steps-Lightly stood anyway, leaving the circle of Garou. The others fell silent behind him. He came over to join Peter. “I knew it would come down to this someday,” he said miserably. “I just never expected it to happen under these conditions.”

“How did you expect it to happen?”

“I don’t know.” He gave the Glass Walker a crooked smile. “1 guess you never really do.”

No, Peter thought silently to himself, I guess you don’t. The smell of his cologne was strong in his nostrils. “Steps-Lightly,” he asked quietly, “have you found out yet whether any of the Ghost Raptors used the Fever when they raided the campsite?”

“What?” The look Steps-Lightly gave him was incredulous. “Is that all you can think about? Your damned cologne?”

“It’s important!”

The Silent Strider clenched his teeth. “Why? Peter, what is it with you and that cologne?”

Peter looked down at the ground. His stomach was a heavy block of ice. “I can’t tell you. I said that back at the river.”'

“I remember.” Steps-Lightly scowled. “But if it’s something that’s going to put any of us in danger, I think we need to know about it.”

Peter glanced up sharply. Steps-Lightly knew? No — the Silent Strider met his gaze, but he was nodding as though Peter had just risen to snap at his bait. Which he had. “It is something dangerous, isn’t it?” Steps-Lightly asked.

“Yes.”

“How dangerous?” Steps-Lightly leaned forward. Peter tensed. It would look suspicious if he backed away from him. “Tell me, or I don’t ask the Ghost Raptors about it.” “It’s...” Peter licked his lips. Maybe now was the time to tell the Silent Strider everything. Or... maybe not. But he would have to part with a little bit of the truth. He looked straight into Steps-Lightly’s eyes. “If they touched it, all of us could die.”

Steps-Lightly frowned, his forehead wrinkling skeptically. Peter held his gaze, but offered nothing further. If the Silent Strider didn’t believe him.... but Steps-Lightly’s frown of skepticism became thoughtful, and then concerned. After several long moments, he rose to his feet and went over to whisper in Thunder Tiger’s ear. Brennan shifted to avoid being too near the tall Garou, while Roshen glanced away. Peter saw Thunder Tiger look at his lover quizzically. Steps-Lightly just gave him a hard stare and whispered to him again.

If the gray-haired Stargazer replied, however, Peter missed it. At that moment, Wycliffe and Windrunner turned to look at the other Garou in the shelter. “We have an idea,” Windrunner announced.

“What?” asked Roshen eagerly. “I’m getting tired of being cooped up in here.”

“We think we know why we can’t get out through the Umbra.” Wycliffe glanced at Windrunner. She nodded. The Silver Fang drew a breath and continued. “The spirits of the trees were awakened by a Garou ritual before they were cut down.”

His words provoked mutters of outrage and shock among the Garou. Normally, plant spirits were a lot like plants themselves — inactive, unthinking, and slow to react. Many Garou, however, knew a ritual that would wake the spirit of a plant from its slumber. Awakened plants often had special properties, similar to those attributed to them in folklore. Usually Garou only awoke plant spirits in order to take advantage of these properties, utilizing the awakened plants with reverence and care. To waken the spirits of trees just before they were brutally cut down was barbaric.

“No Garou would do that!” Brennan said.

That wasn’t true. Peter shifted the book in his hands. “Black Spiral Dancers would.”

Wycliffe nodded. “That’s why these logs haven’t rotted away yet. In a sense, they’re still alive. We all saw the way the spirits were fighting in the Umbra. The spirit of the logging truck refuses to let the spirits of the trees go.”

“And as long as it does, we can’t get past the Umbral reflection of the logs.” Thunder Tiger nodded slowly. “But who awoke the spirit of the truck?”

“Probably no one did it deliberately. Sometimes if humans treat machines as though they had a personality, the spirits in the machines will wake in response.” Windrunner passed her hand in front of her chest. “Someone was at least attached enough to that truck to give it the name on its T-shirt.”

Roshen shifted his hand on his arm-club. “Stud. So we know the spirit’s name. Can we convince it to let go of the tree spirits? Once they’re free, we can just walk out of here, right?”

“Theoretically,” agreed Wycliffe. “There’s just one hitch: the truck is a spirit of technology. Windrunner and I don’t have much experience with that sort of thing. But...”    ■

The Garou turned as one to look at Peter. Brennan made a sour face.

A Glass Walker could deal with the truck spirit. Peter swallowed. He had never been especially good at handling spirits, but all Glass Walkers had some talent for communicating with technological spirits. More than other Garou. Peter knew that Wycliffe was right: he was their best hope for escape. Unfortunately, it would put him in the center of attention, and that was the last place he want to be right now.

He wished he still had some Fever with him. Any at all.

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. “All right. Let’s do it.” If he was going to be in the spotlight, he wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

To his dismay, Windrunner shook her head. “No. Take your time. Get yourself ready for this. You and Wycliffe will go into the Umbra. Just two — we don’t want to anger

the truck again. We’ll wait a couple more hours.”

Peter drew a deep breath. “But I want to get out now!”

“Don’t rush it, Peter.” Thunder Tiger looked at him steadily. “We’re all counting on you.”

If there was one benefit to his sudden importance, it was that the other Garou left Peter alone, presumably thinking that he would be meditating or otherwise preparing himself for the confrontation with the truck spirit. In fact, Peter spent the time looking out at the fomori and Black Spiral Dancers, trying to think about something besides the truck. Only one Garou said anything at all to him — Steps-Lightly crouched beside him long enough to whisper a single name.

Whines-a-Lot. The dead Ghost Raptor had come in contact with Peter’s Fever during the raid on the Severed Arm’s campsite. When Steps-Lightly had left, Peter drew his knees up to his chest, crossed his arms on top of them, and put his head down for a moment with a sigh of relief. It was probably best that the Black Spiral Dancers had killed Whines-a-Lot, then. It was one less thing to worry about.

When it was time, Wycliffe came over to Peter carrying his little mirror. The other Garou pretended not to notice that the two were preparing to leave, but Peter knew that they were all watching him. Wycliffe angled the mirror so that it caught the light of the fire outside, then glanced at Peter. “Have you thought about how you’re going to handle this?”

“Yeah,” Peter lied. “Sure.” He gazed into the mirror...

... and crossed into the Umbra once again. Everything was exactly the way it had been before — three walls of timbers, one of twisted metal. Peter took a breath and steeled his will. He had no idea what to do. He would just have to fly by the seat of his pants and trust his Glass

Walker instincts. Even as Wycliffe stepped into the Umbra behind him, Peter was walking up to the metal wall and banging on it with his fist. “Stud!” he bellowed. “Get out here! I want to talk to you!”

“What are you doing?” hissed Wycliffe. “We want to stay on its good side!”

“Treat the spirit like a person associated with the machine and you can’t go far wrong,” Peter replied. “And be direct. Most technological spirits tend to be pretty simple.” He pounded on the wall again. “Stud!”

“Don’t get your grungies in a knot!” The truck spirit suddenly emerged from the metal. It was just as big as it had been before, but in spite of Wycliffe’s fears, it didn’t seem particularly angry. It looked down at Peter, almost ignoring the tree spirits with which it continued to grapple. “What the hell do you want?”

Peter returned its gaze fearlessly. “Why the fuck are you still keeping these tit-useless logs around?” he shouted back.

Stud blinked, human-like eyelids sliding down over its headlight eyes. “What do you mean? I gotta haul these little sticks back to DFG!”

That was it? The truck wanted to finish its last job, as though it were some kind of frustrated mechanical ghost. Peter glanced at Wycliffe. The Silver Fang shrugged and Peter turned back to the truck spirit. This was going to be easier than he had thought “Let ’em go!” he ordered, as if he worked for Pentex’s logging company. “We don’t need them anymore.” Stud looked at him for a moment, then frowned.

“This is top-quality timber. What are you, some kind of management pencil-neck?”

Maybe not quite so easy. Peter strode over to the nearest timber wall. “It’s gone all punky in the humidity, Stud. We can’t use it.” He kicked at the wood.

The impact caused the tree spirits clinging to Stud to break out in a chorus of wails. Stud’s face clouded over. “Leave my load alone!” it roared. Peter flinched and silently cursed himself — it had been Ten Pigs sticking his machete into the wood that had gotten Stud riled up in the first place. He had forgotten that.

Wycliffe, however, apparently had not. He began to whistle, a low, airy sound like wind through leafy branches. The tree spirits settled down, and as its “load” grew more calm, so did Stud. Wycliffe nodded at Peter. The tree spirits were something he could handle. Peter looked up at Stud again. “Punky!” he repeated. He reached out to tear at a section of wood. Wycliffe guessed what he wanted to do and changed the tone of his whistle ever so slightly. One of the tree spirits struggling with Stud relaxed suddenly. The section of wood came away in Peter’s grasp. “See? That’s no good to us.”

“Shit.” Stud reached up to scratch its head. Peter smiled triumphantly as a couple of tree spirits fell from its body and scrambled away. A section of the timber wall became a little less substantial. “What do 1 do with the logs, then?”

“Just leave them here.” Another tree spirit escaped from Stud’s grasp. “If we can’t do anything with them, we might as well leave them for the jungle to....”

“Stop!”

Steps-Lightly abruptly exploded into the Umbra. Peter whirled, Wycliffe jumped, and even Stud started. “How many of you fuckers are there?” it snarled.

The Silent Strider ignored him. “Whatever you’re doing, Peter, stop! The shelter’s going to collapse!” “Then get the others into the Umbra!”

“No!” howled Stud. The truck spirit was already clutching the remaining tree spirits to itself more tightly. Its eyes were glaring with anger. “You’re trying to trick me! You’re not from DFG!” Wycliffe’s whistling rose to a wild, stormlike pitch, encouraging the tree spirits to fight. “Get

out of my face!” Stud spat at Kim, even as Steps-Lightly yelled, “No!”

The Silver Fang vanished, hurled out of the Umbra by Stud. The truck spirit turned its gaze to Steps-Lightly. “You, too!”

Suddenly, Peter was alone with the big spirit. It took a threatening step toward him. Peter raised his hands. “Listen...” he began.

Stud cut him off. “You tree-huggers and your dirty tricks make me sick! Beat it!”

Space distorted around Peter as Stud pushed him back into the real world. He found himself sprawling across the dirt floor of the shelter. The area beneath the tumbled logs seemed smaller and more cramped somehow. Then he realized why: part of one wall had fallen in, the half-rotten wood finally having given way and collapsed. Joan was gingerly probing Ten Pigs’ bloodied and torn leg. It looked like the Ghost Raptor had been caught under the falling logs.

Outside, the Black Spiral Dancers and Pentex’s First Team were laughing hysterically at the Garou’s predicament.

“They did it again!” hissed Thunder Tiger. He reached out his hand to help Peter stand. “They knew that if someone tried to free the tree spirits, the logs in the real world would crush the rest of us.”

Peter stood on his own before the Stargazer could touch him. “What happened? I don’t understand.”

“The captive tree spirits are the only things that keep the shelter standing. When they go, so does the shelter.” Roshen, standing by the entrance, slammed his arm-club against the ground in frustration. In the reduced space remaining after the collapse, he didn’t even have room to swing it. “We would either get crushed by the logs, or torn apart trying to run outside.”

“We have to get out of here soon!” Thunder Tiger’s

nostrils flared. “I can smell the stink of the Wyrm from them!” His voice was gravely, more bestial. The anger at being trapped was too much for him. His Rage was taking control.

Steps-Lightly pushed his way over. “Easy!” He took hold of Thunder Tiger’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Get a grip! You’re imagining things! There’s no wind. You can’t smell them!” He looked around. “Peter, do you think we could fight the truck spirit? Subdue it before it could push us out of the Umbra again?”

Peter wasn’t listening. He was looking out past Roshen, toward the laughing fomori and Black Spirals. There was no wind. But Thunder Tiger wasn’t imagining things. They had to get out of here. Quickly. A desperate, last-ditch plan began to form in his head. Even if it succeeded, however, he was going to suffer the consequences.

“Move over, Roshen,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Move over!” Peter spoke with such force that Roshen stepped out of his way without another word. Peter walked out to stand just in front of the entrance to the shelter. The laughter of the First Team and the Black Spirals broke off instantly. The humans with the First Team had their guns up almost before Peter had time to yelp out a command to the spirits inside them. In the startled silence that filled the air as every one of the firearms clicked and jammed, Peter shouted, “I want to talk to your leaders!”

The humans, fomori, and Black Spirals looked at each other. They probably hadn’t expected this. Pressing his luck, Peter began to walk forward. He could see the stilt fomor against the light of the First Team’s campfire. He just hoped that the pack leader of the Black Spiral Dancers was near him. His plan depended on the Black Spirals.

One of the little barbed fomor stepped into his path. Peter just stopped and locked stares with it. “Don’t,” he said threateningly. His heart was racing, but he forced his expression to remain as cold and hard as stone. When the fomor hissed, Peter allowed his Rage to rise slightly, took a step forward, and snarled back at it, baring his teeth. Even in Homid form, the threat was effective. Slowly, the fomor backed down. Peter raked his gaze across the other fomori and Black Spirals. However twisted and corrupt the creatures might be, they still respected power and strength. They parted, allowing Peter to march right up to the campfire.

The big leader of the Black Spiral Dancers was standing beside the stilt fomor. Good. Peter glared at both of them. “You’re interfering!” he growled.

The two Wyrm-tainted creatures looked at each other. Peter didn’t give them a chance to talk. He thrust his bare arm, sweaty in the night’s heat, toward the Black Spiral. “Smell.” The Black Spiral frowned. “Smell!” Peter said again.

He did, leaning forward and bringing his face so close to Peter’s arm that he could feel the creature’s hot breath on his skin. The Black Spiral wrinkled his nose in surprise, glanced up at him, then sniffed at his arm again. He reached out and put his hands against Peter’s chest, turning the Glass Walker around as he snuffled at the rest of his body. Peter suffered his touch — the crazed Garou would pay for it later. Finally, the Black Spiral Dancer smiled and pulled Peter into a tight embrace.

“1 never thought I’d see it — or smell it, rather!” he exclaimed in a disconcerting upper-class British accent. “A Garou fomor!”

CHAPTER    ELEVEN

Peter propped himself up on one elbow and reached out to twine Bryony’s auburn hair, spread out across the pillow beside him, around his fingers. “You’re incredible,” he said softly.

Bryony smiled, snuggling deeper under the bed clothes. “I have a good partner.” She rolled over and opened her arms. “Come here.”

Peter tumbled happily into her embrace. He reached up to trace her ear gently, and Bryony bent her head to kiss him. Peter could hear her breath as she inhaled the spicy scent of Fever still clinging to his skin after their passionate lovemaking. “Mmmmm....”

“More?” asked Peter, reaching for the red bottle of cologne that stood on the bedside table. Bryony caught his hand.

“Not right now, Peter. A little later, maybe.”

Bryony was finally using his first name, though she refused to let him tell her his last. She hadn’t told him hers, but he had read it on her mailbox in the apartment lobby. Bryony McLeod. She wouldn’t let him tell her anything about himself, either. Their affair was still an erotic fantasy for her — Bryony insisted on pretending that Peter was a cop, though she herself played other roles depending on her mood. She had been prisoner, chief, victim, partner... one night she had even produced a full police officer’s uniform for Peter to wear.

Their relationship had been good for Peter as well. When he was with Bryony, he could leave behind the troubles of the Garou of the Taddle Creek Sept. Bryony’s fantasy helped. Here he was just her sexy cop and nothing more. It was a welcome break.

The snow plague was spreading. Nine of Toronto’s twenty Garou — nineteen with Pretty Boy gone — were sick now, three more in the last week and a half. Most of them were bedridden like his mother. A few still forced themselves up and about. Critter, the doctor-veterinarian, was searching medical databases around the world for clues about the mysterious disease. Treads-the-Lines, one of the sept elders, was trying desperately to hold everything together. And Alex... Alex was still seeking to track down the source of the plague in the city. He had come down with the debilitating disease himself only a few days ago. Now more or less housebound, he had Trojan, Calamity, and Margie running around the city for him.

Fortunately, Treads-the-Lines and Gavin, another elder now bed-ridden, had laid an excellent foundation of secrecy. No Garou outside the city had yet heard of the snow plague. The Kinfolk in Toronto were helping their Garou relatives as best they could. Even the forces of the Wyrm seemed unaware of the disaster that had struck its enemies. Jubilee Arthurs had disappeared into the black glass skyscraper of Pentex’s Toronto branch offices. Toronto seemed blissfully quiet, though that might have been a function of the bitter cold-snap that had settled over the city. Not even fomori wanted to go outside. Peter settled into the warmth of Bryony’s body.

The telephone rang. Bryony flung her head back and groaned, then grabbed for the phone beside the bed. Peter stopped her with a kiss. “That one’s dead, remember? We broke it last week. Let your machine get it.”

Bryony sighed. “I can’t. It might be something important.” She returned his kiss quickly, then threw back the covers and grabbed a green satin robe, wrapping it around herself as she walked out into the living room. She picked up the phone. “Hello? Yes, speaking.”

Peter rolled over into the hot spot that Bryony had left behind, luxuriating in the feel of another person’s body heat. He fluffed the pillows and sat up against the wall at the head of the bed, waiting for Bryony to return. He could hear her voice clearly from the other room.

She listened to the person on the phone for several minutes, then asked, “Are you sure? Just my office?” There was a pause before Bryony spoke again. “Everything?” She seemed irritated. “Well, then get the travel agency on the phone and order me a ticket. Yes, now. It didn’t seem too late for you to call me, did it?” She inhaled slowly, listening again. “Look, we’ll talk in the morning. 1 have a... guest right now.” She glanced through the bedroom door at Peter. He flashed her a quick smile, though it was clear that something was wrong. She turned away without returning his smile. “If that’s what’s going to happen, I want to be out of here as quickly as possible.” Her breath hissed between her teeth suddenly. “Don’t give me that! It’s not my fault!”

She slammed the telephone handset down into its cradle with a bang, and stood with her back to Peter, head down and arms folded. Peter pushed back the blankets and went over to lean against the doorframe. “What’s the matter?”

Bryony sighed angrily and lifted her head, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “The firm has decided to take me off the Fever account — hell, they’ve decided to drop it altogether. They want me to leave everything I’m doing and fly back to the head office.”

“Why did they call so late?”

“Head office is in London. They called my boss. He decided to call me right away.” She turned suddenly. Her pale, yellow-green eyes were shining. “This is it, Peter. This is our last night together.”

“No.” Peter stood up straight, his heart dropping abruptly into his stomach. “You’ll be back, won’t you? And you won’t be leaving for a couple more days at least.” Bryony walked over to him and put her hand against his naked chest, rubbing it in slow circles. “I’m sorry, Peter.

This has to end cleanly. Now.” She looked into his eyes. “You understand, don’t you?”

She didn’t give him any time to reply, just leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips were warm. Helplessly, sadly, Peter wrapped his arms around her and returned her kiss. Her free arm slid down his back, then she was behind him, pulling him back into the bedroom. She drew him over to the closet and removed the police officer’s uniform. “Put it on,” she ordered. “One last time.”

Peter took the uniform, crisply pressed and covered in filmy plastic from the dry cleaners. He slid the plastic off the hangers, then the starched blue shirt. The fabric was stiff against his skin as he pulled it on; the wool of the pants was scratchy. Bryony sat back on the bed and watched him. Peter tried not to look at her, half-heartedly turning the act of dressing into a reverse striptease. What was he going to do without their sex to drown his troubles? How was he going to escape them now?

When he had finished dressing, Bryony rose and brought the bottle of Fever over to him. She uncapped it and held it under his nose. The warm, spicy fragrance tickled Peter’s nostrils. “One last time, lover,” Bryony whispered. “Breathe deeply.”

The night seemed colder than ever as Peter left Bryony’s apartment building. He drove home in silence. She had given him the uniform to keep. A souvenir, she had said. She had given him the bottle of Fever as well, though she must have known that he had another bottle, an earlier gift, at home.

As he passed the corner of Yonge and Bloor streets, he rolled down his window and hurled the Fever out. The red glass bottle shattered on the sidewalk.

When he got home, he received his second surprise of the night. There were a number of cars parked around his house and the lights in his living room were on. Peter recognized the cars — they belonged to some of the city’s Garou. He saw Alex’s truck. He parked across the street and walked up to the front steps, the uniform draped over his shoulder.

Trojan opened the door from inside before Peter could unlock it. “Come in,” he said, “We’ve been waiting.” His voice was flat, his face blank. He avoided looking at Peter.

Garou filled Peter’s living room. Every healthy Garou in Toronto was there, and even some who were sick. Critter, Treads-the-Lines, and Alex sat side by side on the sofa. Aunt Penny, the old guardian of the Taddle Creek Caern and the only sept elder who had not so far fallen to the snow plague, occupied one of the armchairs. Peter was surprised to see her. She only left her post at the caern when extremely serious matters were to be discussed — and usually serious matters were discussed at the caern. Other Garou sat on the floor or perched on chairs brought in from the kitchen. Calamity, Trojan, and Margie. The older Garou Soon-ai and Anthony Gremlin. Nelly and J.D., two pups barely past their First Change and the Rite of Passage.

They had left the second armchair for him. Peter hung the uniform by the door with his coat and sat down. “What is it? What’s happening?”

“We found the source of the snow plague,” Alex said simply. He drew a shallow breath and added, “It’s Pentex.” “Shit.” Peter slammed a fist into the arm of his chair. “I knew it!” He looked over at the red-haired Garou. “How did you do it?”

“Once we had eliminated every possibility that the disease was biological or spiritual in origin, we began to wonder if it might have been deliberately constructed,” Critter replied. “When we realized that, we started scanning databases — and breaking in to go through hardcopy files — in every bioengineering lab in the city.” He spread his hands. “Nothing. Treads-the-Lines even hacked into Pentex’s laboratory files.”

“Then what?”

Alex licked his lips almost nervously. “Then I had Treads-the-Lines run a keyword search through every document file he could lay his hands on in Pentex’s system. Reports, briefs, memos, you name it. We finally got a break.”

“What did you find?” Peter leaned forward eagerly. “A description of the symptoms? A cure?”

“Not exactly. It was only a memo. Pretty heavily encrypted. But we got an office number and we decided to go in and have a look-see.” Alex shifted slightly. “We sent Margie, Trojan, and Calamity in earlier tonight.” Peter frowned. “You should have called me. I would have gone.”

Treads-the-Lines and Critter both shot Alex a glance. The red-haired Glass Walker hesitated, then said, “You were already with Bryony. We didn’t want to bother you — and you never told any of us her phone number.”

“You could have found out easily enough.” Peter’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “If you could hack into Pentex’s system, you could hack into Bell Canada.”

“Without a surname or an address?”

“You could have used her first name. I don’t think many people have a name like that.”

Alex went white and Treads-Lightly hissed, but before they could say anything else, Calamity growled, “Enough! We didn’t ask you along, okay? You missed one raid — now will you just listen to Alex? This is important'.”

The room was silent for a moment, then Peter looked down at his feet. “Sorry. I’ve had a bad night.”

“It’s... not going to get any better.” Alex took a deep breath. “Trojan, Margie, and Calamity got into the Pentex branch offices without too much trouble. They found the office, picked up some stuff, and got the hell out of there. What they brought back was interesting.” He reached down and picked up a briefcase from the floor. Placing it on his lap, he opened it and reached inside. “This is the

ultimate source of the snow plague.”

He held up a single, reddish-purple flower.

Peter twitched away instinctively. “If it’s the source, why are you holding it with your bare hands?”

“First, I’ve already got the snow plague.” Alex turned the flower around so that Peter could see all of it. “Second, the flower seems to be more or less harmless on its own. It would probably make you feel sick for a few minutes, but nothing more. Pentex processes it to create the disease.”

Peter looked at the flower more carefully. “It looks fresh.”

“It isn’t. We did some fast research,” Critter said, indicating a book he held. “It looks like it may be the flower of a kind of ginger. Probably a night-bloomer.” He flipped open to a specific page and passed the volume to Peter, pointing to some pictures. None of the illustrations matched the reddish-purple flower exactly, but they were similar. “The closest things we can come up with are a couple of species on the lower right there — they were recorded in the 1930s during an expedition in Brazil, in the rain forests south of the Amazon. If that flower came from anywhere, it came all the way from Brazil.” “Couldn’t have. It’s not even wilted.”

Alex nodded. “It did. The reason it looks so fresh is that its spirit has been awakened.”

Peter whistled. “Other Garou?”

“More likely Black Spiral Dancers were involved.” Alex twirled the stem of the flower between his fingertips. “If you were to look at this flower in the Umbra, Peter, you wouldn’t believe the difference. Its spirit is bruised and crushed, as though it’s been tortured. Black Spirals know rituals to awake plant spirits just as we do — except their rituals are usually more brutal. The rituals probably created the first seed of the plague in this flower.” He looked up. “I think if we can get more of the flowers and awaken them ourselves, we might be able to create a cure for the plague.”

“That’s fantastic!” Peter reached out. “Can I hold the flower?” Alex glanced at Critter. The doctor nodded.

“I wouldn’t recommend smelling it, though. The awakening seems to have reduced its odor considerably, but it’s probably better to be on the safe side.”

Alex passed the flower to Peter. The blond Glass Walker took it gently, expecting to feel a tingle or nausea from the contact. He felt nothing. His nose itched, instinct prompting him to smell the flower in spite of Critter’s warning. He could already detect a faint, unidentifiable fragrance. Peter looked away from the flower before he gave in to temptation. “What else did you find in the office?”

“An airplane ticket. Manaus, Brazil, to Toronto via Miami. Return.”

“I guess that fits with the flower. What else?”

“Some...” Alex paused, biting his lip. Peter looked up to see tears in his friend’s eyes.

“What?” he asked softly.

Alex 'took a small box of business cards from the briefcase, then fumbled one out. He handed it to Peter.

BuyoNy McLeod, senior Consultant. Manning and Bouchard advertising, inc.

Peter’s hand started to shake. He looked around the room at the assembled Garou of the Taddle Creek Sept. Their eyes were hard. “No.” He turned back to Critter, Treads-the-Lines, and Alex. Treads-the-Lines reached out and spun the briefcase around, showing Peter the last thing that the Garou had found in the office at Pentex.

A dozen red boxes of Fever.

Peter looked at the reddish-purple flower in his hand. Then, suddenly, convulsively, he brought it to his face and breathed in its faint perfume.

Warm, spicy. Like the top note in Fever. But underneath... foul. Like Fever when it faded.

He crushed the business card in his fist.

“No,” he repeated. He hurled the flower away, into the briefcase, and shoved the book off his lap. “No! No, it can’t be! I’m not sick!”

“But virtually every Garou you’ve come in contact with since New Year’s Eve is!” Alex was on his feet. “‘Bryony’ was the keyword we used to search the Pentex system, Peter. And we found it on a memo reporting her success in infecting a Garou. Don’t you see? She was using you. She got you hooked on Fever. You’re the carrier! As long as you’re using the Fever, you’re safe. But the moment it fades and starts to smell bad, you’re infectious.” He seized the flower and shook it in Peter’s face. “Just like the flower! We can’t catch the snow plague from each other. Your touch causes snow plague!”

“No.” It made sense. His mother — Peter had kissed her the first time he saw her after New Year’s Eve. She was probably the first Garou he had seen. And she was the first Garou to contract snow plague. And the next three to fall ill with it had come to visit her... and had given him a hug of condolence. Or at least shaken his hand. Peter knew he had shaken Critter’s hand. And handed money to Old Moses Yonge-and-Queen. And he had been working out with Pretty Boy, slapping him, sweating hard, and stinking of fading Fever. The night of the ambush at the warehouse, he had tapped Alex’s cheek and joked when the red-haired Glass Walker had complained about the smell. He was making the Garou of his sept fall ill. Peter stared at his hands.

“No!” he screamed. His touch... Peter grabbed wildly for one of the boxes in the briefcase. Not a Garou in the room moved to stop him as he tore it open and pulled out the bottle of cologne inside. With trembling hands, he sprayed himself with the tainted scent until Fever was dripping from his cheeks. And he was safe again.

He heard the scrape of wood on wood as someone opened a window. Cold air rushed into the room.

The phone call that night. It hadn’t been Bryony’s bosses ordering her back to London. It had been Pentex, telling her that Garou had broken into her office and discovered her secret. Bryony... Peter pushed himself to his feet. “I have to go out. I’ll be back.”

“Peter.” Alex caught his shoulder. “There’s something else you have to know.” He took a breath. “Cassie died tonight. Your mother’s dead.”

Peter turned slowly. He just stared at his friend. Alex met his gaze with quiet compassion. “It was sudden,” he said. “Her temperature just shot up without any warning. There was nothing we could do.”

“It appears to be the last stage of the plague, Peter,” Critter added. “It could be neurological. I’ll have to do an autopsy to know for sure.”

Peter looked back and forth between the two of them. The room was receding, the whole world moving away. His fingers tingled. His senses narrowed. Rage was sweeping over him. When he spoke, his voice seemed distant, detached. “When?” he asked huskily.

“About three hours ago. Just before Calamity, Trojan, and Margie got back from Pentex.”

Three hours ago, he had been making love to Bryony. “I have to go.” His voice was deep, his words almost lost in a growl. Peter stumbled to the door, barely conscious of the Garou who stepped out of his way. He flung the door open to the night and looked up into the sky.

A full moon had risen over the snow-covered city. Peter breathed deeply, sucking in the stinging, cold air. Then he threw back his head and howled.

Bryony’s apartment was fifteen minutes away by car. It would have taken a human maybe an hour to walk there. In Crinos form, Peter made it in half an hour, loping along the empty nighttime streets, leaping through backyards when he had the chance. He was too angry to drive. In the grip of his Rage, he was too angry to control himself at all. If he had met any humans, he would have torn them to pieces. Fortunately, he encountered no one. Not even the dogs in the houses he passed dared to bark as he went by.

In the lobby of Bryony’s apartment building, he punched at the buzzer for her suite — then drove his fist into the panel of buzzers and wrenched it out of the wall. Electricity poured through him. It didn’t matter if she answered or not! He snarled at the spirit in the lock on the door. It unlocked itself for him.

The elevator ride up to her floor seemed to take an excruciatingly long time. When Peter emerged from the elevator, he left the walls covered with deep claw marks. He raked his talons along the walls of the corridor as well. He didn’t knock on Bryony’s door.

He simply shattered it and walked in through the wreckage.

Bryony must have known that Peter or another Garou would be coming for her. Her scent in the apartment was cold. She was already gone.

CHAPTER   TWELVE

“Impossible!” screeched the stilt fomor in his high-pitched voice. He folded himself down to examine Peter more closely. As he neared, Peter realized that his tongue was as long and thin as the rest of him. It was forked and flickered out of his narrow face like a snake’s. “Impossible!” Peter pushed the Black Spiral Dancer away. “No — just something you’ve never seen before.”

“Garou of other tribes sometimes see the Wyrm’s true glory, Scarecrow. I can smell the Wyrm on him.” The Black Spiral Dancer stuck out his hand and smiled at Peter. Under his shaggy hair, his skin was pale and his face sharp with the cruel beauty of long in-breeding. “I’m Kwargkh Neville-Harris, leader of the Bitter Fire pack.” Neville-Harris was probably the Wyrm-tainted Garou’s human name, while Kwargkh would be his Black Spiral name. Peter had heard that Black Spiral Dancers were given names based on the twisted sounds they uttered after looking into the face of the Wyrm during some horrible rite. “Kwargkh” sounded like the noise of somebody choking. Peter shook hands with the Black Spiral and offered him the first false name that came to mind. “Grinder.”

The stilt fomor, Scarecrow, snorted, a sound that came out more like a horse’s whinny. “If you’re so special, what are you doing here, Grinder?”

“Infiltrating a pack of Garou,” Peter shot back. He tried to keep his voice steady, and to sound angry, as if he believed the story he was making up. He itched to glance back and see what the Severed Arm and the Ghost Raptors were doing, but he didn’t dare. “Learning their plans. At least I was until you showed up!”

“You should know that we patrol this area.” Scarecrow scrutinized him suspiciously. “We have orders to kill any Garou we encounter.”

“1 have orders, too — stay with these Garou. If they go to the Caern of Rain Spirits, so do I.”

“Why didn’t you identify yourself before now, then?” hissed Scarecrow. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble.”

Peter grimaced. “And blow my cover? I thought we could get away from you or that you would just give up and leave.”

“Aren’t you blowing your cover right now by coming out and talking to us?”

“I have them in the palm of mind,” Peter lied coolly. “They’ll believe almost anything I tell them.” He winked mischievously and added, “I told them I was coming out here to try to trick you.”

Scarecrow scowled, but Kwargkh slapped an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Excellent! I love it! Oh, and incidentally,” he leaned close to whisper loudly, “are they really all yours? I could have sworn the ones we chased out of the clearcut were a separate pack.”

Beauty hadn’t been the only effect of the in-breeding in the case of the Black Spiral Dancer, it seemed. The presence of the Ghost Raptors had been the weak link in Peter’s story, but Kwargkh had bought it without a second thought. Unfortunately, he had probably just raised Scarecrow’s suspicions by pointing out the existence of two packs. Peter added a little truth to his story to try to compensate. “They are.”

Kwargkh smiled. “I don’t suppose you could... you know... give them to us? We caught one, but he died almost right away.”

Peter struggled to control his Rage and revulsion. “Sorry,” he said instead, “I have plans for them. Allies to exploit and all that.”

“Of course. Still, if it doesn’t work out...”

“I’ll keep you in mind.” Peter hoped that Whines-a-Lot hadn’t suffered much before the Black Spirals killed him. He contented himself with knowing that even now Kwargkh would be contracting snow plague from his contact with Peter. When a Black Spiral grew weak, his packmates seldom allowed him to burden them for long. “Now about the current situation?”

Scarecrow’s narrow mouth twisted with displeasure. “I suppose we could allow you to escape.”

That would be no good. Peter didn’t trust Pentex’s minions that much. And he wondered if the other Garou would be willing to follow his instructions when he returned to the shelter. At least he wouldn’t have to try to trick them. They would know why the First Teams and Black Spirals were leaving. They’d know too well. “I was thinking more along the lines of you just leaving, as if you had finally gotten tired of waiting. Try to make it look natural — I can convince them of just about anything, but it’s easier if what I tell them is fairly close to the truth.” “Of course!” Kwargkh agreed. “First rule of lying.” “How do we know you’re not lying to us right now?” asked Scarecrow coldly.

Peter glared back at him. “One, you know that I’m a fomor. Two, why would I be trying to save all of them if I were lying? I’d be saving my own neck first. Three...” he lunged forward suddenly, shifting to Crinos form, and praying that Kwargkh would understand what he was doing. The Black Spiral Dancer was still a Garou, no matter how twisted. Peter seized one of Scarecrow’s spindly legs and yanked it out from under him. Scarecrow fell backward, limbs flying. Peter held the leg over his knee, poised to bring the thin limb down and snap it as though it were a stick of dry wood.

Black Spirals, fomori, and humans started, some raising useless guns, some jumping forward to aid their leader. But Kwargkh just let out a howling laugh and slapped Peter on the back. “Three, he could make kindling out of you,

Scarecrow. Might makes right. A Garou who knows how to get things done.” He pulled Peter away from the fallen fomor. “We’ll withdraw. Good luck with your mission, Grinder!”

“Thanks.” Peter returned to Homid form. “Give me five minutes to make them forget I came out here, then retreat.”

“Certainly.”

Peter turned and walked away from the fomor and the Black Spiral Dancer. He half expected Scarecrow to attack him from behind, but the fomor let him go. He drew a tight breath in relief.

His night vision returned as he walked away from the campfire. At first the logging truck, its fallen load, and the shelter within were just dark shapes. Then the shapes took form. The Severed Arm and the Ghost Raptors were all watching him with silent intensity. Surely those with sharper ears would have heard what he had told Kwargkh and Scarecrow. For the first time, Peter broke out in a sweat. He hoped he would have a chance to explain to them — and they wouldn’t just tear him apart out of hand as a traitor. He paused just outside the entrance to the shelter. “Let me in and wait five minutes!” he whispered. “I’ll explain!”

“Sure you will,” rumbled Brennan. “You’ll convince us of everything!”

“No!” Peter looked for Steps-Lightly’s tall, lean form. “Steps-Lightly, remember what you said at the river? There’s a fine line between betrayal and duty to a higher cause.”

The Silent Strider was quiet for a moment longer, then turned to the other Garou and murmured, “Let him in.” He glanced back at Peter. “But this time, you’re going to have to tell us all what’s going on!”

“I will.” He slipped through the entrance and into the shelter. “Nobody touch me.”

“Is that a threat?” Roshen growled.

“No.” Peter stopped where he could see the Black Spiral Dancers and the First Team’s camp clearly. “It’s a very serious warning.”

Kwargkh kept his word. After about five minutes he yelled for his Black Spiral Dancers to pull out, that there was no point in waiting any longer for the prey to emerge. Scarecrow shrieked a similar order to the First Team. Some of the humans complained about having to move in the middle of the night, but a nasty, indifferent stare from the fomor got them moving quickly. Someone extinguished the campfire. Within fifteen or twenty minutes, all of the Wyrm’s servants had disappeared into the darkness. Peter waited a few minutes more, then turned to the other Garou in the shelter. “They’re gone. Let’s go.”

“No,” said Thunder Tiger. He and Roshen had been whispering together.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked in surprise. “They’ve left. We can make it to the cover of the forest.”

Roshe'n tapped his arm-club on the ground. “We stay here until morning. The shelter is defensible. For all we know, the fomori and Black Spirals could be hiding out there, waiting to ambush us.”

“But they said...” protested Peter.

“We know what they said.” Roshen cut him off. “And we also know what you said.” He sat down. “It’s time for you to tell us what the hell’s going on.”

Peter looked around at the hard faces of the Severed Arm and the Ghost Raptors. Then he sat down as well. Reluctantly, he began to tell his story.

When he had finished, the Garou were silent. Dawn was approaching. He had taken the flower out of his book, showing them, in the wan, pale light, the same pictures that Critter had shown him. None of the Garou would handle the flower in spite of his assurances that it was safe. Those closest to him had edged a little farther away.

Finally, Windrunner looked up at him. “So which of us has your plague now?”

Peter shook his head. “No one, I think. I’ve been very careful.”

“In the sweat lodge?” asked Brennan. “Roshen smelled the Fever then.”

“Yes. But I just said I’ve been careful.” The Glass Walker pointed at Roshen. “I told you I didn’t want to take a sweat bath. But think — did I touch any of you when I wasn’t wearing Fever? Did any of you touch me?” “At the river,” Steps-Lightly said quietly. “I touched you when we were running from the First Team.”

“You should be safe. I had just washed. Critter thought maybe Fever altered my sweat glands, so I actually secrete the smell and the disease. I can wash it away, but it comes back again. Using more Fever has the same effect and lasts longer. Maybe Pentex puts something in it that covers up the stench of the Wyrm. Either way, it doesn’t take long for the smell to come back and my touch to be... infectious.” Peter’s tongue stumbled on that word. It was still hard for him to say it and know that he was talking about himself.

Thunder Tiger snarled. “This is why Steps-Lightly was asking me about Whines-a-Lot, wasn’t it? He sprayed himself with your Fever. He could have infected any one of us.”

Peter looked at the Stargazer and the three other Ghost Raptors and nodded. “He could have. I don’t know how much exposure to Fever is needed to make someone a carrier.” He looked down and scratched a finger through the dirt. “I had a heavy exposure the first night I met Bryony. Just a squirt might have made Whines-a-Lot a weak carrier, or it might have made him just as contagious as me. I don’t know for sure.” He glanced up again. “I’m sorry.”

“That does a lot of good,” sighed Roshen. “Peter, what are we supposed to do with you now?”

Peter stared at the ground again. This was the moment he had been dreading, the moment that had kept him from revealing his secret to the pack earlier.

Garou justice was swift and harsh, often touched by the Garou’s Rage. It was usually backed up by the power of magical rituals as well. Peter had once taken part in a ritual called the Stone of Scorn. The offending Garou had been made to stand on a rock, visible to all of the gathered Garou, and then taunted and pelted with garbage, mocked and shamed for his crime. The shaming had been an effective punishment — that Garou had walked with his head hung low for months.

But shaming was one of the lighter sentences of the Garou.

“Kill him!” howled Brennan. “Kill the Glass Walker! He’s a fomor, he’s poisoned his sept, and Garou have died because of him!” The muscular Fianna leaped to his feet, eyes blazing, fists clenched. “He’s a danger to all of us!” “Possibly,” said Roshen.

Peter kept his eyes down, not daring to look up for fear that the action might be taken as a challenge. It hadn’t been his fault. He had been tricked. Peter realized that he was breathing hard, his heart pounding, his panic as strong as it had been when the fomori were chasing him.

Brennan wasn’t finished speaking, however. “I call for the rite of Gaia’s Vengeful Teeth to be cast against this Wyrm-lover!”

Silence fell over the room. Peter’s head snapped up. Gaia’s Vengeful Teeth was a horrible punishment reserved only for Garou who had committed the very worst of crimes. Gaia herself rejected the offender: her stony bones turned to sharp silver under his feet and hands, while Garou chased him with silver-tipped whips until he was exhausted and fell helplessly to the unloving earth. “No!” “Maybe,” said Roshen. “But that’s for the elders of the caern to decide. We don’t have the authority to pass that kind of judgment.” He looked at Peter. “I say we should

take him back to Sky River for a proper trial.”

“Punish him with a shunning,” Thunder Tiger suggested. He leaned forward. “Since his touch spreads the disease, it would be appropriate.”

Peter hoped that Roshen would listen to him. Shunning involved a simple ritual that marked the offender, temporarily casting him out of Garou society. Garou would ignore him, acting as if he didn’t exist, isolating him. The offender would have no contact with others of his kind. This left him in a dangerous predicament —the lone Garou would no longer have his pack to support him. In a hostile environment like the Amazon, it could be especially dangerous. But Peter thought he could deal with that — given the alternatives. Being alone might not be so bad.

Roshen just glared at Thunder Tiger angrily, however. “Keep your opinions to yourself, Ghost Raptor! He’s part of our pack, not yours!”

The Ghost Raptors growled in response to the Silver Fang’s harsh words. Thunder Tiger frowned. “You could at least listen to...”

Steps-Lightly gestured for him to be quiet. He looked at his pack leader. “Roshen, remember that Peter is a member of the pack — even if it’s only provisionally! Don’t we owe him more than just a judgment?” The Silent Strider rose and moved over to stand behind Peter. Peter almost expected Steps-Lightly to put his hands on his shoulders, but, of course, he didn’t. “It strikes me that he hasn’t knowingly done anything wrong. Pentex tricked him.” He took a deep breath. “I say we help him.”

Peter blinked in surprise and twisted his head around to look up at Steps-Lightly. The tall Garou looked back at him soberly. “If we’re going to put him on trial, at least let’s not condemn the other Garou of Toronto as well. They need the cure.”

Roshen’s eyes narrowed. “Sit down, Steps-Lightly.” “No.”

“I second him, Roshen,” said Windrunner. The Uktena was propped against one wall of the shelter. The wound in her leg had been bandaged, but it would take her several days to recover from the silver bullet-inflicted injury. “We have to help Peter find the cure for the plague. Maybe even the source — what if Pentex makes more Fever? They could have already. The stuff could be anywhere in the world. And what if they find a way to make humans the carriers?”

“Don’t listen to them, Roshen!” urged Brennan. “He’s Wyrm-tainted! Kill him now! We have that right!”

“He saved us all,” Windrunner reminded the Fianna. “Shut up, Brennan.” Roshen considered what she had said, then looked at Steps-Lightly. “How exactly are we supposed to help him? The Amazon is a big place — Peter said that himself. Have you ever seen this flower of his?” Steps-Lightly shook his head. “No? Windrunner? Brennan? Thunder Tiger? Wycliffe, Joan, Ten Pigs?”

Each Garou in turn shook their head. Roshen nodded. “The best scout pack in the Amazon and the well-traveled Ghost Raptors have never seen the flower. What are we supposed to do next? Follow Peter’s hit and miss strategy?” He sat back. “Peter, I think Steps-Lightly is right. You’re a member of the pack — we owe you support. But there’s nothing we can do.”

Brennan grinned viciously. Peter’s spirit sank. “Nothing?”

“We can’t ask for help for the same reasons you couldn’t. Any Garou we. show the flower to is going to want to know what’s happening.” Roshen’s face was sober. “We’ll have to take you back to Sky River and put you on trial.”

“Wait.” Steps-Lightly cut Roshen off with a wave of his hand. “What if there is someone who might be able to help us? Would you be willing to put off returning to Sky River until we had consulted them — maybe until we had found the cure if they can give us the help we need?”

“I suppose so.”

Brennan sputtered in frustration. “What about the raid on Pentex? We have to get word back to Golgol about the rainstorm!”

“I think Golgol has already planned on the storm. We negotiated exactly what he wanted. And we have a month before the raid. We won’t miss it. If we do this at all.” Roshen frowned in thought. “Who were you thinking of asking?”

Steps-Lightly turned to Thunder Tiger. Peter caught something meaningful in his gaze. Thunder Tiger’s eyes went wide. “No!” he said in disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m very serious.”

“They wouldn’t help.”

“They might.” His look was imploring. “You see the point, don’t you? We have to find a cure for the plague. Not just for Peter. For all Garou. And if Pentex is making Fever out of the spirits of flowers from the Amazon, isn’t that the sort of thing that Panthesilea wants the Ghost Raptors to stop? Abuse of the spirits?” The Stargazer was wavering. Steps-Lightly drew a shallow, nervous breath. “If you won’t do it for the Garou or for Panthesilea, will you at least do it for me?”

Thunder Tiger inhaled sharply. Peter covertly glanced around the shelter. Steps-Lightly had come very close to revealing his and Thunder Tiger’s own secret — for Peter’s sake. The Silent Strider’s words might have been innocent, pressing a friendship and nothing more, but if Garou knew what to listen for... Windrunner’s eyebrows were up. So were Joan’s and Wycliffe’s. They had guessed what was happening. Suspicion flashed across Roshen’s face, but nothing else. Brennan and Ten Pigs didn’t react at all. Peter turned to look at Steps-Lightly again. The Silent Strider gave him the briefest of smiles.

Thunder Tiger was silent for a moment. “All right,” he said finally. His voice was reluctant, but there was a grudging warmth in his words. He sighed. “We might as well get started, then. No sense wasting time.” The gray-haired Garou pointed to Ten Pigs and Wycliffe. “We’ll need one of the native Uktena to help us and to translate. Go to the Caern of Rain Spirits and get Jubati. Tell him to prepare for a trip upriver. A week maybe. We’ll meet you by the canoes.” The two Ghost Raptors nodded and scrambled to their feet. Once out of the shelter, they shifted into Lupus form.

“Watch out for Pentex and the Black Spirals!” Thunder Tiger yelled. “We won’t get lucky a second time!” He looked at Steps-Lightly. “Happy?”

“Thank you.”

Roshen was angry. “Don’t you think you should be asking me if we’ll go or not?” he snapped.

Thunder Tiger glanced at him. “All right — will you?” Roshen flushed. Peter knew that he couldn’t say “no” now if he wanted to. It would shame him in front of the others. Even saying “yes” would make it look as though he were merely rubber-stamping Thunder Tiger’s plan, agreeing just so his voice would be heard. He would probably have been better off if he had said nothing to Thunder Tiger at all. Peter jumped in for him, quickly asking, “Who are we going to ask help from?”

The Stargazer grunted. “Allies... of a sort.”

They returned to the banks of the Amazon, back through the regrowth and into the heavy strip of rain forest that Pentex had left standing. Wilderness had never felt so welcome to Peter. Except for Roshen and Windrunner, they traveled in Lupus form, every sense alert. Roshen supported Windrunner, carrying his arm club and Peter’s book on his back in a sling improvised from fatigues belonging to one of the Ghost Raptors. Peter wasn’t sure where the First Team and the Black Spiral Dancers had gone after they had left the vicinity of the log shelter, but he didn’t want to meet them again.

Thankfully, they made it through the rain forest without incident. Roshen took them first to the spot where the Severed Arm had hidden its canoes. The vessels were still there. Peter had been afraid that the Ghost Raptors would have discovered their location and sabotaged them, just as they had their cached supplies at the campsite. Roshen gestured for the pack to put the canoes into the water, but Thunder Tiger stopped him. “You might as well wait. We have a few hours until Wycliffe and Ten Pigs will be here.”

“Don’t we have to make it to wherever your lot hid your canoes?”

Thunder Tiger shook his head and pulled aside some low-hanging branches. There were two more canoes hidden beside the Severed Arm’s.

Roshen flushed. “Of all the cheap... how long were you on our trail?” The Silver Fang glared at Steps-Lightly, who turned away.

“Since you left the Purus for the Amazon,” answered Thunder Tiger. “You almost caught us that night.”

“How?” Roshen cursed. “How? You couldn’t have followed us on the river or we would have seen you. You couldn’t have followed us along the shore or we would have left you behind.”

Thunder Tiger didn’t reply. From what Peter had overheard the night he had first seen the Stargazer and Steps-Lightly together, though, he already knew the answer: the Ghost Raptors traveled in the Umbra, invisible to those in the physical world, yet still able to peer through the Gauntlet and watch the Severed Arm. He was sure that if Roshen thought about it, he would figure out the same thing. Thunder Tiger certainly wouldn’t tell him, however. Why should he give away one of the secrets of the Ghost Raptors?

Instead the Stargazer busied himself rolling over one of the Ghost Raptors’ canoes and sweeping out the insects that had taken refuge inside. The renegade pack traveled even more lightly than the Severed Arm; they carried only a single pack of gear between them. Then again, the Severed Arm had no gear at all now. All that they had was Peter’s plastic-wrapped book with the flower inside. “We’ll leave as soon as the others get here with Jubati.” “Why the rush?” growled Roshen. “None of us slept last night, two of your packmates will have just run to the caern and back, and one of mine still has a silver bullet in her leg.” Windrunner had been gasping through teeth clenched against pain by the time they had reached the river. Now she sat against a tree, face pale and sweating. Peter had been afraid that she might have contracted snow plague, but she assured him it was just the pain from her wound.

Thunder Tiger gave Roshen a cool stare. “Do you want to spend the night waiting for the fomori and Black Spiral Dancers to come for us?” He glanced at Windrunner. “She can rest while we travel. Jubati will paddle for her. Joan, take care of the bullet.”

The blond Ghost Raptor gestured for Steps-Lightly to help her, then knelt beside Windrunner and whispered in her ear. The Uktena nodded. Joan produced a narrow knife, a pair of forceps, and a piece of thick leather from a pocket of her fatigues. She unwrapped the bandages around Windrunner’s leg and whistled, then nodded to Steps-Lightly. The Silent Strider held Windrunner down. Joan put the piece of leather between the other woman’s teeth and readied her knife.

Peter averted his eyes. Bloody combat didn’t phase him, but brutal surgery was another story. He heard Windrunner shriek with agony through the leather. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about infection. With the silver out of her body, she would heal a good bit faster.

Roshen stared for a moment, then turned back to Thunder Tiger. “You can’t order my pack around.”

“Didn’t Windrunner agree to let Joan help her? I don’t think I’ve ordered any of your packmates to do anything,”

the gray-haired Garou replied calmly.

“You decided when we’ll travel, who’ll paddle with my pack, and where we’re going! You don’t let my pack —- or your own — rest. Your pack harries us and wrecks our campsite.” Roshen paused, then hissed, “You corrupted Steps-Lightly and made him betray us!”

Thunder Tiger remained unruffled. “I’ve decided when the Ghost Raptors will travel. You’re certainly welcome to lead the Severed Arm however you like. However, I’d suggest that you follow us — we’re the only ones who know how to get where we’re going.” He turned his back on the Silver Fang. “As for rest, we’ve got time now. Why don’t you use it?”

Roshen snarled like a chainsaw and struck out at Thunder Tiger with his arm-club.

Peter might have missed what happened next if he had blinked at the wrong time. Thunder Tiger whirled, caught the club, yanked and twisted, ducked down and thrust with his shoulder. Roshen ended up on the ground, his arm-club in Thunder Tiger’s hands, and the Stargazer’s knee on his chest.

“I thought we both understood that our truce of last night was to be extended while we looked for a cure for the plague. So much for unspoken peace agreements, I guess.” Now Thunder Tiger’s teeth were clenched in anger. “But you puppies of Golgol’s have never been able to understand that we’ve always had a common enemy, have you? We’re going to help you now whether you like it or not.” He looked up at Peter, then back down at Roshen. “Don’t forget that your fomor packmate saved us, too. We owe him, even if we don’t owe you.”

“Ghost Raptor!” spat Roshen.

“Yes. Maybe I’ll explain some of what we’re fighting for on the trip. I’m sure it will do you good. And for the record, we haven’t made Steps-Lightly do anything. In fact, he’s the only reason we’ve left you alone as much as we have.” Thunder Tiger stood and dropped Roshen’s arm-club down onto his belly. “I don’t want to fight you for dominance, Roshen. I’m not interested in leading the Severed Arm. We’re two packs with one purpose... and two leaders.” With those words, he turned and walked away.

Roshen rolled to his feet, hands wrapped white-knuckled around the grip of his arm-club. He was red in the face and breathing hard. Every Garou present except Thunder Tiger watched him as he stood, club raised, ready to attack. But he didn’t.

Slowly his breathing returned to normal and the color drained from his face. Roshen dropped the club, spun on his heel, and stalked away from Thunder Tiger.

Peter wiped his hand across his face and met Steps-Lightly’s gaze. The Silent Strider nodded. It appeared that the two packs once again had a tenuous truce — at least for as long as Roshen could control his need to compete with the other pack leader.

Roshen and Thunder Tiger avoided one another until Wycliffe and Ten Pigs arrived at the river with Jubati. When the native Uktena saw who he had been summoned to aid, he remarked in surprise, “You have realized the virtues of the Ghost Raptors after all.”

“No,” growled Brennan, “we’ve realized that they have something we need.”

Jubati nodded sadly. “So you treat them as you treat us and the rain forest. I shouldn’t have expected any different.”

Brennan’s expression became as dark and angry as storm clouds. He took a step forward. Peter, standing beside the Fianna, glanced over at him and, without thinking, threw an arm up to stop him. Brennan froze to avoid making contact. “Thank you for helping us, Jubati,” Peter said calmly.

“The Ghost Raptors told me there was a danger that threatened all Garou. I had to come.” The Amazonian

Garou examined Peter closely, then added, “I should have seen it before. If I had, I would have offered my help earlier.” He smiled at him and walked over to talk to the leaders of the two packs.

The moment Jubati’s back was turned, Brennan spat on Peter’s arm and stepped away. “Don’t ever try to stop me again, Glass Walker!”

“Somebody had to, Brennan!” snapped Windrunner from behind Peter. “Remember that we need everyone’s help right now. We can’t afford to alienate anybody. Not that you’d ever do that.”

The muscular Garou snarled at her and turned to help Steps-Lightly with one of the canoes. Peter bit back a snarl of his own. “What is his problem?”

Windrunner shrugged. Though now in her human shape, she had been sleeping in Crinos form for the past three hours, recovering from the crude operation that had removed the silver bullet from her leg. The wounds caused by Joan’s knife were already healed, and the bullet wound had new pink scar tissue forming around the edges as well. Windrunner was probably, in spite of her ordeal, the best rested of any of them. “Who knows? I’ve gotten used to him, but sometimes...” She bared her teeth. “He gets hot around the suggestion of anything technological, but he also turns nasty around anything too traditional. I don’t try to figure him out anymore.” She hesitated, then said, “Steps-Lightly mentioned to me that he had told you I was metis.”

Peter avoided her eyes, then looked up to meet her gaze. “You don’t mind,” he asked slowly, “do you?”

“No.” A wavering smile blossomed on Windrunner’s face, just as slowly. “It pales beside being a... a fomor. It took a lot of guts to do what you did, Peter. Not just telling us, but using it to rescue us, too.”

“I got the idea from the fomor the rest of us fought on the boat from Manaus. One of the fomor-babies smelled me, then turned and attacked Roshen instead.” Peter shook his head. “But it’s not the kind of protection I want.”

“We’ll get rid of it. We’ll find a cure.” Her smile became solid. “If I could, I’d give you a big hug.”

Peter smiled back. “Thanks.”

“Okay, Severed Arm!” bellowed Roshen from the water’s edge, “Time to move! Steps-Lightly, Brennan — you’re together with me. Peter, you’ll share a canoe with Jubati and Windrunner.” He gave Thunder Tiger a hard glare. “We’ve got a long way to go!”

CHAPTER  THIRTEEN

A few days into the trip, Peter drew the last watch of the night. In a group of so many Garou, he had been fortunate enough on the previous nights not to have to do any guard duty at all. He actually didn’t mind the dawn watch. The wind usually changed just after the sun rose, so he would have the opportunity to sniff a new breeze for the scent of the plague flower. Now that his secret was known, he could smell the evening and morning air for the flower without fear of discovery. He had even shown the blossom to Jubati, but the native Uktena had never seen anything like it. And there was still no trace of the flower on the breeze. Just as he did every morning, though, he hoped that this would change. He lifted his nose into the air as the sky began to turn pearl gray.

He did not detect the scent, but this was hardly surprising. He did, however, catch another scent from a strange quarter. Thunder Tiger, off a little distance in the rain forest. Peter glanced over at the sleeping Garou. They were all there except the Stargazer. Curious, Peter slipped into the trees.

He found Thunder Tiger in a small, shadowy glade. The gray-haired Garou was standing perfectly still, locked in concentration, eyes staring into the air in front of him. Then, as Peter watched, he began to move. It was a slow, graceful dance, yet one that spoke at the same time of power and strength. Thunder Tiger’s arm rose and swooped back, slid forward and fell back again before pushing forward in a new position. He spun on one foot, the other gliding around heel first in slow-motion. At full speed, the kick would have been deadly.

Peter was so caught up in the Stargazer’s incredible performance that when Thunder Tiger shifted forms, he wasn’t immediately aware of it. Only slowly did he realize that now a Crinos was performing the moves, and that the moves themselves had become, while no less disciplined and precise, more... primal. Urgent. Faster. When Thunder Tiger’s claws lashed out, Peter could almost see them tearing into a Black Spiral Dancer, or a fomor, or even the Wyrm itself.

Thunder Tiger’s dance became quicker and less meditative, and his shapechanging became more frequent. In the middle of a maneuver, he would suddenly drop into yellow-eyed Lupus form and sink low to the ground, then leap up as a man again. Or strike out as a Crinos, then shift into Homid form to seize and throw an imaginary enemy.

Suddenly, it was over. Thunder Tiger stood frozen in the stance he had started from, though now he was breathing hard and sweating. After a moment, he brought his feet together and his hands to his sides, and bowed in the direction of the rising sun. When he straightened again, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“You can come out of the bushes, Peter.”

Peter felt his cheeks grow hot in embarrassment, even though he hadn’t deliberately been hiding from the grayhaired Garou. He stepped out into the glade. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t bothering you, was I?”

“No. Not especially.” Thunder Tiger began to stretch, cooling down after his workout. “Away from the other Stargazers at the Ghost Raptors’ base camp, I don’t usually have company when I exercise. The others would rather sleep a little later.” He glanced at the Glass Walker. “How was I?”

“Incredible — I guess.” Peter shrugged. “I’m not one to judge. That was kailindo, wasn’t it?”

Thunder Tiger nodded. Kailindo was a form of martial art created by the contemplative Garou of the Stargazers, a fighting style that incorporated the Garou’s special

abilities. It was difficult to learn. Few Garou besides the Stargazers had the patience to do so. “I’m only a ‘Tempest,’ an initiate,” he said modestly. “You should see my teacher. He’s a ‘Maelstrom.’"

Peter nodded. He was silent for a moment before drawing a deep breath and saying in a rush, “I know about you and Steps-Lightly.”

Windrunner had come to him to acknowledge his knowing about her — Peter felt it was the least he could do to face Thunder Tiger and tell him the same thing. It had been agonizing to keep silent over the last few days. He had watched both Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly send each other quick glances, and had tried to pretend that he hadn’t noticed, attempting to cover up his knowledge of their secret. It was too much.

The Stargazer stretched his arms out behind his back and looked at Peter thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he said. “Steps-Lightly told me you knew, but I wanted you to come to me on your own terms. When you felt comfortable. So... what do you think?”

“1 think if you want to be gay, that’s your business. Not mine. It doesn’t affect me.” Peter sat down on the ground. “And if you want to love another Garou, I can live with that, too. I guess the Litany really doesn’t make any sense in a case like this. Why should loving another Garou be wrong when metis aren’t going to be born? Why should loving another Garou be wrong anyway?”

Thunder Tiger dropped down across from him. “So Steps-Lightly gave you that lecture? Figures. For a Silent Strider, he does a lot of talking.”

“Should he not have?”

“It doesn’t really matter. Steps-Lightly would prefer to be more open about it than I am.” Thunder Tiger picked up a twig and twirled it between his fingers. “You see, homosexuality has always existed among the tribes, but it’s also almost always been a secret thing. The Red Talons can accept it as unspoken play between young Garou.

Shadow Lords use it in secret rituals. The Uktena and Fianna both see it as something that marks a person of special vision, a shaman or a bard. Among the Black Furies, it’s a special relationship they don’t discuss with other tribes.” He flicked the twig away. “If you look, you can even find it among the Get of Fenris — good, clean, macho Get fun that gets a little bit out of hand. But if you ever try suggesting to them that the relationship was anything else...” The Stargazer wiped a finger across his lips. “Like a zipper. They’ve never heard of anyone doing it, and you’ll be lucky if they don’t thump you just to prove they haven’t done it themselves.”

“So why don’t you want to tell people about it?” “Because it’s disruptive. The same reason any Garou who mates with other Garou doesn’t usually advertise the fact. A pack is a team. A pack that can’t work together will die.” Thunder Tiger’s face hardened. “That’s the choice I made. White Father knows I love Steps-Lightly, but not the others.”

“The same reason Steps-Lightly doesn’t tell the Severed Arm that he’s also a Ghost Raptor?”

“Exactly.”

“But how do you know the Ghost Raptors won’t stick by you?” asked Peter. “You’re a pack, right? Won’t they accept you?” He licked his lips. “The Severed Arm stuck by me.”

“Peter,” Thunder Tiger pointed out softly, “some of the Severed Arm stuck by you. How much do you really trust Brennan?”

“Peter!”

The urgent shout cut Thunder Tiger off before he could say anything else. Both Garou looked up, then scrambled to their feet as Steps-Lightly burst into the glade. “Hurry!” he panted, “It’s Joan!”

“What“about her?” he asked, but Peter was afraid he already knew'. Without waiting for an answer, he shifted into Lupus form and charged through the rain forest

undergrowth, back to the Garou’s camp by the river.

The other Garou were gathered around Joan where she lay. None of them were close to her. Ten Pigs and Roshen stepped aside as Peter appeared. He looked at Joan and let his wolf shape slip away.

She was pale and shivering. She forced herself to lie still, though her eyes were wide with fear. Peter licked his lips. “Has anyone felt her skin?”

“She’s cold,” murmured Windrunner.

“Shit.” Peter grabbed Joan’s hand and put it against his. “Push!” he ordered her.

Tears streaked down her face. “1 am!”

The pressure she exerted was barely enough for Peter to feel. “Damn!” he whispered. Whether she had been infected by Whines-a-Lot or by himself in some careless moment didn’t matter — Joan had the snow plague.

They wrapped Joan in a blanket carried by the Ghost Raptors and laid her in the middle of the broadest of the four canoes. Jubati took Joan’s place with the Ghost Raptors, while Windrunner, pronouncing herself well enough to paddle a canoe, resumed her own place with the Severed Arm. Partway through the day, they had to stop while Wycliffe brewed a greenish tea and fed it to her; Joan had become delirious and her movements were rocking the canoe. Wycliffe’s tea calmed her.

Just before nightfall, they turned off from the Amazon and began to move up a tributary river. The rain forest here had a truly primeval feel to it, as though Europeans had never so much as passed this way before. After they had made camp for the night, Roshen caught Thunder Tiger’s arm. “Just where are we going?” he demanded quietly. “Who are these allies of yours?”

Thunder Tiger glanced around at the Ghost Raptors and at Jubati as though asking permission. He looked at

Steps-Lightly as well. The Silent Strider nodded. “Tell him.”

The gray-haired Garou turned back to Roshen. “We’re going to Grrrash tak’nyrrr.”

The Garou had a few words, if they could be called words, that had originated not with humans, but with wolves. They were usually harsh sounds, formed of growls and barks. Peter knew most of them, but the name of their destination was not one that he recognized. To his ears, it scarcely even sounded like a noise a wolf would make. It had a strangely alien quality. Saying it made his tongue feel too thick. Roshen, Brennan, and Windrunner looked shocked at Thunder Tiger’s pronouncement, but it meant nothing to him. “Where?”

“Grrrash tak’nyrrr is a nesting ground,” replied Jubati. He turned to look at Peter. “Of the Mokole.”

The Glass Walker froze just as the rest of the Severed Arm had. “The Mokole? But they’re...”

Jubati smiled. “Fables? Legends? Extinct? No. Not here. They have lived in the rain forest longer than Garou. Remember that to us the Wyrmcomers were legends.” That night, Peter wished he could sleep closer to the others. Nightmares haunted him: huge dark shadows in the rain forest, enormous mouths filled with ripping teeth. Claws that could tear a Crinos form Garou into pieces as easily as a wolf tore apart a rabbit. Once, when he had been quite small, he had heard his mother telling an old tale about the Mokole to a group of adolescent Garou.

Gaia gave birth to many Changing Breeds, Cassandra had said, her voice low, her face cast in shadow by a lightbulb behind her head. Her strongest children, her Warriors, the Guardians of the physical world, were born from wolves. But each of her children had a place, as Guardians of the Umbra, as Watchers, as Healers, as Shepherds of Man. Gaia’s eldest child, though, was her Memory. The Mokole are not like us. We might even call them alien. Gaia birthed the first Mokole not out of a hairy mammal, but out of the sleepy, dreaming reptiles of the world’s rivers. Out of alligators. And when the Mokole Rage, they are terrible things, because they remember every injury that the Wyrm has ever inflicted on their Mother, and because the Mokole don’t merely take a Crinos form. They dream the memories of their ancestors and they can take their ancestors’ forms — the Mokole can become dinosaurs. And the Mokole remember that Garou fought them in the great War of Rage, and they hate us...

And suddenly Cassandra had taken Crinos form herself, screaming and snapping her huge teeth just inches from the faces of the young Garou. Peter couldn’t remember what their reactions had been, but he had shrieked in terror and run to hide under his bed. His mother, of course, had come looking for him. She held him and assured him that the Mokole were far away, that there was nothing for him to be scared of. That the Garou had beaten them long ago. But Peter had still had nightmares for weeks afterward.

Peter’s eyes shot open as a noise in the depths of the rain forest awakened him. The Mokole? No, he realized, only distant thunder. The normal variety, not the sound of giant lizards walking. Jubati and Thunder Tiger both insisted that the Mokole were allies of the native Uktena and the Ghost Raptors; the werealligators recognized that the two Garou groups worked for the good of the rain forest. The Mokole would help them, searching their ancestral memories for the plague flower. Roshen had asked if memories that might be centuries, millennia, or even eons old would really help them in their search, but Steps-Lightly had pointed out that they had no better alternative right now. Asking a single Mokole could be as effective as asking a dozen native villages. Any clue would help. Of course, Jubati had admitted reluctantly, no one had actually contacted the Mokole for years... Peter rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

“Be very careful for the next two days,” Jubati warned them all the next morning. “If you see anything even remotely odd or suspicious, take Lupus form immediately. Even if you’re in a canoe.”

“Why?” asked Brennan.

“One human tends to look pretty much the same as the next to most Mokole. They’ll attack them all. But they know what wolves look like, and they know that the Uktena are their friends. If we’re in Lupus form, they should hold off attacking until I can identify us.” “Should?”

“They might not.”

Brennan drew a hissing breath. “What do we do then?” “Try to get into the Umbra if you can. The Mokole can’t enter it as easily as Garou.” Jubati pushed a canoe into the water. “Pray you don’t have to fight them.”

Some time around noon, something fell into the river near the canoes with a loud splash. Peter flashed into Lupus shape instantly, dropping his paddle overboard and almost upsetting the canoe. Windrunner yelled at him. Overhead, a monkey scampered away with a big piece of fruit jammed into its mouth, almost as frightened as Peter. The Glass Walker resumed Homid form with an embarrassed flush. Over the next two days, however, all of the Garou found themselves shifting suddenly into their wolf shapes. A sudden flash of color in the trees, a strange noise, the appearance of an alligator sunbathing on a sandbar — almost anything sent the Garou into a panicked shapechange. After a few minutes Jubati would bark that everything was all right and they would shift back. By the middle of the second morning, though, even Jubati was nervous. He spent almost twenty minutes whining eerie, lisping sounds at an alligator that seemed a little more curious than normal.

Early that afternoon, he gestured for them to take the canoes ashore. “We walk from here,” he said. “In Lupus form. We’re almost at the edge of Grrrash tali'nyrrr. The Mokole will find us soon if we don’t find them.”

“Roshen,” asked Windrunner, “are you going to be able to manage this?”

The one-armed Silver Fang nodded. “As long as we don't have to run or do anything fancy, I can hop along with the best of them. But what about Joan?”

Peter cursed silently. They should have thought of that earlier. The sick Garou wouldn’t be able to keep up with them. She couldn’t walk at all. Fortunately, Thunder Tiger had an answer. “Wycliffe, Ten Pigs — take her into the Umbra. Stay there with her until we get back.”

The Ghost Raptors nodded. Wycliffe produced his little mirror, holding it in front of Joan’s eyes and talking her through the Gauntlet and into the spirit world. Once all three Garou had faded away, the others took Lupus shape and trotted into the rain forest. Jubati led the way. Peter held his book, uncomfortably but very carefully, in his jaws. He wished the Garou could carry a white flag of truce with them, but he wasn’t entirely certain that the Mokole would recognize it. Or honor it if they did.

If the rain forest two days back along the river had been wild, it was absolutely primeval now. There were no paths. The Garou had to pick their way through man-high ferns. The ground was soft, almost swampy, and stank of slowly rotting vegetation and marsh gas. Insects hovered in clouds around each of them, in spite of Windrunner’s repellent cream. The canopy was so thick overhead, and the humidity at ground level so high, that the gloom seemed almost tangible. Anything could have hidden in the darkness here.

Jubati stopped so suddenly that Peter, following close behind, almost ran into him. The native Uktena’s legs were locked stiffly. His fur stood on end. Cautiously, Peter peeked around him to see why he had stopped.

The creature... the dinosaur that stood half-hidden in the shadows radiated a sheer strength and savage ferocity that Peter had never before seen, not even in the most Rage-filled Crinos. This was a creature bred by evolution to be a hunter. The beast stood about seven feet tall. It had a lean, narrow head, slightly striped in black and rust-red. Its mouth was very big, its teeth white and sharp. The claws on its enormous feet were as large as knives.

The Mokole’s head didn’t move, but suddenly its slit-pupiled eye did, twitching down to meet Peter’s gaze.

He froze, whimpering slightly in terror. Now he knew how the customs agent at the airport in Manaus had felt.

Jubati began to whine, the same lisping sounds he had made at the alligator in the river. The Mokole turned its reptilian gaze back to him and snorted. Jubati’s whine changed, rising slightly before tapering off. Peter realized abruptly what the noise was supposed to be: the whines of a newborn creature appealing to an adult. They were the sounds of a harmless creature, the near-universal sounds of submission. The Mokole snorted again. It had apparently understood, because it turned and began moving off through the rain forest with the speed and silence of a natural predator. Jubati led the others after it.

Behind him, Roshen yelped suddenly. They were moving too fast. Jubati whined for the Mokole. It looked back, and snorted again, this time in disgust, but it did slow down. They didn’t go much farther, however. The Mokole swept aside a screen of low-hanging branches. There was a bright open space beyond. The Mokole bellowed, a rolling roar that put every movie sound effect Peter had ever heard to shame, then stood to one side and let the Garou file past it. •

The bright open space was a shallow, crescent-shaped lake, a segment of the river long ago cut off by erosion and slowly deposited soil. After the darkness of the rain forest, the sun that shone down on the Mokole nesting ground was blinding. Still, Peter could pick out perhaps two dozen alligators along the shores of the lake or in the water.

One of the alligators, a huge old female, slid off a nearby sand bank and swam over to them. She changed shape as she climbed out of the water, rearing back onto two legs as her limbs and body lengthened and her scales became lighter and more colorful. A stunningly beautiful dinosaur with brilliant feathers and the toothed beak of a primitive bird looked down at them from twenty feet above. The old Mokole swept her clawed hands wide, touching them together at her wrists... and spoke. The words that came out of her beak sounded surprisingly human, though they were no language Peter understood.

Jubati, however, took Homid form and answered the Mokole in the same language, spreading his hands as she spread hers. He turned back and gestured for the other Garou to assume their Homid shapes as well. “This is Nyi, also called ‘Feathered Thunder.’ She is the oldest Mokole in Grrrash tak’nyrrr. She says...” Jubati’s face twisted for a moment as he tried to think of a way to translate the words into English. “... the Mother-Cow brings the sun and the moon together after too many births.”

“What does that mean?” asked Thunder Tiger.

“The Mokole live by the sun as the Garou live by the moon, and they measure years in terms of breeding seasons.” Jubati glanced back at Nyi. “And I think ‘Mother-Cow’ is the way they refer to Gaia. She’s welcoming us.”

The arrival of the Garou had attracted the attention of a number of other Mokole as well. Alligators were beginning to gather around them. Peter looked at the reptiles nervously. “Can she help us find the flower?”

His words brought a sudden hiss from the Mokole who had escorted them here. Nyi silenced him with a gesture, then pointed at Peter and asked Jubati something. “Why have the Garou brought the Monster of the Deep Shadows — that’s the Wyrm — to the children of the Dragon Kings?” translated Jubati. “Do you want us to...” Jubati’s breath caught. He interrupted Nyi urgently, speaking fast.

Nyi listened carefully. When he was done, she shook her head insistently and clucked at Peter. “She wants assurances that you intend no harm to the Mokole.” Jubati sounded frustrated.

“Tell her I give my word.”

“That’s the problem!” hissed the Uktena. “The Mokole aren’t willing to believe in the word of a Garou anymore, not since the War of Rage. They smell the Wyrm on you.” “Then tell her I don’t want to smell like the Wyrm!” Peter stooped down and grabbed a handful of the warm, swamp'stinking mud of Grrrash tak’nyrrr. He looked straight up into Nyi’s alien eyes. “I want to smell like Gaia again!” He smeared the mud in a long streak across his chest.

A crowd of humans might have expressed deep surprise with abrupt silence followed by a flurry of commotion. The reptilian Mokole were already as still and silent as logs floating on calm water. Suddenly, though, something in their mood changed. It made Peter feel as though he had just entered the solemn vastness of some primitive cathedral.’

“Jubati?” he whispered.

“I don’t know!”

Nyi changed shape, shrinking down into human form. Even as a Homid, she was remarkably tall. Somberly, she embraced Peter, then, for the first time, spoke directly to him rather than to Jubati. “Show me your flower,” Jubati translated. “Whatever you did, Peter, it worked!”

“Let’s hope it keeps working!” Peter tugged his book out of its plastic wrappings and opened it to display the flower to Nyi. “Tell her it’s safe to smell it — the flower isn’t dangerous on its own.”

Jubati did, then looked astounded at Nyi’s reply. “She smells the disease in the flower, but says it won’t affect the Mokole. She knows you would never harm her.” “What...?” Peter started to ask, but Nyi was already delicately lifting the flower from the book. She sniffed at it carefully once, then again. And shook her head.

Peter’s heart plummeted. “No! What about her

memories? Did her ancestors know about the flower?” “Plants are like shadows,” relayed Jubati. “Meat and blood are sunlight. Nyi sees the sunlight.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? They just ignore plants?” Peter demanded angrily, his Rage rising. He slapped the book closed and reached for the flower in Nyi’s hand. The Mokole looked puzzled and raised it up beyond his reach.

“No, Peter!” Jubati grabbed Peter’s arm.

Peter froze, looking at the Uktena’s hand. “You touched me,” he breathed. “You know what that means.”

“I’ll get your plague. Yes, but we’re close to finding the flowers! Think — Nyi sees the sunlight...”

Peter found himself breathing hard as he spun suddenly, looking at the other inhabitants of Grrrash tak’nyrrr. “Who sees the shadows?” he yelled.

One of the alligators stretched and grew, becoming a dinosaur with a short, blunt muzzle and a long, bony crest sweeping back over its head. Peter recognized the type, but couldn’t recall the name. All that was important, though, was that the dinosaur was different than Nyi, different than the hunter who had escorted them through the jungle. It was a plant-eater.

Nyi nodded and spoke a short phrase. “His name is Trees Dream,” Jubati translated.

Peter could have wept with mingled relief and frustration. “Why didn’t she just tell us that another Mokole might recognize the plant?”

“Nyi isn’t a Garou,” Thunder Tiger pointed out. “We can’t judge why Mokole act the way they do.”

“We don’t have the flowers yet either,” added Roshen. “This Mokole might know as little as Nyi.”

Peter clenched his teeth so hard it hurt and looked back at the two Mokole. Just in time to see Trees Dream sniff at the flower in Nyi’s hand, then extend a long, thick tongue... and eat it.

“No!" Peter leaped at the Mokole. Jubati tried to grab

him. Peter shoved him aside. "No!"

Massive arms seized him before he could reach Trees Dream, and suddenly Peter found himself lifted into the sky. Nyi had taken her dinosaur shape again. She shouted at him. If Jubati was translating, Peter didn’t hear it. He was howling in Rage, shifting into Crinos form.

Nyi shook him like a doll and pointed at Trees Dream.

The other Mokole’s face was transfixed by a distant smile.

He remembered!

Peter’s Rage fell away from him. He slipped out of Nyi’s grasp and grabbed at Trees Dream. “Where is it?” he begged. “Where?”

“Few Mokole can speak the words of humans when they take the shape of the Dragon Kings,” Jubati translated for Nyi. The old Mokole returned to Homid form, and looked into Trees Dream’s eyes. “Trees Dream is deep in the Remembering. If he becomes human again, he may forget what he saw.”

“Then how do we find out where the flowers are?”

Nyi gestured for one of the other Mokole to transform. She did, a narrow blowpipe and a small pouch appearing in her human hands, dedicated to her just as Garou dedicated clothing to themselves. “You will share his memories in the taking of ebene...” Jubati interrupted his translation to question Nyi in surprise. “She’s serious!” he said in shock.

“What is ebene?’ Peter asked.

“A type of drug, a hallucinogenic snuff. Shamans in the Amazon have been using it for centuries. It’s nothing dangerous. But sharing memories with a Mokole...” Jubati blew out a long breath.

“I don’t know if it’s ever been done before,” Thunder Tiger said incredulously. “If it has, the last time was thousands of years ago, before the War of Rage made us enemies. What the hell did you do to make them trust you like this?”

“I wish I knew, but I’m not going to ask too many questions. I just hope I haven’t sold my soul or promised to guard their nesting grounds for the rest of my life.” They were close. He knew it. So very close now. He took a deep breath. “I’m going to do it.”

“Peter, wait.” Jubati caught his arm. “We don’t really understand the Mokole. We don’t know what kind of effect this might have on you.”

“Do we have a choice? We don’t even have the original flower now.” He pushed Jubati away gently and faced Nyi. “I’m ready.”

She nodded.

The Mokole with the blowpipe opened the pouch and carefully put several big pinches of a coarse green powder into the pipe. Then she held the pipe up about level with Peter’s face. The Glass Walker looked at her questioningly.

Nyi’s big hands pushed him forward and tilted his head back with surprising gentleness. The other Mokole set the blowpipe against his left nostril. Peter barely had time to wonder how exactly this was going to work before Trees Dream bent down and, with a puff of his big dinosaur lungs, blew hard into the other end of the pipe.

Silver-green fire tore through Peter’s head and lungs. He staggered back with a scream of agony, clutching at his face. The pain was shockingly intense, as sharp and penetrating as a knife. Windrunner and Steps-Lightly gasped, but Jubati held them back. “This is normal,” he whispered.

Nyi reached out to grab Peter and draw him close again. Peter couldn’t help whimpering as the female Mokole refilled her blowgun and blew another blast of ebene into his right nostril.

The pain was just as intense. Dark spots flashed before Peter’s eyes and he thought, for a moment, that he might pass out. He forced himself to stay awake, however. He had to push past the pain. He had to remain conscious so he could share in Trees Dream’s memories. Those memories were the key to finding the flower! He had to resist the pain for the sake of the Garou in Toronto. For Joan. For Jubati. He could do it. The pain was fading. Trees Dream’s memories...

Instead of experiencing visions, however, Peter realized that the Mokole was putting the blowgun to his left nostril again. A renewed wave of pain slammed into him. He gasped and cried like a baby. But there was less pain this time. Peter wondered if it was because the ebene was burning away his nerves. Another hit in his right nostril. No, the pain really was less intense.

Peter felt something wet on his face. He touched his nose: blood. Blood mixed with thick, black mucus, and dotted with flecks of green ebene. He heard one of the other Garou retch in disgust. But... Peter held his hand up in front of his face. The blood was moving. He could see it! Tiny cells squirming around, slowing down as they cooled and died. He looked up. The other Garou were changing quickly back and forth between their different forms, almost vibrating as they shifted from Homid to Crinos to Lupus and back again. The sun shone off the water in blinding, flashing streaks of light. The plants of the rain forest twisted and grew before his eyes. They ached with pent-up energy. The warm ground of Grrrash tak’nyrrr crawled as though it were alive.

Trees Dream put his hands on Peter’s shoulders. He leaned forward, bringing his scaly pug muzzle close, so that his hot, wet breath blew into Peter’s face. Breath like the hot, wet air of the rain forest itself.

Hot was good. Heat made him feel more active. He... she, because she was female, remembered the times before her ancestors had come here, when Callsingers had run across plains, growing cold and sluggish in the chill of the night. In the rain forest it was always warm.

She walked through the shadows, her human mate by her side. The mate was Kinfolk to the Mokole, a fine, strong, wise man. Peter could feel the clutch of eggs that grew inside her. When they returned to Great Mother’s Muddy Womb (Grrrash tak'nyrrr, something alien realized), she would build a nest. At least one of the eggs would hatch a Mokole, she knew. She had heard the old females talking about the special magic of motherhood and she could feel the Matre power stirring.

Peter stripped leaves off strange bushes that she saw as they walked, rubbing them between her fingers and smelling them, offering the pulp for her mate to sniff as well. Some would be good for curing disease or fighting off spirits. Occasionally, she would pop a leaf or a fruit or flower into her mouth. Those just tasted good.

Night was falling. They would stop soon and Peter would take her Dragon King shape. Nothing in the rain forest would dare to bother her and her mate then. They would sleep peacefully throughout the night.

“Here!” her mate said abruptly, pointing through the trees. “There’s water!”

Peter looked. There was water nearby. She could hear it bubbling quietly. But something wasn’t quite right. “Wait,” she said. She slid into her Dragon King shape, a yellow Callsinger, and stepped through the trees to investigate.

The pool of water was strangely shaped, as large and vicious-looking as the foot of a huge Hungry-Stomach. The bubbling came from air that trickled up from its depths. The water was dark and brackish. It would do them no good to stay here.

There were some flowers growing beside the pool, reddish-purple blossoms that were just beginning to open in the gathering darkness. Impulsively, she ate one as she turned to go back to her mate...

“There!” Peter’s arm snapped up, pointing east-northeast in the growing twilight of the present. Part of him realized that he was lying in the mud of the Womb, had been lying there in a drug-induced trance for a couple of hours. He was breathing heavily, triumphantly, as though he had just survived a long battle. “1 know where the flower is!” he crowed. “I know the way!”

The other Garou and Trees Dream scrambled up. “How do we get there?” Thunder Tiger demanded quickly.

“Down this river to the Broad Path — the Amazon. Then downstream for...” he hesitated. Days and days. How many? “And there was a little river...” Where? He looked around in confusion. “The flowers grow beside a pool shaped like a Hungry-Stomach’s foot!”

“A what?” asked Steps-Lightly.

“A Hungry-Stomach. Big jaws. Meat-eater.” Peter groped for the name he knew. “A Tyrannosaurus Rex. A footprint with three clawed toes. We took a canoe up the river to... No. They walked to the pool and then...”

He grabbed his head. The memory was fading. “No!” he gasped. This couldn’t be happening! They were so close! “This river, the Amazon, another river, then...” “Peter!” grunted Trees Dream. He had taken human form and now held the blowgun. He raised it to Peter’s nose again and blew more ebene into the Glass Walker’s nostril.

Peter slid back into the Mokole’s memories as though he were slipping into the warm ooze of Great Mother’s Muddy Womb. Distantly, he heard a grim voice say, “He’s not going to remember it.”

“Wait,” countered Jubati, “I have an idea.”

Peter dreamed of Hungry-Stomachs and Callsingers and great creatures he simply knew as Bigs. Plants figured prominently in his dreams and memories. He tasted and smelled what seemed like every plant in the rain forest. Sometimes he even remembered the plants of the plains and the swamps, and, if only vaguely, of the northern forests where it got so cold that his ancestors had had to migrate south for part of the year. He remembered the days when the whole world grew sluggish with cold. He remembered the first human that he saw, the first Garou and the War of Rage, the first of the Uktena in the rain forest. Mostly, however, he recalled the flowers by the pool and his life then. He tried to remind himself that the pool was important, that what he really had to remember was how to get there from the Muddy Womb, but other aspects of that life kept getting in the way. His children, and their children’s children. The death of his mate. A second mate, taken after he had slept the long sleep of the Dragon.

The flowers, he reminded himself again, the pool...

In the present, he felt himself being carried in big, gentle hands through the jungle. Nyi. She held him while he dreamed, while Garou chanted in the background. Then she lowered him down into a rocking cradle.

“Peter!” Someone was shaking him. “It’s time to go. Do you remember how to get to the flowers?”

He forced his heavy head to nod. There was something about people touching him... he struggled against the ebene, fighting to reach his own thoughts. He made his eyes open. It was full night now, and he was lying in a canoe. They had brought him all the way to the river. Nyi and Trees Dream stood over him in dinosaur form, looking down like ancient gods. Jubati was the one touching him. The Uktena helped him up.

“We need you to repeat the memories. Just once. Can you do that?”

In a daze, Peter nodded. “Down to the Amazon...” Jubati put his hand over his mouth. “Not to us.” He pointed over the other side of the canoe. “To it.”

Peter glanced down. There was something in the dark water, a shadowy, undulating form as thick as a barrel and longer than the canoes. “A... snake.”

“No. A river spirit. I summoned it. It will carry you where you need to go as long as there’s a stream to follow, and it will get you there faster than a motor boat. You’ll travel through the Umbra — you’ll sleep almost the whole way, so you won’t even notice it.”

“The Umbra.” Peter looked around. Two of the canoes had been lashed together, paddles lain across them and tied down to create a twin-hulled vessel like a catamaran. The river spirit squirmed between them. Brennan sat behind him in his canoe. Steps-Lightly, Roshen, and Thunder Tiger sat in the other.

Steps-Lightly glanced at him. “Hurry, Peter! Before the memories fade!”

Peter could already feel the dreams of the Mokole slipping from his mind. But there were so many other things he wanted to know! He glanced back to the shore. Windrunner stood there, along with the Ghost Raptors. How...?

Jubati took his head and turned it back toward the river spirit. “They’ll come with me back to the Caern of Rain Spirits. We couldn’t all go with you. Now — tell the river spirit how to get to the flowers!”

Down the river to the Amazon, down the Amazon to a much smaller river, up the river to a stream, up the stream to... the words whispered out of Peter’s mouth almost of their own accord. He let them flow, not worrying if they made sense. The river spirit would understand the paths of water.

He lay back again. The spirit started to move. They were on their way! He could hear the other Garou yelling to each other, but he was only really conscious of Nyi and Trees Dream pacing along beside the canoe, powerful legs churning the water. He smiled at them and touched the mud, now dry, that he had smeared across his chest. He knew why the Mokole had helped him. He had seen it in Trees Dream’s memories. He hadn’t signed away his soul or his freedom as he had feared. His random gesture had been one of the Mokole’s most potent and ancient symbols. A gesture that spoke of the ultimate devotion that Mokole and Garou shared. The Garou had forgotten that symbol. But the Mokole remembered, and in their alien minds that symbol was still so powerful that even if accidental, it had obliged them to help him. Just as, he understood now, it might oblige him to help them in the future.

“Tak’nrass tak’goll shyrrr totem" he said. The words that should have gone with the gesture, their strange syllables sliding easily off his tongue. Your mother is my mother, and she is in my heart.

The moon was up, a waning half-moon making a shining silver path on the river ahead. The world began to blur as they approached the moon’s reflection; not because the river spirit was moving quickly, but because it was crossing the Gauntlet. As they entered the path of light they also...

... entered the Umbra.

CHAPTER                              F OURTEEN

The sun woke Peter slowly. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there basking in it, soaking up its warmth, lingering in its kiss. Just like a Mokole on a sand bar. He became conscious of himself almost reluctantly. Finally, he opened his eyes.

The lashed-together canoes had run aground in a river that was barely larger than a stream; their hulls were actually wedged into the soil of the banks. To judge by the quality of the light and the position of the sun overhead, it was sometime in the afternoon. The other Garou were still sleeping. There was no sign of the river spirit. Presumably, it had departed after leaving them here. Peter looked around, and broke into a grin. It wasn’t clear exactly where they were in relationship to the rest of the Amazon, or how long it had taken the spirit to get them here, but he knew one thing for sure.

This was the area he had seen in the memories of Trees Dream’s ancestor.

He climbed out of the canoe, stepping directly onto dry ground. Whereas before, one section of the rain forest had looked pretty much the same to him as any other, this area he recognized as.surely as he knew downtown Toronto. He had seen these trees! That clump, this cluster... well, perhaps not precisely these trees in particular, but surely their ancestors. The lay of the ground, at least, was the same. He walked a little way from the canoe, experiencing a sense of deja vu so strong it almost made him dizzy. He had stood here before!

Peter glanced back toward the canoe. The others hadn’t stirred at all. He looked forward into the lush green depths of the rain forest. The flower pool would be just a few miles away. He knew the way. His hands clenched in frustration. So close!

Let the others have their sleep. They could follow him by scent when they woke up, and even if they chose not to, they could hardly miss guessing where he had gone. He started eagerly through the trees. The way was easier than he might have expected, but then he knew exactly where he was going. Sometimes he even knew exactly where he would have to detour around an especially thick stand of trees, or push aside a screen of ferns to reveal a clearer path.

Several times, he hesitated. The memories would dim and he would turn around helplessly, trying to recall them. After a few moments, however, he recognized some swell of the ground, the memories returned, and he would sprint off again, eager to reach the pool before the tenuous memories failed him altogether.

More than ever in the past week or so, he wished he had the clothes that he had lost when the fomori attacked. Not because he felt naked or even uncomfortable — he had grown used to wearing nothing but boxer shorts and boots. What he really wanted was something to bind around his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes. A bath would have been nice, too. He smelled like some unnatural animal, his body stinking of sweat, the mud of the Mokole nesting grounds, and the Wyrm-taint of Fever. The stench of the Fever was worse than ever, sour and rotten...

Peter froze, and dropped soundlessly down into the cover of some ferns. That wasn’t the Fever. It was the scent of Black Spiral Dancers! He shifted into Lupus form, listening and smelling for the mad Garou. He couldn’t hear anything but quiet jungle noises and his own breathing. The smell of the Black Spirals was strong, though, and heavy. As if they passed through the area frequently, or as if he were near a den. He forgot all about wishing he had something to make into a headband. Now he wished he had the pack with him.

The pool would be close, now, however. Peter loped on. Not even Black Spirals were going to stop him when he was this near to it. Back in the distance, he heard someone call his name. The sound carried weirdly through the jungle — normally the dense vegetation choked off distant noises. The pack must be closer than he thought. He didn’t dare answer, for fear of disturbing the unseen Black Spirals. Hopefully the pack would smell them as well before they made too much noise.

Only a little farther...

Then, suddenly, he was rising back up onto two feet and walking as a man, just as Trees Dream’s ancestor had walked in the memories. Peter found himself holding his breath. He was getting so close. She had picked the leaves from this bush... he brushed his hands through a similar plant. She had crushed them and smelled them...

“Here!" his mate said abruptly, pointing through the trees. “There’s water!"

Peter looked. There was water nearby. He could hear it bubbling quietly. But something wasn’t quite right. “Wait,” he said out loud...

He grinned as he caught himself trying to take the shape of a dinosaur. There was no denying that the Mokole memories could be powerful. But he could hear the sound of bubbling water, just as Trees Dream’s ancestor had. He stepped up to the trees, just as she had, and swept them aside.

The flowers were there. He exhaled slowly in relief. Reddish-purple blossoms beside a pool of dark water with air bubbling up from its depths. Peter breathed deeply, drawing in the spicy scent of the plague flowers. He had done it! He had found them!

“Peter — stop!” Peter turned around. Steps-Lightly was running up behind him,. Thunder Tiger, Brennan, and Roshen were directly at his heels. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve found the flowers!” Peter swept his arm around triumphantly.

Steps-Lightly blinked. Brennan and Thunder Tiger frowned. Roshen’s eyes narrowed and his breath hissed between his teeth. He put his hand on the Silent Strider’s shoulder and murmured in his ear. At his words Steps-Lightly’s eyes went wide, and he cursed and stepped aside. Roshen came forward, strangely cautious, his expression guarded.

Abruptly, Peter’s heart began to pound. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. What was it? Had he done something he shouldn’t have? All he could think of were the bubbles that rose up out of the pool. He had assumed that they were caused by a slowly leaking underground pocket of gas. Was something else, some sleeping creature, rising silently up out of the pool behind him? No, that was ridiculous. The others were looking at him!

“What is it, Roshen?” he whispered.

“Turn around, Petey,” the Silver Fang suggested. Peter did. Everything was just the way it had been before. Roshen came to stand beside him. He hesitated for a moment, then said simply, “There are no flowers.”

Peter’s breath caught. If Roshen hadn’t been standing right next to him, he might have thought that this was some kind of Black Spiral Dancer trick. The stench of them was still strong. But this really was Roshen. If he said there were no flowers... Peter swallowed hard. He felt nauseous suddenly, and dizzy. The flowers had to be there! “But I see them.”

“I don’t. Petey, what does the pool look like to you?” Peter described the bubbling water, the Tyrannosaurus Rex foot shape of the pool, its dark depths. Roshen looked back at the others. Peter didn’t turn to see what their response was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He could see the flowers. He could smell them. He could hear the water. He reached out a foot and poked at a flower — it bent and swayed in response. They were there!

“Stop that,” ordered Roshen gently. “Does the pool

look like anything else to you?”

Peter considered it. Three long, powerful toes with claws. A short, oval sole. He shook his head silently.

Roshen held out his fist. Keeping his thumb and little finger tucked in, he opened his other three fingers. “Now?”

A hand.

A Mokole would see a dinosaur’s foot. A Garou would see a hand.

And the stink of Black Spiral Dancers that hung in the air...

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember the Mokole memories in as much detail as he could. The flowers had looked like this. And the pool had looked like that. And what he had found looked exactly the same as the memories. Exactly.

I’m worried about what the effects of sharing their memories might be, Jubati had said. Garou stories said that the Mokole spent so much of their time dreaming of the past that they almost lived in it. “No!” gasped Peter. “This can’t be happening!” But he forced the Mokole memories away, fighting for his own perceptions. He opened his eyes.

There were no flowers.

There was no rain forest.

The pool was there, but it was drained and empty, just a strangely shaped dark hole leading down into the earth. As dry as death. Just like the lifeless wasteland that stretched for miles in every direction. It was a hundred times worse than the clearcut around the Caern of Rain Spirits. His skin was red and burned from hiking across that desolation.

Peter wanted to howl out his agony to the merciless sun. He bit back the howl, though he let his tears of sorrowful fury run freely. Too much noise here really would bring out the Black Spiral Dancers. Hordes of them.

He looked at Roshen. “Hell’s Hand?” he hissed.

Roshen nodded. “The center of the Black Spirals’ Hive. We’re lucky that the river spirit left us here in the middle of the day when they’re inactive.” He almost put his hand on Peter’s shoulder, but then stopped. His hand dropped back to his side. “If we hurry, we can make it back into the rain forest by sunset.” He turned again, taking Crinos form for greater speed.

The others shifted into their wolf shapes without saying anything. Peter stayed where he was, staring at the dusty soil and the deep hole of Hell’s Hand. The flowers were gone, wiped out by Pentex and the Black Spiral Dancers. They had eradicated the source of the cure at the same time they created the disease.

Roshen looked back at him over his shoulder. “Come!” he grunted.

Peter whirled and almost fell into Lupus form. He was running as soon as his front paws hit the ground, surging past his packmates and Thunder Tiger, heading straight back the way he had come. Roshen yelped for him to wait, but Peter didn’t slow down. Let them catch up to him!

When he had first discovered the shattered bottles of Fever in the aftermath of the Ghost Raptor’s raid, Peter had run away in shame and panic. Now he ran with near-suicidal anger, his Rage building in him. The plague flowers were gone! There was no hope for the Garou of Toronto, for Joan, for Jubati. For him! He would be a pariah for the rest of his life, a danger to any Garou who came near him. Worse, he would be declared a traitor and hunted down like... like a fomor!

Rage and hatred fueled his wild run across the devastation that the Black Spiral Dancers had wrought in building their hive. Steps-Lightly and Thunder Tiger were closest behind him, Brennan behind them, and Roshen lagging in the rear. None of them could catch him, and what would they do if they did? Console him'!

He remembered very little of his crazed run. Mostly it was all washed away by his boiling anger. He did remember racing past the canoes. What the memories of the Mokole had shown to him as a small river was the barest trickle of water. In fact, it was surprising that the river spirit had gotten them as far as it had. Peter didn’t so much as pause to drink. Maybe he should have. The water was sure to be contaminated with Pentex’s chemicals and the Wyrm’s poisons, strong enough to kill even a Garou. Peter half-hoped that his insane run would carry him into a Black Spiral trap, or into a day-roving pack of the mad Garou themselves.

It would be an ending to it all. With his death, there would be no more cases of snow plague. The Garou infected with it already would die off. Roshen or some other member of the Severed Arm would destroy the last bottles of Fever in his suitcase back at Sky River. It would all be over. No more flowers, no more snow plague, no more Fever, no more Peter!

His Rage grew. By the time the setting sun cast its long shadow racing across the ground off to his left, Peter was no longer running in Lupus form. He was in Crinos, anger searing through him. The rain forest rose up out of the hard ground. There was no fringe of regrowth here as there had been at the Caern of Rain Spirits. Pentex’s defoliants were still in the ground. There would be no new life at Hell’s Hand. Peter spun around, lifted his muzzle to the red sky over the Hive of Hell’s Hand and finally let loose the howl that had been burning inside him.

Sorrow. Frustration. Fury. A ringing, roaring challenge! “Peter!” cried Steps-Lightly. The Silent Strider was already in Homid form, panting from the chase. “Quiet! Get into the rain forest! You’re going to have them after us any minute!”

“No!” Peter snarled. “Fight them! Fight them now!” “You’re not thinking straight! Calm down!” Steps-Lightly paced slowly toward him as Thunder Tiger, then the others caught up to them. “We have to get out of here.” “Why? No flowers! No cure! Die now!” He threw back

his head and howled again. “Come get, Dancers! Come get!”

“Peter...” warned Thunder Tiger threateningly. “What?” Peter glared at him. “Hit me?” He spread his arms wide. “Hit me, then die! Come get, Garou-fucker!” The Stargazer froze. So did Steps-Lightly. Peter laughed. He pointed at Brennan and Roshen. Each had a look of mingled shock and disgust on his face. “Know now. Don’t hide!” Peter grinned savagely. “Happy?”

Thunder Tiger growled. Brennan stared at Steps-Lightly in disgust. “You...?”

“Yes!” the Silent Strider snapped.

“Save it for later!” Roshen ordered. “Shut him up!” Peter danced backward a couple of steps. “Roshen orders?” he taunted. “Big Roshen best Garou? Best pack? Hate other packs. Hate Raptors.” Roshen flushed and lifted his arm-club. “Hate me? Come on. Hate me!”

Suddenly, angry tears were pouring down Peter’s hairy Crinos face. He pointed at Brennan. “Brennan hate! Everybody hate! Why?” He lifted his hands. “Not my fault!” he screamed.

“PETER!” yelled Roshen. He was trembling with his own Rage. “Shut up! We are getting out of here!”

“How? Fight me?” Peter lashed out suddenly at Steps-Lightly, catching the surprised Garou across his bare chest. He wasn’t using his talons, though. He was using an open hand. “You dead!”

He whirled and tagged Thunder Tiger. The Stargazer brought his arms up in a kailindo block, but it did no good. Peter just slapped his arms. “You dead!” He touched Roshen on the back. “You dead!” He slapped Brennan across the face. One talon caught his cheek and opened a shallow gash. “You dead!” Peter raised his arms. “1 win!” The other Garou were stunned. Only Brennan looked back at him. His eyes narrowed. His hand crept up to touch the blood that was welling up on his face. “You stupid fucker,” he hissed. His green eyes were bright with

Rage. “You stupid, stupid fucker. What do you think was keeping us back, Glass Walker1"

Brennan erupted into Crinos form, smashing a fist up under Peter’s chin. Peter staggered back, then ripped out with his claws, trying to tear into the Fianna’s flesh. Brennan dodged backward and Peter pressed forward, howling in anger.

But he was only one Garou against four. Thunder Tiger, suddenly in Lupus form, slipped in under Peter’s feet and between his legs, tripping him. Roshen’s arm-club swung past his ear as he stumbled. Steps-Lightly was behind him in Crinos form, his narrow, deer-hound hands seizing him and pushing. Abruptly, Peter was down on the ground. Brennan kneeled on top of his chest. Thunder Tiger had his right arm pinned, Steps-Lightly his left. Roshen crouched beside his head. The Silver Fang was still in Homid form. “What are we supposed to do now, Petey?” His voice was thick with anger. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Peter looked up at him with tears in his eyes. “Kill me!” he begged. He could feel his Rage slowly slipping from him, replaced by a hollow, bitter sadness. The Garou in Toronto had been infected accidentally. Consumed by anger, he had killed his friends here deliberately. Without a cure to the snow plague, they were all going to die. Slowly. Inevitably. Now it was his fault. He had betrayed his packmates, his tribe — even his race. He was a fomor! Gaia herself would reject him. Under Garou law, death was the only appropriate punishment now. He reverted back to human shape. “Please. Kill me.”

Roshen’s face was hard as he looked to the others. Steps-Lightly nodded. Peter wasn’t sure he had seen the Silent Strider angry before. Rage burned behind his dark eyes and his sharp Crinos-form teeth were bared. Roshen glanced at Thunder Tiger. The gray-haired Garou, back in human shape, looked surprised. “I’m not a member of your pack. You said yourself that I have no right to judge

them or order them around.”

“And you said once that you owed Peter because he saved the Ghost Raptors as well as the Severed Arm,” Roshen growled. “Now he’s infected you. You’re a good leader, Thunder Tiger. I think you have the right to pass judgment. Besides...” Roshen’s mouth twisted. “He’s not part of my pack anymore.”

Even through his sorrow — and even though he had originally joined the Severed Arm so that he could travel the rain forest and hunt for the plague flower — Peter’s face turned red with shame. He felt empty inside. Roshen’s rejection hurt.

“Brennan?” asked the Silver Fang.

Brennan didn’t answer right away. He looked down on Peter, his eyes narrowed in thought. Peter waited. Crouched above him, Brennan could rip out his throat in a heartbeat with his massive jaws. But he didn’t. “Let him live,” he snarled.

“What?” exclaimed Steps-Lightly.

“He lives!” Brennan stood, one foot on either side of Peter’s chest, and shifted into Homid form. He pushed Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly away, then reached down and dragged Peter up to his feet with one muscular arm. “Dying is too easy. I know why he did this — he wants us to kill him because he didn’t have the guts to do it himself when he should have!” He pulled Peter close to his face. “But if you live, you have to watch what happens to us. You have to watch us die, knowing that you killed us! That you betrayed us after we helped you!” The Fianna shoved Peter away. He looked at Steps-Lightly, Roshen, and Thunder Tiger. “What do you think of that?”

The other three Garou paused. Slowly, Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly nodded. Peter’s head dropped down. “There’s no cure,” he whispered to no one in particular. His mother. Pretty Boy. Old Moses Yonge-and-Queen, Treads-the-Lines, Critter, Alex, Joan, Jubati, Thunder

Tiger, Steps-Lightly, Brennan, Roshen... He started to tremble. “Please...”

“Aawwrooo!"

The night air was shattered by howls and crazed shrieks before they could say anything else, before Peter could even complete his sentence. Peter’s head snapped up. The other Garou spun, instinctively putting their backs together. Dark shapes swarmed toward them out of the shadows from all sides. “Black Spiral Dancers!” screamed Roshen, taking Crinos form. “We waited too long!”

“Looks like you get your wish, Peter!” Brennan spat.

There were more Black Spirals than Peter could count, or might have been able to count if he had had the chance. The mad Garou were on them too quickly. They were in all forms: Homid, Crinos, Lupus. A few were eerily beautiful. Most were hideous, scarred and twisted by the poison and radiation of the Wyrm. Their Crinos forms were horrifying, with hairless bat-ears, slavering, heavy jaws, and, huge heads that looked more like hyenas than wolves. For a moment, the Severed Arm stood against them as only a pack could. Roshen brained one with his arm club. Steps-Lightly tore one’s chest open with savage claws, howling as loudly as the Black Spirals themselves. Thunder Tiger struck out in the dance of kailindo that Peter had seen him practicing, though now the dance was no practice.

But then the Lupus form Black Spirals were in among them, sliding between them like vile serpents and forcing their tight, defensive knot apart, using the pack’s own fighting techniques against them. Lost in his Rage, Steps-Lightly was easily lured away. Roshen needed room to swing his arm. Brennan, himself in Lupus form, was carried back as he leaped up and sank his jaws into the neck of a Black Spiral Crinos. Only Thunder Tiger seemed immovable, his disciplined blocks, strikes, and throws keeping him in almost the same position.

Peter barely worried about the way that the Black Spirals were breaking up the pack. He fought dully, almost listlessly. He didn’t bother to take Crinos form, instead striking out haphazardly with a stick of heavy wood he picked up from the ground. The run across Hell’s Hand and his violent outburst had drained him. The world seemed as distant as it always did when his Rage came over him, but... but...

All he knew was that this would be the end. He would die here. Now. He would meet Gaia’s justice at the claws and fangs of the Black Spiral Dancers.

He felt sorrow, but not anger. There was no Rage left in him.

Three Black Spiral Dancers came together in front of him, growling and slinking low to the ground like rabid sheepdogs. Peter threw down his makeshift club and raised his arms up to his side, exposing his throat, chest, and belly. “Do it,” he urged them through clenched teeth. A little bit of his Rage seemed to come back with the words. A final, angry deathwish. “Do it!”

“No!” ordered a voice from behind him. “Alive! We’re supposed to take them in alive! Especially him!”

The cultured voice spoke with an upper-class British accent. Peter whirled. It couldn’t be...

Kwargkh Neville-Harris grinned at him, raising a machete to his forehead in a salute as though the giant knife were a fencing foil. But the mad Garou should have been dead — or at least too weak with snow plague to leave his foul den.

“How?” hissed Peter. “How?” His Rage came flooding back into him. Along with an answer to his own question. “Pentex has a cure!”

Now furious, he leaped. At the last second, though, he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye, a swift motion. One of the Black Spirals behind him shifting to Crinos, snatching up the club that Peter had dropped, and swinging it. The wood cracked into the side of Peter’s head hard enough to send pain blasting through his skull. His leap became a stagger straight into Kwargkh’s arms.

Dark smudges blurred his vision. Helpless, he saw Kwargkh raise his machete and bring the butt of it smashing down. The blow drove him into darkness.

There was no sun to awaken him this time. It was still dark when Peter felt himself rising out of black unconsciousness. He was lying on his back, his arms thrust awkwardly behind him. A steady roar cut through his head. His vision, when he opened his eyes, was a spinning blur of shadows and strange, ghostly pale colors. His eyes slid closed again, his stomach churning with nausea.

They were moving, flying. The roar was the engine of a helicopter, the pale colors were from the muted lights of the pilot’s instruments. The Black Spiral Dancers loved the gadgetry of technology as much as the Glass Walkers, and theii; connections with Pentex gave them access to all the toys they wanted. The blur... that was his own senses. He probably had a concussion. He forced his eyes open.

This time, part of the blur in his field of vision bent down close to him. He blinked, trying to focus. He felt something cold and sharp press against his throat. The machete.

“Don’t even think about using any of your Glass Walker tricks on the chopper, Peter,” howled Kwargkh’s sophisticated voice over the noise of the helicopter’s engine. “Or I’ll have your head off faster than the spirits could respond.”

Peter bit back the nausea that accompanied his dizziness. Now he could make out Kwargkh above him, the Black Spiral’s handsome Homid face white in the dim light. How did the Black Spiral know his real name? His argument with the Severed Arm... Kwargkh would have witnessed at least part of it from hiding. Peter glared at him. “Where is the rest of my pack?” he shouted as loudly as the blade across his neck permitted.

“Your ex-pack?” Kwargkh sneered. “They’re... around. We had to knock them out with tranquilizer guns.” He grinned. “Though they put up more of a fight than you, so they’re a little the worse for wear. The Doctor wants them for his experiments.”

His words sent a shiver of anger through Peter. “Where are you taking us?”

“Magadon, Inc. Pentex’s pharmaceutical factory in the forest. The Doctor will see you now!” Kwargkh laughed crazily, then leaned in very close to Peter. “Come on, ask me! I know you want to!”

The Black Spiral didn’t have to specify what Peter wanted to ask. Peter knew that he had guessed the question that was burning in his mind. Did Pentex have a cure for the snow plague?

But Peter refused to give Kwargkh that satisfaction. He kept his mouth closed, though the Rage in his stare would have sent a sane person scuttling away in terror.

Kwargkh just shrugged. “You are no fun at all!” He put one hand over Peter’s nose and said, just as Peter once had, “Smell.”

The scent of fading Fever.

“No!” spat Peter.

Kwargkh chuckled. “Oh, yes! You almost killed me, Peter, but I made it to Magadon and the Doctor before the pack could take me down, and the Doctor had an answer...”

“Become a fomor,” Peter groaned. A carrier was immune to the snow plague. More Fever could be used to turn a victim into a carrier, and thus a fomor, as well. The one possible solution that the sept of Taddle Creek had never considered. The one solution that no Garou would have considered. No Garou except a Black Spiral Dancer. Already warped by the Wyrm, the added twist of Fever’s contamination would be nothing to them. And now there

was another carrier of the snow plague. “Has your Doctor made any more like you?”

Kwargkh’s grin grew even broader. “There’s no point in everybody knowing about this, is there? The Doctor had me take down the old Hive leader — Gahfrag was becoming intractable. Then he put me and my pack out to find you again. He’s going to be very happy to hear that you virtually walked right into our arms!” The Black Spiral Dancer groped in the shadows for something. His hand came back into the light holding a tranquilizer dart. “But for now...”

Peter moved suddenly, seizing Kwargkh’s forearm and shoving the machete away from his throat. At the same time, he brought his far leg up and across his body, ramming his knee into the Black Spiral’s side. Kwargkh jerked away with a hiss of pain. Peter flipped over, trying to scramble to his feet.

He paid for the sudden movements instantly. The dizziness and nausea of his concussion crashed into him. His stomach heaved. He staggered, falling heavily against the side door of the helicopter. The door swung open.

For a moment, Peter was staring out across the night-darkened canopy of the rain forest. The stars were brilliant, the last thin edge of the waning moon like a silver slash in the black sky. The moon had been just past its half when they left Grrrash tak’nyrr, Peter’s reeling mind informed him incongruously; the river spirit had carried them all the way from the Mokole nesting grounds to Hell’s Hand in just three days.

Then he was toppling forward, out of the helicopter. Kwargkh grabbed at the waistband of his boxer shorts, but the thin material, weakened by days of wear in the heat and humidity of the rain forest, tore like paper. His other hand locked around Peter’s ankle. The Glass Walker swung down in an arc. He caught a glimpse of Roshen, Brennan, Steps-Lightly, and Thunder Tiger — drugged into unconsciousness, bundled up together like a big bag of dirty laundry, and slung by a cable underneath the helicopter — before his chest slammed into the metal bars of the helicopter’s landing gear. Staring down at the green ocean of the canopy flashing by below, he vomited helplessly, finally overcome by nausea. Every retch sent fire burning through his chest. He must have broken a rib or two. His ankle in Kwargkh’s grip throbbed as well.

The Black Spiral let him hang there for what seemed like an eternity before hauling him slowly and painfully back inside, hurling curses at him the whole time. Peter could do nothing more than gag and throw up. Kwargkh stabbed the tranquilizer dart into the muscles of his backside; unconsciousness was a blessing this time.

CHAPTER   FIFTEEN

Peter looked down at the potted basil plant rapidly withering away in front of him and clenched his teeth. Less than two weeks to learn a ritual that normally took a month to perfect? How was he supposed to learn the complexities of the magical ceremony so quickly? Every time he had tried to awaken the spirit of a plant so far, he had ended up killing it by mistake.

Alex sighed wearily. But then, Alex did everything wearily these days. The red-haired Garou was confined to a wheelchair, too weak with snow plague to walk on his own. Peter flushed. That was why he had to learn the rite of spirit awakening so quickly. In four days he would leave for Brazil’ and the rain forests of the Amazon to find the flowers that Pentex had used to make Fever. Together, Critter and Alex had figured out that if the spirits of the flowers could be awakened gently — instead of brutally as Pentex and the Black Spiral Dancers had done — they might just yield a cure to the snow plague. If Peter could learn the ritual, he would be able to awaken the flower spirits in the Amazon, and the spirits would keep the flowers fresh while Peter smuggled them back to Toronto. If Peter could learn the ritual.

Alex’s presence was also what kept Peter from complaining about his repeated failures. If Alex could keep going in spite of his illness, Peter had to make himself keep going as well.

“Try it again, Peter,” Alex suggested. He gestured toward the small forest of potted herbs and houseplants around Peter’s living room. The forest had been larger, but Peter’s repeated unsuccessful attempts at the ritual had turned much of it into dry, brown skeletons. Peter nodded and reached for a fresh plant. A chrysanthemum. Working with living things wasn’t easy for Glass Walkers; they were more accustomed to dealing with the spirits of electricity, glass, metal, and machines.

Critter had worked with living things, hut he had slipped into delirium several days ago. Anthony Gremlin and Soon-ai had also come down with the snow plague. Peter had touched them both only the day before the fateful raid on Pentex. Of all of the Taddle Creek Sept’s elders, only old Aunt Penny, the caern guardian, remained healthy.

Margie came down from upstairs before Peter could begin the ritual again. “I got a connection this time,” she said. “Sky River Caern has the most primitive communications system — they use a scrambled radio frequency with only one telephone link-up! They’ll send someone to meet you at the Manaus Airport on February 2. Your mother’s name gets a lot...” She bit off her words. No one was mentioning Cassandra Spitfire lately. At least not around Peter. Margie glanced at a paper in her hand. “You’re supposed to look for them in the airport cafe under the ‘severed arm.’ Whatever that means. And your airplane tickets are confirmed: Toronto, Chicago, Rio, Manaus.”

Under the advice of Gavin and Treads-the-Lines, Aunt Penny had sealed the Taddle Creek Caern. No moon bridges would pass through Toronto in an effort to keep the snow plague secret. Unfortunately, that meant Peter would be flying to Brazil. “Did you ask Sky River about Pentex’s locations in the rain forest?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know. Regional headquarters at the Developers Forestry Group compound north of the Amazon, a smaller facility owned by Magadon farther south.” She looked up at Peter. “Are you sure you want to do it this way? Joining Sky River and just looking for the flowers? Isn’t that kind of risky? What if they, you know,” Margie shifted uncomfortably, “find out?”

What if they find out you’re a fomor? What if the snow plague starts spreading among the Garou of the Amazon? Peter choked back a snarling reply. He had found himself doing that a lot lately. After the Garou of Toronto had discovered the cause of the snow plague, they had been faced with a hard choice. Did they put Peter to death as a traitor, or did they let him live and give him a chance to redeem himself by finding a cure? They had chosen the latter. Living had been harder than Peter could have expected. No one came near him if they could help it. Some Garou wouldn’t speak to him. They all acted as if he were a rabid animal that might spring into a foaming frenzy if they upset him at all. And the worst thing was that he didn’t dare correct them. He had been given a second chance by their grace after he had all but killed them. He owed his sept.

But Alex had stood by him. Maybe because he already had the snow plague. “It would be even more risky to try to infiltrate Pentex,” the red-haired Glass Walker pointed out to Margie. “The files we managed to retrieve out of Pentex’s database were so heavily encrypted we barely got any information out of them. We don’t know if Fever came out of DFG or Magadon, or even if it was developed in the Amazon at all. Pentex could have shipped those flowers to a lab anywhere in the world. We have to locate the flowers at the source.”

“I’ll find them,” Peter assured her.

“But the rain forest is immense!”

“I’ll find them!”

This time, his words were almost a growl, the first time he had raised his voice in anger against another Garou in two weeks. Silence fell over the room. Margie actually took a step backward. Peter flushed, partly in embarrassment, but mostly in angry frustration. “I just wish I knew why they chose Toronto to test Fever in and me to test it on,” he added tightly, trying to smooth things over by changing the subject.

Alex sighed again. Peter knew that he must be getting tired of those questions; he had been hearing them at Least once a day. “Who knows? We’re a small sept. We’re isolated. You’re the son of a prominent Garou leader. There could be any number of reasons....”

The telephone on the table next to him rang suddenly. Margie reached for it, but Alex gave her such a glare that she backed off quickly. He was still capable of doing some things himself. Peter tried not to notice how his hand shook when he picked up the phone. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line spoke only briefly. Alex nodded. “All right. We’ll be right over.” He hung up and looked at Peter. “Looks like you’ll have to keep practicing the rite of spirit awakening on your own. Aunt Penny is ready for me.”

Aunt Penny lived in an old Victorian brick house on the edge of a small park. At one time Taddle Creek had flowed through the park. The creek had been buried long ago, though, and now it ran through underground conduits. People still remembered the name of the creek, but almost no one remembered exactly where it had flowed. When the Glass Walkers decided to create their hidden caern, Taddle Creek had been an ideal site.

A steep, narrow staircase led down from Aunt Penny’s house into a series of carefully excavated cellars. From the cellars, a dark, cool passage wound its way to the center of the caern, a section of Taddle Creek that flowed under the park and through a brick vault that was at least as old as the house and as large as a small cave. Peter had never been sure why this section of the creek’s underground course was graced with such a cavernous covering. It might have had something to do with the creek’s unnatural depth here. Though it was no more than a couple of yards wide, even with a strong light, it was impossible to see the bottom. To the best of Peter’s knowledge, no one had ever tried to find out how deep the water was. It never froze in the winter. Cassie might have known the creek’s secret, but if so, it had died with her. Aunt Penny almost certainly knew, but the elderly Garou wasn’t talking.

The biggest problem with sending Peter to find the flower, the sept had quickly realized, was that it would take time. Cassandra Spitfire had died after only two weeks, though Critter speculated that her continued efforts to remain active had probably hastened the final stages of the plague. Under his orders, Garou with the snow plague had been forced to take as much rest as possible — though Alex and Critter himself had flagrantly broken those orders. In the meantime, Aunt Penny had gone down into the caern and sought the counsel of its totem spirit, an entity whose name slipped from the mind as soon as it was spoken. The spirit was as mysterious as the creek in which it dwelled, and as well-hidden as the caern itself.

Aunt Penny had returned with an answer. By calling on the aid of the Taddle Creek spirit, she would put the sick Garou into a kind of suspended animation. The snow plague would progress no further.

The preparations had been made. Now the sick Garou would be gathered in.

Peter helped Alex down the steep stairs and along the narrow passage. Margie went on ahead. The smell and sound of water came to him well before they entered the vault of the caern’s center. Peter could hear other Garou as well; he and Alex were the last to arrive. They stepped out into the vault.

Electric lights had been strung throughout the Glass Walkers’ caern. Somehow, the light never penetrated very far into the shadows. At least the light was warm. Or so it had always seemed to Peter before. Now the light was only dim and grubby, showing dust and cobwebs.

Brick and stone biers had been erected in the creek’s vault, stacked up above each other like bunk beds. Garou were already lying on many of them, their breath creating a heavy mist in the frigid air. Calamity pointed grimly to a bier that was still empty. Peter helped Alex up onto it.

With its grimy light and cold, stacked biers, the vault had become a catacomb.

Alex gripped his hand for a moment, his grasp as light as the wings of a butterfly. “Good luck,” he whispered.

Peter’s throat became choked. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“If this works, I won’t know anything until you do come back.”

Alex let him go, settling down as comfortably as he could, and Peter retreated back to where the other Garou were waiting. They shifted aside, clearing a space around him. Peter suppressed his annoyance. He had never felt more frustratingly singled out in his life.

He wasn’t sure where Aunt Penny came from. She was wearing black Victorian widow’s weeds, though, and in her hands she carried a fragile-looking china dish. Peter recognized it as the gravy boat from a set of china the old Garou had been given decades ago on her wedding day. She walked to the edge of the creek, murmuring to herself. The surface of the water bulged, then subsided, in response. The totem spirit was awakening. Aunt Penny dipped the dish into the creek, filling it with the cold, clear water. Still murmuring, she began to pace around the biers. At each, she stopped and brushed some of the water across the sick Garou’s lips with a little golden ladle. Then she would put her fingers to their eyes and draw their eyelids down. Where she had passed, no more breath condensed above the Garou’s mouths.

Peter wrapped his arms around himself. The dead had come to the catacombs.

When Aunt Penny finished, she returned to the edge of Taddle Creek. With a final word of thanks, she raised her arms — and dropped the gravy boat into the dark water. It vanished in the blackness. Aunt Penny turned to the gathered Garou. “May they rest in peace,” she said.

Peter looked around. Aunt Penny, Trojan, Calamity, Margie, J.D., and Nelly. Six Garou to look after the city until he returned with the cure. The sept’s Kinfolk would help as much as possible, but there was only so much they could do. And two of the Garou were little more than pups. He suspected that by the time he returned, Nelly and J.D. would be considerably more experienced.

The other Garou shook hands with Aunt Penny or kissed her as they filed out of the caern’s center, as though they were consoling the bereaved after a funeral. Peter was the last to leave. He looked down at his feet, then up at her wrinkled face, unable to touch her as the others had. “I leave on Monday.”

“I know.” Aunt Penny’s expression was bleak. “Peter, there’s something you should know that I didn’t want to tell the others.”

Peter’s heart stopped. “What?”

“Taddle Creek can’t keep up the state of suspended animation forever. The spirits of the Garou are strong even if their bodies are weak. They’ll try to get back. You have two months at most to return with the cure.”

Peter swallowed hard and turned to go. The cold that he felt as he left the caern wasn’t just the winter wind.

When he boarded his flight four days later, a backpack with one bottle of Fever in his hand, the suitcase with all of the spare bottles stowed in the belly of the aircraft, he looked back toward the departures area. No one had come to see him off.

CHAPTER  SIXTEEN

“Get up, damn you, Glass Walker! I know I saw you move this time!” Someone — Brennan — kicked Peter in the side. Right in his cracked ribs. The pain brought Peter screaming into full consciousness instantly. He curled into a ball, whimpering in agony.

“About time,” Brennan muttered. Peter was dimly aware of him stalking away. As the haze of his pain cleared, he began to notice other things as well.

He was no longer on board the helicopter. It wasn’t much to start from, but it was all that his pain-shocked mind could absorb at first. He was lying on stone. No, concrete, its hard surface cool against his bare skin. His boxer shorts were gone, and he remembered how they had ripped when Kwargkh hauled him back into the helicopter. All he had on were his boots.

He kicked them off and rolled over, looking up at a high, featureless ceiling, wincing as his weight shifted onto his bruised left buttock. The tranquilizer dart. Magadon. More importantly, Kwargkh’s condition as a carrier of the snow plague. Peter drew a hard breath. Pentex had more Fever and they were capable of making more carriers. He prayed that the Fever was just a stockpile and that the Wyrm-controlled corporation hadn’t learn how to synthesize it. He had to get out of here!

They were in a tiny room maybe ten feet long and seven feet wide, with concrete block walls and a heavy, blank door. A cell. There was a small, barred window on one wall, up near the ceiling. The light that came through was watery and weak. He could smell rain. “How long have I been out?” he groaned.

“Since I came to,” snapped Brennan. “A couple of hours. It’s sometime in the afternoon.”

Sometime in the afternoon.' Kwargkh had drugged him in the middle of the night. Maybe eight to twelve hours ago. Slowly, he sat up. At least the time spent unconscious had eased the ache in his head. His skull still throbbed, and the room swam for a moment before his eyes, but he didn’t feel nauseous. Not that there was anything left in his stomach anyway. He rubbed at his head, and realized that there was something around his neck. A wide, thick, heavy leather collar stitched closed at the back. With dog tags hanging from it.

Peter snarled and put a hand to it. Was this some kind of Black Spiral Dancer joke? He could shift to Crinos and rip the collar away like it was tissue paper!

“Go ahead.” Brennan, squatting in a far corner, looked up at him. He wore a similar collar on his own neck. “But you might want to know that our jailer claims there are silver blades hidden in these collars. Try to change forms and snick.” He snapped his fingers. “Right through the jugular.” ,

Peter paused and ran his finger along the top of the collar. There was barely room to slip his pinkie in between it and his neck, but he could feel that the inside was lined with a much thinner and lighter leather. He pushed gently against the outside, and through the thin inner leather, something pressed against his skin. He cursed. The pressure of shifting into his thicker-necked Crinos or Lupus forms would drive the blades right through. “There’s a blade there. 1 don’t know if it’s silver, though.”

Brennan laughed sourly. “Tell you what — you go ahead and try changing. If you survive, we’ll know it’s not.” His voice dripped with malice.

The tiny cell suddenly seemed a whole lot quieter than it had before. Peter choked back an angry retort. “We don’t have time for this. Do you know where the others are?” “No.”

“All right.” Peter looked up at the window. “How about what’s outside?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Brennan stood and reached his muscular arms up toward the little opening. The window was maybe a foot and half beyond the end of his fingers. Peter scowled. The Fianna could have tried jumping up and grabbing hold of the bars. They certainly looked sturdy enough to support his weight. He could do it himself, no problem. Carefully he stood, wincing slightly at a pain in his ankle, the one Kwargkh had grabbed to haul him back into the helicopter. He limped over to stand under the window. Brennan didn’t stop him, but Peter paused and sent him a suspicious glance over his shoulder. “The bars aren’t electrified, are they?”

Brennan spat on the floor. “The jailer said they are.” This time, Peter did growl. “Thanks for the warning. Now come over and give me a hand up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“Does it make a difference?” Brennan sat back. “Pm going to die anyway, thanks to you.”

“But there is a difference between dying from snow plague and being tortured to death by Black Spiral Dancers and Pentex.” Brennan refused to meet his gaze, however. Peter grunted in frustration. “Fine. Then you come over, and I’ll hoist you. But I think I’ve broken or cracked some ribs, so if I drop you...”

“Okay!” snapped Brennan, cutting him off. He walked across the cell and squatted down. “Up on my shoulders, Glass Walker. But make it quick and be careful of the collar.”

“Thank you kindly, Brennan,” Peter hissed sarcastically. He swung his legs over Brennan’s broad shoulders. The Fianna took a deep breath and, with a grunt, slowly stood upright. Peter actually had to duck his head down a bit to be able to look through the window.

What he saw didn’t encourage him. They were on the ground floor of whatever building they were in, but right outside their window was a bustling parking lot full of jeeps, trucks, and mechanics. Beyond the parking lot were three helicopters. Peter thought he recognized the one that had brought them there. The other two had the Magadon logo painted on the side; one of those, a little sleeker and shinier, seemed to be an executive helicopter. Past the helicopters were a tall, wire-link fence and a wide, defoliated area before the rain forest started again. A kill-zone. Over to the right, Peter could just see part of another building. “Move over a little bit,” he told Brennan.

“Forget it. I’m no horse.” He dropped back down again. “Get off.”

“Just a bit more...”

“Get... off... now!”

Brennan put his hands under Peter’s legs, ducked his head forward, and shoved. Peter went flying over backward with a yelp that turned into a wheezing gasp of intense pain. He landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the wind out of him and jarring his battered ribs. Brennan whirled to his feet and spun around. He drew back his foot and kicked Peter hard in the side. “Stupid Glass Walker! Stupid, bloody, fucking Glass Walker!”

Shocked and surprised, Peter tried to roll away, but Brennan just kicked him again. His face was bright red with barely suppressed Rage. Peter managed to catch his foot before the third kick landed, pushing it back and throwing Brennan off-balance. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he shouted. “Stop!”

“No!” Brennan struggled against Peter’s grip, pressing down with all of his weight. “Damn you, this is all your fault! If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have been caught! We wouldn’t even have the snow plague!”

Peter suddenly let go and rolled away, leaving Brennan’s foot to slam into the concrete with a heavy stomp. “All right!” he panted, climbing quickly and shakily to his feet. “Maybe it was my fault. Maybe there’s no hope for us. But we have to get out of here. Not just for ourselves — Brennan, they have more Fever! They can infect more Garou with snow plague. We’re going to have to work together.”

“Fat fucking chance!” Brennan howled.

Peter tensed, afraid that the Fianna might try to take Crinos form in spite of the blades in his collar — and that he would succeed. But he didn’t attempt it. After a moment, he took a long, rattling, furious breath. “Fat fucking chance,” he repeated. “You can’t trust a Glass Walker any more than you can trust a fomor.” He turned and sat back down in the corner of the cell.

He was silent for a long time, refusing even to look at Peter. Eventually, Peter sat down opposite him and waited. He wouldn’t be able to escape on his own, if escape were possible at all. He needed Brennan. If he could get them, he needed all of the Garou. Finally, he asked simply, “Do you want more Garou to die from the snow plague, Brennan?”

“Lousy fucking Glass Walker.”

Peter glared at the Fianna. “Brennan, what is your problem? You’ve been giving me nothing but aggravation since I got here. You’ve gone out of your way to annoy me. You’ve always been the first to suggest the worst possible punishments. What have I ever done to you?” He waited for a response. When none came, he added, “Or do you really just hate Glass Walkers in general?” Nothing.

Peter lapsed into silence again, and turned his thoughts to trying to plot a way out of the cell. He couldn’t see any means of escape. Maybe when they took him to see the Doctor Kwargkh had talked about... After a while, when he had gone over his options so many times that his thoughts started blurring together, Peter just drifted into a sort of unthinking, blank state. The memories of the Mokole kept drifting through his head. They were nowhere near as intense as they had been under the influence of Trees Dream’s ebene, but bits and pieces were still clear. He could see why the Garou had been so afraid of the Mokol — why they were still afraid of them. The children of the Dragon Kings were vicious warriors. But they could also be incredibly peaceful, wallowing in their nesting grounds, basking in the sun, and playing with their children. They had a rich, deep, ancient culture and remembered much from their long history. The two races could have been allies, were it not for the arrogance of the Garou long ago. And the Mokole remembered that, too.

“Glass Walkers live in the Wyrm’s belly.”

Peter’s head jerked up. “Brennan?” The tough Fianna sounded like he was crying.

“Glass Walkers live in the Wyrm’s belly.” It was late afternoon, maybe almost sunset, though the heavy rain clouds made it seem darker than it really was. Light from the parking lot outside fell in through the window. Peter could just make out the tears shining on Brennan’s face. “And Gaia help me, Peter — I want to, too!”

Peter licked his lips. “What do you mean, Brennan?” he asked softly.

“Glass Walkers live in the cities. They play with computers and technology.” Brennan’s voice was wishful. “I want technology, Peter. Part of me craves what you have. I want to do more than just run around in the woods!” His hands twitched, grasping at the air. “But that’s the Wyrm talking. Computers, cities, technology... they’re for humans, not for Garou.”

“Who told you that?”

“Isn’t that why everybody hates the Glass Walkers? The Wyrm was trying to tempt me, Peter. I’ve had to keep pushing it away for years. I followed the Litany. I fought Pentex and the Black Spiral Dancers. I did what was right, I know I did. But Glass Walkers...” He looked away. “Every time I saw a Glass Walker, the Wyrm came back.”

He gets hot around the suggestion of anything technological, Windrunner had said, but he also turns nasty around anything too traditional. No wonder. Anything technological would remind him of his secret, “unGarou-like” desires. Anything traditional would just remind him of how untraditional those desires were — he could take refuge in tradition, but it couldn’t satisfy him. “So when Jubati called us ‘Wyrmcomers’...”

“He was too close to the truth.” The Fianna swallowed. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s not you. In fact, I was almost starting to like you before... all of this happened.” He waved his arm around the cell. “Pm sorry.”

Peter sighed quietly. “Brennan,” he said, “let it go. It’s not the Wyrm.”

“It is!”

“No, it isn’t. The Fever, being a fomor — those are the fault of the Wyrm. Being a Glass Walker, wanting technology — that’s natural. Garou are only half wolf. Our other half is human, and technology is as human as... as living in cities. The Wyrm might try to corrupt technology, but technology doesn’t belong to it. Think of Fever. There are hundreds of kinds of cologne in the world. Humans have been using perfumes for millennia. The only reason one kind of cologne is causing the snow plague is because Pentex created it that way.” He breathed out slowly. “Look, maybe Glass Walkers have become a little too much like humans for our own good. But we’re also the only Garou who really understand technology and can fight the Wyrm when it tries to put it to corrupt uses.”

Peter stood and walked across the cell to sit down beside Brennan. He put his arm around him. “You’re trying to be too much like a wolf. There’s nothing wrong with liking technology or desiring some of the things that humans have. They’re part of your heritage, too.” He paused to let Brennan think. “Now, are you with me? We have an opportunity here to push back the Wyrm. We can hit Pentex from inside the Wyrm’s belly!”

Brennan hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I’m with you.” He gave Peter a twisted grin. “You know, the first time I smelled your Fever, I really liked it. I almost thought about snitching some.”

“Thank Gaia you didn’t, then.” Peter grinned back. “Although if you had, 1 would have had to ask the pack for help a whole lot earlier. Any ideas on how we can get out of here?”

In the end, Brennan’s best idea was the same as Peter’s: ambush whoever came to take him to see the Doctor. But when the cell door finally slammed open sometime that evening, throwing blinding light from the hallway outside into the cell, the possibility of an ambush evaporated. Kwargkh had been sent to fetch Peter, along with another Black Spiral Dancer and a human who fit Brennan’s description of the jailer. The human held a dart gun, presumably loaded with tranquilizers. Unable to change forms, unarmed, and with Peter’s injured ribs, Brennan and Peter wouldn’t have had a chance against their captors. Kwargkh, his shaggy hair pulled back into a civilized ponytail, gestured to Peter. “Let’s go. The Doctor will see you now.”

Peter sent Brennan a parting glance. If he could make it back for him, he would. Then he turned to Kwargkh. “You used that joke before.”

“They only get better with age.” He snapped a leash onto Peter’s collar. The Glass Walker flushed, but said nothing. Kwargkh led him out into a long corridor lined with identical cell doors. The jailer locked his and Brennan’s cell behind them and escorted them down the hall to a desk. He pushed a clipboard toward the Black Spiral Dancer. “Bureaucracy!” sighed Kwargkh. “The world would be so much simpler without it. Tooth and claw, the old-fashioned way — when doing something in triplicate meant you were just making sure it was really dead.” He turned a blood-curdling grin on the jailer. The man turned pale. “Don’t you agree, Peter?”

Peter offered a surly grunt in reply, but inside he was vibrating with excitement. He had managed to sneak a peek at the list of prisoners on the clipboard. There was definitely something to be said for a bureaucracy that recorded prisoners’ races and cell numbers. Pentex didn’t seem to have many prisoners at the moment. In addition to “two Garou, cell 5” — now one — the jailer had listed only “two Garou, cell 18” and “one Garou, cell 20.” Roshen, Steps-Lightly, and Thunder Tiger were still alive!

Kwargkh took some folded clothes from a cupboard, and shoved them at him, along with a bottle of Fever. “Get dressed.”

Peter looked him straight in the eye. “No.” Whatever the Doctor wanted him for, he was going to go just as he was. Naked as Gaia had created him.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Kwargkh. “But at least use the Fever.”

“Why? So I don’t infect every Black Spiral Dancer in sight?”

“No. Because you stink.” Kwargkh took Peter’s hand and slapped the Fever into it. He gave him the same grin, sharp teeth gleaming, that he had given the jailer. “Use it yourself, or I’ll do it for you. And bear in mind that the Doctor wants you alive, but he doesn’t need you whole.”

Peter’s fingers closed numbly around the Fever. He sprayed himself thoroughly. Kwargkh grunted in satisfaction. “A shower would have been better, but you work with what you have.” He pushed Peter ahead of him, out of the room and down a short corridor. “Move it.”

At the end of the corridor there was a door, with another Black Spiral Dancer waiting beside it. Kwargkh nodded to him and he swung the door open for them. The smell of fresh air broke the haze of Fever around Peter.

They were heading outside! Peter tensed, ready to make a break for it, but Kwargkh tugged sharply on his leash. “I wouldn’t,” he warned him. “One collared puppy against three Black Spirals and whoever else wants to join in the hunt?” He walked on ahead, pulling Peter after him. “Come on.”

Peter went along quietly. Kwargkh was right. He was virtually helpless until he could get the damn collar off. Helpless didn’t mean he was blind, however. Peter looked around Pentex’s Magadon facility, trying to memorize the layout as Kwargkh marched him across a dirt yard. Though it was dark, floodlights effectively lit the whole installation. To his left were the parking lot and the helicopters. To his right lay the ramshackle remains of a native village and a small missionary church. These had probably been taken over by Pentex when the corporation arrived. He wondered what had happened to the priests and the natives.

Ahead of him were several new buildings that were strongly reminiscent of those seen in a suburban high-tech industrial park. Kwargkh steered him toward one in particular, over on the left and slightly apart from the others. Peter realized that it was the building he had been able to see from the window of his cell. At the door, Kwargkh stopped and turned to the other two Black Spirals. “You can go,” he said. “I can handle this.” After they left, he rapped loudly on the door. No one answered and Kwargkh knocked again, then sighed.

“You know, Peter,” he remarked, “I think I could grow to like you. We have a lot in common.”

“How so?” growled Peter.

“We’re both Garou at heart; we’ve both been touched by the Wyrm... we both have a gift that isolates us from other Garou.”

Peter snorted and stared straight ahead at the door. “I think the Wyrm has touched us in different ways. And we use our ‘gift’ differently, too.”

“Don’t be too sure.” Kwargkh grinned. “Gahfrag, the old leader of the Hive, was my father.”

Peter stiffened. Kwargkh’s point was clear. They had both killed a parent with the snow plague. But Peter hadn’t mentioned Cassandra’s death in his argument with the pack. Kwargkh couldn’t have known about it. He clenched his teeth. They had been questioning one of the others.

Through the door, he heard footsteps approaching, then the sound of several locks being turned. The door swung open, revealing a figure in a lab coat. Peter sucked in a sudden, sharp breath.

Bryony.

“You’re the Doctor?” he snarled.

Bryony regarded him coolly. “No.” She gestured them inside, then locked the door behind them. They followed her through an outer office and into a laboratory. As they walked, her eyes seemed to be fastened on Peter — as his were fastened to her. Then she shoved a clipboard at Kwargkh, who signed the form on it, and handed it and the bottle of Fever back to her. “Dr. Junius is in there.” She pointed vaguely at a red door. “Go get him, Kwargkh.”

“The Doctor told me to stay with...” said the Black Spiral Dancer from behind Peter’s back.

“Go get him!” Bryony snapped. Her eyes were icy. “You don’t think I can handle him?” She nodded toward Peter.

“Yes, but...”

“Get Junius!”

Kwargkh hissed in annoyance and dropped the leash. He stomped over to the red door, shoved it open, and ducked through. “Close the door behind you!” shouted Bryony. Kwargkh slammed it shut angrily.

Peter and Bryony were alone. And Peter noticed all at once how cold it seemed in the laboratory. For the first time in weeks, he was back in an air-conditioned environment. The artificially chilled air raised goose bumps on his skin.

Bryony stepped close to him, close enough that he could smell the birch-essence perfume she had worn in Toronto. She must have just applied it for him to be able to smell it over the Fever. “Peter...” she said softly.

“You betrayed me. You used me.” Peter could barely keep his Rage at bay. He trembled with it, and his senses narrowed as the whole of his concentration focused on Bryony.

“I was doing my job. It wasn’t anything personal.” “No? Why me, then? Why Toronto?”

“Toronto was a random choice. Any city would have done that had Glass Walkers who could be convinced to try a cologne. Junius needed to field test Fever. I spent weeks looking for a lone male Garou. Then I spotted you.” Bryony hesitated. “And you were drinking rye on the rocks, and you had blond hair...” She reached up to touch the side of his head.

Peter caught her arm. A nasty thought had occurred to him. “Did you tell Kwargkh about my mother?” Bryony nodded. “How did you know?” he demanded in a hiss.

“One of the Glass Walker Kinfolk. Magadon produces some very addictive drugs.” Her smile had a sharp edge. “Don’t worry. We couldn’t persuade him to tell us where your caern is — that secret’s safe.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp. “But don’t you see, Peter? We’re together again. That doesn’t have to matter anymore.” Her nostrils flared. Peter could tell that she was greedily breathing in the heady scent of Fever. Her eyes were hungry. “How does that sound to you, officer?”

His stomach twisted. “Get away from me.”

“Calm down and think about it, Peter. There are worse things.” Bryony swallowed. “It wasn’t all so impersonal. I...”

“Don’t say it,” Peter snarled. “It’s not true. I know it’s not.”

Bryony’s face went flat. “I’m telling you I’m sorry for what I did, Peter!”

“If you’re really sorry, then get me a cure for the snow plague!”

“There is no cure. Peter, just forget about it. It doesn’t matter...”

Peter’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Get away from me, Bryony.”

“Peter...”

“I said get away from me!”

But instead, Bryony threw herself at him. Peter tried to catch her and shove her back, but she pushed his arms aside and threw her own arms around his chest. She nuzzled his shoulders, just as she had done back in Toronto, licking him, kissing him. She stroked her hands up and down his spine, she cupped the cheeks of his bare ass. She thrust herself against him, eagerly, desperately.

Peter’s Rage-narrowed senses seemed to magnify it all. Just as Bryony was attracted to the beast in him, so the beast in him was attracted to Bryony. Against his will, his body responded to her. A growl started in his chest, and moved up into his throat. His animal Rage wanted her as much as she did him. He was aroused. His need was urgent. Suddenly his hand was tangled in her hair and he was pulling her head back, raising her lips. As well as the stiff collar around his neck permitted, he bent his head down to kiss her...

And Bryony stepped back, forcing him away. Her face was cruel and white with anger. “Go fuck yourself!” she shrieked. “Go fuck your...”

“Bryony! Control yourself!” A tall man with thinning hair had just emerged from the red door and closed it behind. Kwargkh stood beside him, snickering at Peter’s frustration. “Control yourself or get out of the lab!” He looked over the top of his glasses at Peter, then pulled off his lab coat and offered it to him. “Cover yourself, Peter. I apologize for my assistant’s behavior — I’m Dr. Andrew Junius.”

So this was Kwargkh’s ‘Doctor.’ The man who had provided the Black Spiral Dancer with Fever. That thought forced its way through his lusting Rage. Peter took a deep breath, still glaring at Bryony, then accepted the coat, wrapping it around his waist like a towel. “Thank you,” he said roughly.

“Suck up!” hissed Bryony.

Dr. Junius turned to look at her. “You may leave now, Bryony.”

“No!”

“Bryony...” Dr. Junius added, a note of warning creeping into his voice. He held up a tiny spray bottle half-filled with a bluish liquid. Bryony quieted instantly.

“I’ll be back,” she promised.

“Once you’ve calmed down.” Junius kept the bottle out until his assistant had left, then turned back to Peter. “A catalyst to a toxin I introduced into her body some time ago. A scientist working for Pentex can never be too careful.” He pulled a high lab stool away from a workbench and sat down. “So... Kwargkh tells me you were arguing with your friends when the Black Spiral Dancers found you. How do you feel about that?”

Peter studied the man carefully. Dr. Junius had a bland face framed by light brown hair. He was thin and appeared rather unassuming, but his eyes were sharp. And he was ruthless enough to ensure Bryony’s good behavior with the threat of poison. He could be dangerous. What did he want? Peter tried to act as casually as was possible for a naked man with a labcoat wrapped around his waist. “About what?” he asked flippantly. “About my friends arguing with me or about the Black Spirals Dancers capturing us?”

Dr. Junius smiled. “About your friends, of course.” What did he want? Peter might have been willing to believe that Bryony had arranged for him to be brought here so that she could attempt to seduce him a second time, but Junius really did seem interested in him. Because of his exposure to Fever? He ran his tongue across his lips. “1 was angry with them.” It was the truth. There was no harm in admitting it. Junius would already have surmised that much. He added suddenly, “You’re the one who created the Fever cologne, aren’t you? Why did you have to test it on me? Why didn’t you use the Black Spirals?”

“I needed to conduct an unrestricted field test that could provide conclusive proof of Fever’s effectiveness, before Pentex would approve mass production. A Black Spiral Dancer carrier would not have had the access to a foreign sept that an insider would have.” Dr. Junius shifted uncomfortably. “But please don’t change the subject. This is very important business. We were talking about you — how have your Garou companions been treating you? I was a little surprised to find out you were in the Amazon. Our... source in Toronto said only that you had vanished.” “What about the snow plague?” Peter demanded. He leaned back against a lab bench and crossed his arms. Of course, Pentex didn’t know where he had gone; a Kinfolk wouldn’t have been privy to the Garou’s plans. Dr. Junius was strangely insistent upon discussing the Severed Arm. Peter tried to draw him out a little more. “Or whatever you call it. Did you...?”

“Your friends, Peter!”

And back to the pack again. “All right!” Peter snapped, as though reluctant to talk about the issue. He glared at Junius, his anger not preventing him from watching the scientist’s reaction. “They didn’t understand. They were afraid.” Junius’ expression lightened ever so slightly, lines of tension around his eyes flattening out. “The Garou in Toronto were afraid, too,” Peter continued. “They exiled me.”

Dr. Junius nodded sympathetically. He was practically beaming, though he tried to hide it. Kwargkh, on the other hand, appeared to be more skeptical. “Then why did you save them when we had you trapped?”

Peter growled at him. “They didn’t know about the snow plague then. 1 was using them to help me find the cure.” An argument with the Black Spiral wasn’t going to help him. He turned back to Dr. Junius. “But there is no cure, is there?”

“No. I never intended the Fever disease to be cured — after all, it was designed to kill Garou.” His eyes narrowed again with suspicion. “Why were you looking for one?”

“I thought... I thought my sept in Toronto would let me come back if I found one.”

The lie was a little too close to the truth for Peter’s own comfort, but it was the first response that came to his lips. And apparently it was the right response as well. Dr. Junius looked like he had just found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Peter was willing to bet the man had never won a game of poker in his life. He struggled to keep the revulsion he felt from showing on his face. Junius was trying to recruit him! A Garou who could walk unnoticed among other Garou, slowly killing off his own people, and who was, unlike the Black Spiral Dancers, stable and sane. Wouldn’t Pentex like to have a weapon like that in their arsenal?

Apparently, his guess was right. “They just don’t understand, do they?” Dr. Junius gave a sigh that wouldn’t have fooled a child. Kwargkh rolled his eyes in disgust. “Peter, what would you say if I told you that I could arrange for you to join a team where your, shall we say, unique talents would be welcomed rather than shunned?” “Pd say you were trying to get me to join Pentex,” Peter replied promptly. Why dodge the issue? If he could make them believe he was willing to go over to the Wyrm, maybe they would trust him long enough to give him a chance to rescue the others and escape. Just as Kwargkh had in the clearcut near the Caern of Rain Spirits. He glanced at Kwargkh. The Black Spiral Dancer didn’t appear to be suspicious. This couldn’t be happening — was he really going to be able to escape from Pentex the same way twice? “And that you were being awfully generous. I’m supposed to be your enemy.”

Dr. Junius coughed modestly. “It was supposed to have been the final phase of Bryony’s mission, so we’ve actually planned for it all along. As a carrier, you are valuable to us. Unfortunately, she had to leave Toronto rather unexpectedly....”

“I knew it!” Peter whirled around, bracing his arms against the bench and knotting his shoulders as though angry. “Well, you can forget it!” Come on, he thought to himself. Sweettalk me. How easy did you think this was going to be?

There was a flask of syrupy green liquid arranged as part of the chemical apparatus on top of the lab bench. The glass produced a distorted, discolored reflection, but it was enough for him to see Junius took to Kwargkh for help. The Black Spiral Dancer shook his head. Dr. Junius scowled silently and poked a finger at him. Kwargkh scowled back, but sighed and turned to Peter. Did Junius hold the same sort of toxic blackmail over him that he held over Bryony?

“Peter,” Kwargkh said with surprising gentleness, “your sept isn’t going to take you back. There’s no cure for what you... for what we are. Your pack... well, we both know what they think. We know what they’re willing to do to you. Face it. There’s no place for you among the Garou anymore.” He put his arm around Peter’s shoulders, standing beside him comfortingly. “But didn’t I tell you that I’d be happy to have you as a friend?”

No, Peter thought, actually you didn’t. But he bit the words back, and forced his face to look as disheartened and unsteady as he could manage. “The Wyrm...”

“You already belong to the Wyrm, Peter. Accept it.” He had them! Peter was silent for a moment, then took a slow, deep breath. He turned to look at Kwargkh, then at Dr. Junius with a snarl on his face. “I won’t have to work with Bryony, will I ?”

“No,” said Dr. Junius, smiling.

“Still angry at her?” Kwargkh laughed and slapped Peter on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

Peter gave him a feral grin in return. “When do I start?” Dr. Junius slipped off of his stool. “Well, there are a few preliminary things. You’ll be sent to a training facility for a short while...”

No. That wouldn’t do any good. “Actually,” he interrupted, “there’s something I was hoping to do first. If I’m really going to go over to the Wyrm, I might as well do it all the way.” He let his grin grow wide, crazy, and wild. “The Garou that I was locked up with — the one who wanted to make me live, Kwargkh. Give me a sharp knife and an hour alone with him.”

Kwargkh glanced at Dr. Junius. The doctor hesitated. “I wanted to use those Garou as lab specimens. I can garner data on the progression of the disease from them. I’m not sure...”

“Come on, Doc!” Kwargkh was excited. Peter almost laughed. Black Spiral Dancers might have been insane, but in some ways they were almost ridiculously predictable. “You have three others!”

“And I can get you more!” Peter added. “Just this one.” Dr. Junius looked from the Glass Walker to the Black Spiral Dancer. “All right.” He opened a drawer and took out a scalpel. “This is silver-plated.”

Peter slapped it aside. “Bigger.” He licked his lips. “If you’d take off this damn collar, I’d use my claws!”

“I don’t trust you that much yet, Peter.” Dr. Junius looked at him over the tops of his glasses. For a moment, Peter’s heart stopped. Had he gone too far? If Junius wouldn’t let him see Brennan... but then the scientist reached back into his drawer and produced a big, heavy knife. “Here. But it’s not silver.”

Peter took it eagerly, testing the edge with his thumb. A bright drop of blood welled up where the knife sliced him. He grinned at Junius and Kwargkh and licked it away.

“It doesn’t have to be if I carve him up enough.” It would be awkward, but the knife should cut through Brennan’s collar easily.

Kwargkh snapped the leash off Peter’s collar. “You walk like a wolf now, brother! Let’s go!” He led the way back into the outer office.

“See you in an hour, doctor!” Peter called to Junius. He beat Kwargkh to the door and threw it open.

A hairy, hulking man in a sport shirt and neatly pressed slacks filled the doorway. Kwargkh jumped backward. “Holy motherfucker!”

“Junius!” thundered the man. “Is it safe for me to touch this little shit?”

Dr. Junius stuck his head out of the lab. “Quite safe right now, Mr. Francesco.”

“Really?” He stepped aside and gestured a man dressed in a full business suit forward. The second man plucked the knife out of Peter’s grip, then shoved him toward the lab.

“Back inside.”

“Francesco?” The name came out of Peter’s mouth almost like a bleat. “The Francesco?”

“Yes, the Francesco.” The Black Spiral Dancer who sat on Pentex’s Board of Directors strode through the door. Bryony, a smile of sweet revenge on her face, followed him. Francesco pointed to Peter. “Junius, why was he armed?” “Peter has just agreed to join us, Mr. Francesco. He asked to be allowed to terminate a former companion. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

“Then why did she,” Francesco jerked his thumb at Bryony, “come running in to disturb my meeting with Shadrack, babbling about a plot to assassinate me with his disease?”

Junius hissed. “Bryony?”

“Don’t listen to him, sir!” Junius’ assistant took up a position just behind and beside Francesco.

“Mr. Francesco,” the scientist said, glaring at her, “I think you might like to know that Peter has just rejected Bryony’s advances. His recruitment has been planned for some time — I’ve submitted memos regarding it.” He glanced at the man in the business suit. “Barnaby?”

The grim-faced man nodded. “All true, Francesco. And if I might add, assassination by the Fever disease would be extremely stupid. There are three or four of us who would have recognized the effects instantly and traced them back to Andrew. And why send a collared Garou with a knife after a powerful Black Spiral Dancer?” There was no trace of obsequiousness in the man’s voice. He was only speaking the truth. “Andrew is a brilliant man. He would never have conceived of so shallow a plan. I believe Miss McLeod has some explaining to do.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Bryony turn red, but if she said anything, he didn’t hear it. He was intent on Francesco. The Black Spiral Dancer virtually oozed hatred and corruption, the very essence of the Wyrm. Just standing near him made Peter’s skin crawl with terror. How could Dr. Junius stand up to him as though he were just another executive? What was the Pentex Director doing here? He did some rapid calculations — the Garou raid on the Developers Forestry Group compound would take place in another four days, and Francesco wasn’t supposed to arrive in the Amazon until then!

Abruptly, he realized that no one was staring at Bryony anymore. Francesco had turned to look at him, and the others had followed the Director’s gaze. “Surprised to see me, are you?”

Peter blinked. “Yes,” he admitted. “I never thought I’d be in the same room with one of the Pentex...”

“You didn’t think you’d see me before your Golgol’s little flea bite of a raid.”

Silence. Peter couldn’t think of anything to say. Then Francesco laughed, a cracking howl. “Don’t worry — I can’t read your mind, although some of my colleagues could use your brain like tea leaves. That raid is an ambush. Do you think the Garou could have found out about my coming if I wanted to keep it a secret?” His laugh cut off as though someone had thrown a switch. “Aren’t you glad you’re not going to be fighting in it, now?”

“I... yes.” Peter tried to pull himself together. An ambush? “You’ll crush them!” he said fiercely.

“Of course we will.” Francesco looked Peter over. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you know about what they’re planning, is there? The more we know, the better.” He didn’t give Peter a chance to answer.

Abruptly, he was standing in front of the young Glass Walker, one hand under his chin forcing his head back. Peter could feel the silver blades in his collar press against his skin. At least, he felt them for a moment. Then he was staring into Francesco’s eyes. Deep eyes, black and boiling with Rage just below the surface, like storm clouds amassing before the skies opened and unleashed a tornado. There was hatred in those eyes, hatred so powerful that Peter’s will buckled beneath it.

“What do you know about the raid?”

Peter told him everything, helpless before that incredible hatred: the night the raid would take place, the storm the Caern of Rain Spirits planned. Francesco nodded. “Good.” He smiled. “So you’ve decided to join us, have you Peter?”

Dark storm clouds rolled, black lightning flashing in their depths. No. He wasn’t going to join Pentex. He wasn’t going to go over to the Wyrm... they did this to you. They created Fever. They created the snow plague.

One word. Francesco couldn’t read his mind. He could get out of this!

“Yes,” he said.

“Good. That’s the sort of thing every executive likes to hear. Junius, you said Peter asked to be allowed to kill one of his companions?”

“Yes, Mr. Francesco.”

“I like that, too. The knife, Shadrack?” The grim-faced man in the business suit passed Peter’s knife to Francesco, and Francesco pressed it into Peter’s hand. “Go and kill your friend, Peter.”

The tornado of hatred in Francesco’s eyes touched down in Peter’s soul.

CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN

As Peter entered the cell, Brennan jumped up. For a moment, hope and excitement flared in his eyes, but they both died as the door swung shut again. “Fuck,” he swore, sliding back down to resume his crouch against the wall. “No luck, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that entirely,” Peter told him with a smile. He crossed the short, shadowy length of the cell and stopped in front of Brennan.

The sun in Grrrash tak’nyrr was warm on Peter’s back. The mud was moist against his scaly hide and its rich fragrance filled his nostrils.

Brennan looked back up again. “What happened? Where’d you get the coat?” His face grew a slow smile in response to Peter’s. “What have you got behind your back?”

Half a dozen replies raced through Peter’s mind, ranging from a toying “you’re not going to like it” to the cruel “my ticket out of here.” He didn’t use any of them. Instead, his arm flashed out as suddenly as a striking serpent and he drove Dr. Junius’ knife into Brennan’s body.

It was an awkward angle, a standing man trying to stab someone in a crouch, and Peter’s cracked ribs still hurt whenever he moved too quickly. Brennan managed to fling himself aside with a yelp of surprise. He didn’t move quite far enough, though; the knife bit deep into his shoulder, down and back. Peter half-felt, half-heard the blade grate across bone. Brennan’s yelp turned into a gasp of pain. For a moment, he hung on the blade of the knife before Peter tore it free. Blood gushed out in its wake. As long as he wore Pentex’s collar, the Fianna wouldn’t be able to change into the fast-healing Crinos form.

“Peter?” hissed Brennan in shock.

Peter dreamed Mokole dreams. Callsingers, Bigs, Hungry-Stomachs. Dreams of the Dragon Kings. But he shifted uneasily, rolling in the mud. There was something else in his dreams.

“You’re going to die, you bastard.” The smile on Peter’s face never faltered. “Slow or fast depending on how you cooperate, but you’re going to die.”

“Not fucking likely!” Brennan’s leg swept around, trying to kick Peter’s legs out from under him in an effort to knock him off-balance and give Brennan a chance to regain his feet. It didn’t work though. Peter jumped out of the way, then darted in to kick back at Brennan. He had to strike fast and dirty — even locked in Homid form, Brennan would be able to beat him in a fair fight. Peter kicked him in the balls, a little sorry now that he wasn’t wearing his boots. Brennan faltered but still made it to his feet. “What the hell happened, Peter?” he groaned.

“It’s a funny thing — you’ll never guess who I ran into. Two people actually.” He dodged forward, slashing. Brennan shrugged to the side. His left arm hung uselessly from his injured shoulder and he used it as a shield, letting the knife slice into it, then spinning around fast to punch at Peter with his good hand. Peter almost lost the knife to the muscular Garou’s sudden twist, but he held onto it, and caught the punch on his shoulder. It was a solid blow and it knocked him back, but he had seen greater pain in Brennan’s narrowed eyes.

He stepped away a few feet, crouching down, ready to attack or to defend if Brennan pressed forward. “Bryony. Turns out Pentex developed Fever right here. But more importantly, I met a certain Black Spiral Dancer named Francesco.”

Brennan’s breath hissed between his teeth. “From the Pentex Board of Directors?”

“The same. He and I had a little talk. He really opened my eyes.” Peter shifted his grip on the knife. The light from the parking lot shining through the little barred window gleamed off the shining metal. “I’m getting out of here, Brennan. And Pentex granted me a little favor. They’re letting me kill you.”

Brennan stood upright, his chest heaving. His eyes were narrow again, but from suspicion this time instead of pain, though Gaia knew he must have felt that as well. His blood was running onto the floor. “Is that so?”

“We’re going to be undisturbed for the next hour or so. As soon as you die, I’m free.”

“Then do it!” Brennan lifted his head proudly. If the collar hadn’t been in the way, his neck would have been exposed.

With a howl, Peter lunged forward and thrust the knife into his chest, feeling it skitter across ribs. He held it there for a heartbeat, then pulled it out. Brennan collapsed to the floor.

Reptilian yellow eyes slid open. He’s dead. Peter stood up, a Garou once more, and walked away from Grrrash tak’nyrr.

For a moment, Peter stood frozen, arms and legs stiff, bloody knife at his side, staring at Brennan’s corpse.

Then, moving as quickly as he ever had, he dropped to his knees and flipped Brennan over. The stitching at the back of the Fianna’s collar was heavy enough to resisting breaking, but it was no match for the sharp edge of the knife. “Hang on, Brennan,” he muttered, careful not to put too much pressure on the collar and the silver blades inside, “hang on!”

The last thread of stitching parted. Peter pulled the collar off and hurled it and the knife across the cell. Turning Brennan over he felt for a pulse. No... yes! There, but weak and fading. The Fianna wasn’t breathing. Peter tilted Brennan’s head back, pinched off his nose, and puffed air into his mouth, starting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. “Change, damn you!” He punched his fist into the other Garou’s wounded shoulder.

Brennan choked at the pain and started breathing on

his own again. Abruptly, Peter found himself poised over the wicked muzzle of a Crinos. He scrambled back.

Brennan’s wounds continued to bleed for a moment. The blood was everywhere, matting his newly-sprouted fur, covering the floor, clotting on Peter’s hands. Then Brennan’s canine lips pulled back from his muzzle with the excruciating pain of healing. His wounds began to close. “Peter...” he groaned.

“I’m here.” He scooted over close again, cautiously wrapping both of his hands around one of the Crinos’ massive fists. If Brennan’s Rage overcame him, he would be dead no matter where he was in the cell. “It took you long enough to figure it out!”

“Why?” Brennan winced suddenly. “Why this way?” “Francesco was too powerful! If I had tried to resist...” Peter shook his head. “He would have known something was up. I gave in. I concentrated on the Mokole memories — that left me alert enough afterward to twist his commands.” He patted Brennan’s shoulder. “I knew I’d come back to myself once you were ‘dead.’ I just had to count on being able to get your collar off before you really died.”

Brennan’s eyes opened wide. “If you were slow...”

Peter took his hand away. “I wasn’t. Be quiet and heal up now. We have some time. Then get this collar off me and we’ll free the others. The raid on Pentex HQ at Developers Forestry Group is a trap for the other Garou. We have to find a way to warn them. And get out ourselves if we can.”

“Jailer!” bellowed Peter, hammering on the cell door. “Jailer! I’m finished in here!”

It took a moment for the jailer, probably seated at his desk back down the hall, to respond. When he finally did, his voice on the other side of the door was suspicious. “That took longer than you said it would.”

“I was being thorough. Let me out of here now or Francesco’s not going to be happy!”

That got the jailer moving. Peter heard the faint jingling of keys, then the scrape of metal on metal as one slid into the lock. The door opened. Peter met the jailer with a grin — the man was alone, probably the only good thing to come out of Francesco’s powerful commands. The Black Spiral Dancer had sent Peter over unaccompanied, confident in his control over the Glass Walker’s mind. Peter knew what the jailer would see over his shoulder: a body lying half in the light, half in shadows, blood on the floor...

Peter was counting on that to distract the jailer just long enough for him to be able to plunge the knife into the man’s guts and pull him into the cell. And it worked. The jailer barely had time to gasp before Peter was flinging him at the “body” and Brennan rolled over, grabbed him, •and, shifting quickly to Crinos, ripped out his throat.

“Good work.” Peter pulled the leather collar from around his neck. It had been sitting there for the jailer’s benefit, but he didn’t want to have the thing near him any longer than was necessary. Once Brennan had cut it off him, Peter had shifted into his own Crinos form to heal his ribs. The change, even without the healing, had felt good.

Brennan wrenched a fat ring of keys from the jailer’s belt and threw them to Peter. The two Garou slipped out into the hall, down to the others’ cells. The first cell held Roshen and Thunder Tiger. Steps-Lightly was alone in the second. All three were, of course, collared. As Brennan cut their collars off, Peter quickly briefed them on Pentex’s plot against the Garou. Roshen growled angrily. “That Wyrm-tainted bastard! Once we’re out of here, I want to find Francesco and tear his lungs out through his throat!” His hand clenched in fury. Pentex had taken away his arm-club.

“No.”

Roshen gave Peter a hot glare. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“First, we warn the caern about the trap. Second, we destroy Dr. Junius’ lab. Totally.” Peter could feel the insistent tug of his Rage, but he resisted it. He needed clear thinking right now much more than he needed brute strength and ferocity. “I want Junius’ notes, his equipment, and any Fever we get our hands on destroyed. Gone as if they had never existed. I want Junius dead. Anything we can do to stop Pentex from making more Fever, we do it. Third, we get out of here.”

He looked around at his packmates. The distinction between himself and the others, between Severed Arm and Ghost Raptors, between Glass Walker and Fianna, had fallen away. They were a pack, working together against Pentex and the Wyrm. “I’m going to keep fighting. There has got to be a cure out there, and I’m determined to find it.” His lips pressed together tightly for a moment. “And if I can’t find one in time to save you, I’m going to do what Brennan suggested. I’m going to stay with you until Death comes and takes you onward.”

Thunder Tiger, Roshen, Steps-Lightly, and Brennan glanced at each other. “What,” asked Steps-Lightly, “if we decide that we want to die here, fighting Pentex, instead of dying weak with the snow plague?”

“Then I’ll fight with you until Pentex forces me away,” Peter replied without hesitation, “and I’ll sing you the longest, loudest howl of mourning that Gaia has ever heard.”

The cell was silent for a moment, the Garou still. Then Roshen suddenly whooped and gave Peter the crazy grin that he remembered from Manaus. “What are we waiting for, then? Let’s do it! And Petey-boy, I hope you have a plan.”

Fortunately, Peter did, and each of them had a role. Steps-Lightly and Thunder Tiger, the stealthiest of the pack, would find Magadon’s communications center. They had the single most important job: to contact Sky River Caern and warn them. Steps-Lightly knew the scrambling codes that the caern used and could have done the job alone, but Peter wanted both of them to go. Whatever else happened, that message had to get out.

Roshen would start wrecking Dr. Junius’ lab. Steps-Lightly and Thunder Tiger would join him later. Brennan had the task of stealing a jeep from the Magadon parking pool. If they were going to fight Pentex, they would do it in the jungle. On the Garou’s turf.

Peter would look after creating the diversion that would enable them to get out of the compound — and, hopefully, lure as many of Pentex’s soldiers, fomori, and Black Spiral Dancers after them as possible. It would all have been much simpler if the Garou had been able to step sideways and escape through the Umbra, but the spirit world around Pentex installations was often choked with malevolent Bane spirits. Escaping that way would have been more difficult than escaping in the physical world. Peter would rather tangle with soldiers than Banes any day.

They would need clothes in order to move about relatively inconspicuously. Peter led them down the hall to the jailer’s desk and the cupboard from which Kwargkh had taken a Pentex uniform before. There were enough uniforms in the cupboard for all of them. One section of the cupboard was locked, but the strength of a Crinos pulled the door off cleanly. Inside were the things that Pentex had taken from them — including Roshen’s arm-club. The Silver Fang laughed nastily as he swung it through the air.

Peter motioned him to silence and opened the door that led outside. It might have been night, but the Black Spiral Dancers and a fair number of Pentex’s other employees preferred the darkness. The sky was littered with stars, but the moon would be new tonight. He pointed to one of the other buildings where the lights on a high antenna blinked cherry red. Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly nodded. Then he gestured toward Junius’ laboratory. Roshen grinned in anticipation of his task. The three Garou sauntered out of the jail. There was no way they could have crossed the compound unobserved, so they tried to make their stroll look as casual as possible. Peter and Brennan waited until they reached their destinations before they left the protection of the jail themselves.

They walked together as far as the parking lot. “Good luck,” whispered Brennan as he split off and ducked into the shadows between two big trucks.

“Thanks.”

Ahead were the three helicopters he had seen from his cell. Peter considered them for a moment. The diversion he sought to create was an apparent escape attempt by helicopter, an attempt doomed to end in a fiery crash a mile or so away from Magadon. Pentex’s soldiers would rush out to investigate... and the Garou would go with them in Brennan’s stolen jeep, masquerading as soldiers themselves. Once in the rain forest, they would start picking off the humans and as many of the fomori and Black Spiral Dancers as they could. It was a good plan, with one hitch.

Neither Peter nor any of the others knew how to fly a helicopter.

But there might be a better way. Long use might have awakened the spirit of one of the helicopters, just as it had awakened the spirit of the logging truck by the Caern of Rain Spirits. He crossed his fingers. If the helicopter had a spirit, he might just be able to convince it to fly on its own.

The helicopter the Black Spiral Dancers used looked so ill-treated and disreputable that Peter felt sure it must have a spirit of some kind. He wasn’t sure, however, if he wanted to risk communicating with it, since it was just as likely to be a Wyrm spirit as a spirit of technology. The first Magadon helicopter was bland. There was nothing distinguishing or special about it. The chance that its spirit would have been awakened seemed low.

But the third helicopter, the executive helicopter bearing the Magadon logo, was... sleek. Pampered. Special. Its shiny surface reflected the lights from the parking lot. Someone had spent a lot of time polishing it. Peter grinned. The other Magadon helicopter might have been an unloved workhorse, but this was a spirited charger. He opened the door and climbed into the pilot’s seat. The interior was as well-cared for as the exterior. The passenger compartment behind him was huge, its plush seats showing the signs of a recent, thorough vacuuming. The instrument panel was bright and clean. Peter concentrated on the gleams of light it reflected...

... and stepped sideways into the Umbra. By entering the spirit world already inside the helicopter, he had hoped to avoid encountering any Bane spirits. It seemed to have worked — at least, there were no Banes around him. He was still seated inside the helicopter, although it wasn’t exactly a helicopter here. The machine’s Umbral reflection took the shape of a long black limousine. Outside, a person dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform polished the hood of the car. The spirit.

Peter rolled down the window. “Hey!” he called. “Excuse me!”

The spirit looked up. It might have been shaped like a person, but its face under the peaked chauffeur’s cap was smooth and featureless. Its skin was the polished blue of the helicopter and half its face was covered by the Magadon logo. “Yes, sir?”

Its voice, like its body, was androgynous. It emanated from a two-way radio in the cab. Instinctively, Peter picked up the handset and spoke into it. “Do you have a name?” “No, sir.”

Apparently the spirit’s personality wasn’t quite as developed as that of the logging truck. In some ways that was bad; Peter had been hoping to tailor his request to the spirit’s quirks. At the same time, though, it was good. It meant that the spirit, likely as not, was fairly stupid. “You have a pick-up to make. I want you to fly exactly one mile west, then touch down.”

“Will you be replacing my regular pilot, sir?”

“No.” Please let this work, Peter thought to himself. “You’ll be flying solo on this one.”

“I can’t do that, sir.” The spirit’s voice sounded distressed. “I need a pilot.”

Peter bit back a curse. The spirit wasn’t even aware of its capabilities. “Yes, you can.” He opened the door and got out. “Come over here and sit down.” The spirit obeyed almost mindlessly, sliding into the driver/pilot’s seat. Peter gestured at the dashboard, incongruously still the instrument panel of the helicopter. “You know how all this works, right? You know how to fly?”

“Of course.” The spirit’s hands moved confidently over the contrbls, though it didn’t activate any of them. “But I need a pilot to operate them.”

“Why? Can’t you operate them yourself?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“Then you can fly.” Peter shut the door. “You can do it. Listen — this is an extremely important VIP pick-up. No pilot is available. If this doesn’t come off, your regular pilot is going to be sacked and you’ll be dismantled.” He didn’t tell the spirit that when it set down, it would probably wreck itself crashing through the canopy of the rain forest. “Exactly one mile west, then touch down wherever you are. You have to do it!”

The spirit’s voice had the tone of an idealistic young cadet uncertain of his chances for success. “I’ll try, sir. But if you could just put someone — anyone —- behind the controls, I could fly all the way to Rio!”

Peter patted the spirit’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we don’t have anyone to spare.” The Garou couldn’t afford to send

someone to die in a helicopter crash. He almost regretted sending the spirit. But if any of the Garou were going to die here, they would die fighting. “You’ll do fine.” He stepped back. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to take off. You’ll be able to hear me over the radio from the physical world ?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll make you proud, sir!”

“Good man.” The polished side panels of the limousine drew Peter in...

... and back to the physical world. He was once again outside of the helicopter. He breathed a sigh of relief. That was arranged, then. Once the others had completed their tasks, he would give the helicopter spirit its orders to take off. Then it was only a matter of waiting for Pentex to send its soldiers out. He found a toolbox in the workhorse helicopter and set to work sabotaging it and the Black Spirals’ chopper. They wanted Pentex to follow them on the ground, not by air.

He had just wedged a crowbar into the tail rotor of the Black Spirals’ helicopter when he heard someone hiss his name. It surprised him so much that he almost exploded into Crinos form out of fear of discovery. He managed to control himself, however, and turned around.

It was Roshen. “What are you doing here?” Peter whispered. “Is the lab...”

Roshen cut him off with a gesture. “No. I found something in the lab. You need to come see this.”

Peter glanced back at the helicopters. He was finished here. All he had to do was give the order for the spirit to take off when everything else was ready. “All right.”

They stuck to the shadows as much as they could, sprinting at Roshen’s insistence when they were sure not to be seen, walking calmly when they were exposed. Roshen pushed open the door of Dr. Junius’ laboratory. The place was a wreck. Paper files had been pulled out of their cabinets and scattered. Big bottles of alcohol and other flammable chemicals stood nearby, ready to be thrown over them and ignited. A computer had been torn open, floppy disks strewn across its guts, and acid dumped all over everything. The machine and its disks were globby, half-dissolved junk now'. The acrid stink stung Peter’s nostrils, mingling with the strong, spicy scent of Fever. A pile of bottles of the cologne stood beside a glass tank partly filled with open bottles and spilled Fever. Peter groaned.

“I could have used that, Roshen! I’m still going to need to be able to pass undercover! That’s what you wanted to show me? Did you get any on yourself?”

“No and no!” Roshen led him to the red door. On the other side was a miniature airlock, a narrow little room with a high-powered fan in the ceiling. Roshen pulled the red door shut after them. A light came on above the door on the other side of the airlock. Roshen swung the door open wide.

The smell of plague flowers washed over Peter. Rows and rows of the reddish-purple blooms grew under a glass ceiling and powerful electric lights. A greenhouse, hidden before by the facade of Junius’ laboratory. Peter stepped inside, looking around with stunned incredulity. “No...” He dipped a hand into one of the flower beds and found water. A hydroponic greenhouse full of the plague flowers.

“Yes!” crowed Roshen. “And guess who I found working late!” He pointed to a figure lying trussed up with a gardening hose.

“Dr. Junius,” Peter spat. He stalked over and rolled the Pentex scientist onto his back. He had a bloody nose. “Where did you get these?”

“1 cloned them from a sample!” Junius replied triumphantly. “The Black Spiral Dancers eradicated the original patch, but I managed to rescue a sample and clone it here.”

Peter slapped him. “How much Fever have you made?”

Dr. Junius’s nose started to bleed again. “You think I’m going to tell you?”

“He doesn’t have to.” Roshen grinned cruelly. “I found his production notes in the lab. Anal retentive son of a bitch — every bottle of Fever that left the lab had to be signed for and returned. The only Fever that didn’t come back again was what Bryony took to Toronto.”

Dr. Junius was silent for a moment. The dripping of water from the greenhouse’s systems and the hum of its huge lights echoed loudly through the room. “All right,” he said finally. “Kill me. I know you’ll destroy the lab. But Pentex has copies of all of my notes! They can recreate my research!”

“Maybe they can,” Peter growled softly, “but it’s not going to do them much good without any flowers to work from.”

“They have samples of those, too!” added Junius quickly. “Frozen cell cultures! Live specimens!”

“Liar!” Peter let his Rage sweep over him, taking Crinos form almost unconsciously, ripping through the Pentex uniform. He bent down close to Dr. Junius, his teeth inches from the scientist’s face. “Why? Why make Fever? Why kill Garou?”

For the first time, he saw Junius start to sweat. His eyes went wide and his face turned pale. “I... I discovered the flowers. I found out they made Garou sick.” His tongue licked around his lips like a thick, pink worm. “It was my job.”

His job. From the very beginning, it had been cold. Impersonal. Junius developed Fever and the snow plague because it was his job. Bryony came to Toronto and infected Peter because she needed a city to test Fever in, and someone to test it on. His mother and Pretty Boy had died and Garou had fallen sick because Junius and Bryony needed test data. Nothing personal. All cold.

Peter snarled and lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of Dr. Junius’ neck. At least his blood was warm! Savagely, Peter tore Dr. Junius’ throat away.

The scientist died without even a gasp. Peter took his human form again, Junius’ blood still dripping from his face. “Go get Brennan, Roshen. Have him bring the jeep here. If anyone stops you, tell them you’re acting for Dr. Junius under Francesco’s orders.” He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “We’re changing our plans. We’re all leaving by helicopter — with as many flowers as we can carry.”

“Can you make a cure for the snow plague?” Roshen asked excitedly.

Peter hesitated, then said, “No. I can’t. Roshen, I never mastered the rite of spirit awakening.”

“What?"

“As long the Black Spirals haven’t already awakened these flowers — I don’t think they have — it shouldn’t be hard to find someone who knows it. Windrunner may, or Jubati. We’ll go to the Caern of Rain Spirits.” He grabbed the Silver Fang and shoved him toward the door. “Go! Hurry!”

Roshen left and Peter turned to the rows of plague flowers in their watery beds. He wished he had managed to master the rite of spirit awakening. It would have kept the flowers fresh and usable no matter what conditions they ended up traveling under. Now they would have to try to keep the flowers alive until they got to the Caern of Rain Spirits. With the helicopter, that would hopefully be only a matter of several hours.

He plunged his arms into the hydroponic tanks. The flowers were suspended in plastic racks. There were long, deep planting trays by the door. Peter broke away several racks of flowers so he would have room to work, then pushed a tray into the water, filling it, and brought it up under flowers’ bulbous roots. The rack didn’t fit precisely over the top of the tray, but it would be stable.

Changing to Crinos form, he wrenched both doors of the airlock open so that he would have a clear passage and began carrying tray after tray of the flowers into the lab’s outer office. Brennan and Roshen returned, then

Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly. Steps-Lightly’s face broke into an astonished grin at the sight of the flowers. “How...?”

“Later. Did you get the message through to Sky River?”

“Yes. They didn’t believe it at first, but I think they understood. Rumwrangler wants a full report when we get back.”

“He can have it.” Peter dropped the last of the trays. There were ten already loaded, and another half dozen still in the lab office. More than enough to fill the jeep. He hoped it would be enough to create a cure for the snow plague. “Take these to the Magadon executive helicopter and load them inside. I’ll join you there in a minute.” He turned to go back into the lab.

“Where are you going?” asked Brennan.

“To finish this.”

Removing sixteen racks of flowers had only cleared out two hydroponics tanks. There were still eight more in the greenhouse. Peter ground his teeth together. He had to be sure none of these flowers survived. When he left, he would set fire to Junius’ lab, but as he had pointed out to the scientist, the plague flowers were the key to Fever. Everything in the greenhouse was wet enough that at least some of the flowers would stand a good chance of surviving a fire. He had to make sure that didn’t happen.

He just prayed that Junius really had been lying about Pentex having samples elsewhere.

Peter raised his hands and began the rite of spirit awakening. He might not have mastered the skill, but he knew enough of it to do it wrong. When he had practiced in Toronto, he had only managed to kill plants. He hoped he could do the same thing here.

It worked. When the ritual was over, Dr. Junius’ body was surrounded by shriveled brown plants that slowly slipped through their racks and sank into the tanks. The plague flowers were gone. Dr. Junius was gone. Grimly, Peter went into the laboratory and began smashing the bottles of alcohol and flammable chemicals that Roshen had set out. A tank of gas was connected to a series of bunsen burners; Peter disconnected them and opened the valve. He found a book of matches. A trail of alcohol out into the office would serve as a fuse. There was a final tray of flowers still in the office, left behind by the others. Peter carried it outside, then lit a match, touched it to a ball of crumpled paper and threw the flaming sphere back inside. He caught the flare of blue as the alcohol ignited. Fire raced into the lab. Peter picked up the flowers and sprinted away.

The heat of the explosion still scorched his back. The fire and noise would be enough to wake everyone in the compound. Peter paused to glance back at the blazing lab. It was over.

When he turned around again, Bryony was there. The glare of the flames threw sharp shadows across her face, and reflected off the gun in her hand. “This is loaded with silver bullets,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t advise moving.” Peter froze. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I saw the jeep.” Her face was a hard mask. “I’ve never seen a jeep pull up to the front door of the lab before. I was suspicious. Then when your friends started carrying out flowers, I knew Junius must be dead.” The fire shone madly in her eyes. “I was waiting for you.”

“Why?” Peter growled. “I meant what I said. You betrayed me, Bryony, and that didn’t matter to you! Don’t say you loved me, because I won’t believe it.”

“All right then. I won’t say it.” People were starting to shout in the background. Soon the compound would be swarming with Pentex’s soldiers. “But I was willing to come back to you...”

“I don’t want you!”

“...and you rejected me! This isn’t a second chance, Peter. Francesco will give you to me this time for sure. Then you’ll be mine.”

A cold shiver ran down Peter’s back. “You’re crazy!”

Bryony smiled charmingly, a horrible effect in the firelight. “I’m...”

Peter threw the tray of flowers at her. She pulled the trigger, but the flowers hit the gun and knocked it off target. The tray exploded in a spray of water and reddish-purple blossoms. Peter felt the fire of silver streak across his side. Better there than in his heart. He leaped at Bryony, shifting into Crinos form, and made a grab for the gun. Bryony wouldn’t be able to match his strength.

But she fought back. Her pale yellow-green eyes glared at him madly, with hatred, with anger, with... Rage!

Bryony howled as coarse hair sprouted across her body, her bones shifted, talons sprang from her fingers, and long teeth grew in heavy jaws. Peter yelped in surprise and shoved her away. A Black Spiral Dancer?

She spun, glaring at him, and flung the gun to the ground. “Dance, lover?” she snarled, and sprang back.

How could he not have recognized that Bryony was a Black Spiral Dancer? He should have smelled... it was the perfume she wore, he realized. The first time he had smelled her perfume, he noticed that it had a woody fragrance similar to something in Fever. That was probably the ingredient that had covered up the stink of the Wyrm on him, just as it had hidden the same odor on Bryony. Another one of Dr. Junius’ creations. And it had fooled Peter, fooled him into thinking she was nothing more than human. Fooled him into having sex with her. With another Garou.

But if Bryony had counted on shocking Peter with thae sudden revelation, she would be disappointed. Maybe before he had come to the Amazon he would have been stunned and repulsed by the idea, but not now. Peter had become accustomed to the idea of one Garou loving another through his experience with Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly. That Bryony was a Garou surprised him, but it didn’t stop him for a moment. Peter dropped down, rolling, and grabbed for the gun. Bryony’s leap carried her

over him, but she twisted around as she landed and came back at him. Peter brought the gun up...

His Crinos fingers were too big to operate the trigger! He kicked his legs up, managing to keep Bryony back far enough that the claws she raked across his belly only tore bloody tracks in his skin, rather than disemboweling him. He slammed his hands, still clutching the gun, across her muzzle in a hard, heavy, double-fisted blow.

He heard a distinct crack, and then Bryony was squealing in pain. Peter scrambled to his feet. The Black Spiral Dancer’s jaw sagged awkwardly and blood gushed down her arms as she groped at him. Peter didn’t stay to survey the extent of the injury he had inflicted. People were already shouting and pointing in his direction — and one of them was Francesco.

Peter fled toward the helicopter. Bullets sang as they hit the ground at his feet. An unlucky fomor that stepped into Peter’s path was blown away. The Glass Walker didn’t even slow down. There was a sudden explosion in the parking lot and a second later, Brennan was running beside him in human form, the pin of a grenade still in his hand. “Found this under the seat in the chopper!”

One of the Garou had managed to start the helicopter’s engines; the flowers were already loaded inside. The pilot’s side door was still open. Brennan shoved himself in. Peter shifted into Homid shape and followed. He grabbed for the radio handset before he was even all the way inside. “Spirit!” he bellowed. “Get...”

A heavy body slammed into him from behind, crushing him against the edge of the seat and the door frame. His cheekbone hit the steering controls and shattered. The others were yelling in alarm, but they were so tightly packed into the helicopter with the flowers that they couldn’t reach him. Brennan was trying to turn around.

“Can’t leave!” Even in Crinos form, Kwargkh had an accent. Peter could smell the taint of Fever on him, too. He had forgotten about the other carrier of the snow

plague! “Made deal, Peter! Belong to Wyrm!”

“Fuck that!” Peter gasped. He brought the radio handset to his mouth. “Go, spirit! New orders — west until I say stop!”

“Yes, sir!”

The helicopter’s engines roared and it lifted off of its own accord. Kwargkh howled in surprise. Suddenly, all of his weight was hanging on Peter. The helicopter tilted. The Black Spiral Dancer slid back a ways, one hand clawing at the door frame, the other at Peter’s legs. Peter screamed. He clutched at the far edge of the seat. If he let go, they would both fall.

If he didn’t, Kwargkh would kill him climbing into the helicopter.

Bryony’s gun was still in his hand.

Clinging desperately to the seat with one hand, Peter twisted the arm with the gun around over his back and prayed that he wasn’t about to shoot himself or the helicopter.

He squeezed the trigger and held it down, blindly emptying the clip as the thunder of the gun roared through the air.

Kwargkh’s body shook with impact of the bullets. His weight dragged on Peter for a few seconds longer... then fell away.

Peter collapsed in relief. The others pulled him fully into the helicopter, and he was surrounded by the spicy fragrance of the fresh plague flowers.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“More water!” yelled Peter. He breathed in the steaming air that filled the tiny makeshift sweat lodge. He had lost track of time in the humid blackness, his world reduced to the steam that rose from the hot rocks, the scented water Windrunner passed in to produce the steam, and the sweat that rolled off him like a high tide.

No one responded, but Peter could hear muttering. “1 said, more water!” he called again.

“There isn’t any more!”

Peter’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. “You mean...?”

Brennan lifted the flap of leather that covered the doorway. “Come out and we’ll see if it worked.”

Peter wasn’t absolutely sure he wanted to know.

The flight back to the Caern of Rain Spirits had taken the rest of the night and the better part of the morning. Peter had managed to coax the spirit of the helicopter all the way to the edge of the caern on the last fumes in its fuel tank. The Uktena had poured out to meet them, ready for a Pentex attack, but Thunder Tiger had called them off, explaining why they had arrived and why they flew in a Magadon helicopter. Then Windrunner and the other Ghost Raptors had pushed their way through the crowd. The trip downstream from Grrrash tak’nyrr had taken far less time than the journey up, but they had still only arrived a few hours before. Joan and Jubati were back at the Uktena village, extremely weak with the snow plague. The Ghost Raptors and Jubati had convinced the native Uktena to allow the outsider Garou to stay at the caern as long as was necessary.

Peter wasted no time in showing Windrunner the plague flowers and describing the methods that Critter thought might result in the most potent cure. Did she know the rite of spirit awakening? When she nodded, he felt almost dizzy with relief.

Windrunner had awakened the spirits of the flowers in small batches to make sure she didn’t destroy the precious blossoms with a miscast ritual. None of them were damaged. By nightfall, Jubati and Joan were given the first bowls of tea brewed from a portion of the awakened flowers. Roshen, Thunder Tiger, Brennan, and Steps-Lightly each had a bowl as well. In the morning, Jubati and Joan were showing a marked improvement as the plague receded and their strength returned. The other four Garou did not show any of the symptoms of the disease.

But the tea did not help Peter at all. Though he drank it by the bowlful, the foul smell of the Wyrm continued to cling to him. Finally, Windrunner had sought the advice of the Uktena elders at the caern. And the elders had prescribed a good sweat, blending the plague flower tea with the water used to make the steam.

Peter had gone through a pailful of the mixture.

He hoped it had worked. Taking a deep breath, he ducked through the doorway and back outside.

Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly were standing on either side of the sweat lodge with buckets of cool water. Gritting his teeth, Peter endured the cold shock. When it was done, they stepped back, joining the other Garou who were waiting nearby.

Peter wiped the water out of his eyes and slicked back his hair. Night had fallen while he was in the lodge. A fire shone in the darkness, shedding warm light over him. “Well?” he asked quietly.

Roshen came forward, shifting into Lupus form for a moment to sniff at him. He returned to human shape, wrinkling his nose. “Spicy.”

“That’s the scent of the tea. What about the Fever? Can you still smell it?”

“Won’t the water have rinsed it off for a while?”

Peter shook his head. “Not with the way I was sweating in there.” He brushed drops of water off his arm. His skin was red from the heat. “I’m still sweating.” He looked at the others. “Brennan? Thunder Tiger?”

The two Garou shook their heads. Peter glanced at the remaining members of the Severed Arm and the Ghost Raptors. “Anybody?” He hardly dared to breathe.

Solemnly, Steps-Lightly walked over, stopped in front of him... and reached out to give him a tight hug. “Not a hint, Peter.”

Peter gasped with relief and all but collapsed in the Silent Strider’s arms. “It’s over, then? It’s really over?” “You still have to take the other flowers back to Toronto and cure the Garou there,” Windrunner reminded him. “But essentially — yes, it’s over.”

Peter looked at each of them in turn. “I... thank you. All of you.”

Roshen threw his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “We’re your pack, Petey. All you had to do was tell us you needed help.” He glanced at Thunder Tiger and Steps-Lightly, and smiled. “A real pack sticks together. No matter what its members do.”

Thunder Tiger nodded. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Roshen. For more than one reason.”

Steps-Lightly cut him off. “What Tiger is going to say, when he gets around to it, is that we’d like the entire Severed Arm to join the Ghost Raptors. That doesn’t mean we would leave Sky River. We’d work from the inside.”

“I...” Roshen blinked. He looked at Windrunner and Brennan. They were as surprised as he was. Exhaling slowly, he met Thunder Tiger’s gaze. “I don’t think we can. It’s not that easy to change loyalties. We have a duty to Sky River, to Golgol. And I still don’t agree with the way you do things.” He grinned, however, and held out his hand. “But I don’t think the Severed Arm will ever encounter the Ghost Raptors again. At Least not that Golgol will hear about.”

Thunder Tiger reached to take his hand, but hesitated, glancing at Steps-Lightly. “What about...”

“Steps-Lightly is an upstanding member of the Severed Arm and beyond reproach.” Roshen’s grin turned ferocious. “Any Garou who says otherwise answers to me. If he happens to wander away on his own sometimes... well, you know those Silent Striders and their wanderlust.” He winked and added seriously, “What Steps-Lightly wants to do is his own business.”

“Thank you.” Thunder Tiger seized Roshen’s hand and gripped it tightly.

Steps-Lightly laid his hand over top of Thunder Tiger’s, and smiled at his lover. “In fact, I think this Silent Strider might get that wandering feeling very soon. After the feast at Sky River, of course.”

“Feast?” demanded Peter. “What feast?”

“Sky River Caern is holding a feast in honor of the Severed Arm and our discovery of Pentex’s trap,” Windrunner explained. “They sent someone in by moon bridge while you were in the sweat lodge. We gave them a slightly doctored version of what happened — no mention of Fever, the snow plague, the flowers, or the Ghost Raptors. We were captured by the Black Spirals, taken to Magadon, discovered the trap... well, you get the picture.”

“They think the helicopter is going to make a particularly nice addition to the Sky River arsenal.” Steps-Lightly laughed wickedly. “Such a pity it’s going to be stolen by Ghost Raptors before we get a chance to fly it back to the caern.”

“You’re invited to the feast, of course,” added Roshen. “The heroic Garou whose brilliant plan saved his pack.” Peter started to protest, but Roshen held up his hand. “I already told them that you had to go back to Toronto.

We’ll destroy the Fever you left in the shelter back at Sky River. Incidentally, I’d recommend traveling by moon bridge this time. Those flowers are going to be hell to ship through customs.”

“Will the elders open a moon bridge from the Caern of Rain Spirits for me?” Peter asked Jubati.

“I think I can convince them,” replied the native Uktena with a smile. “As long as you can contact Toronto and have the caern there opened to receive you.”

“I’ll find a way.” Peter glanced around at his friends again. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“No sweat, Peter.” Brennan slapped him across the back. He had asked Peter not to reveal to the others what he had told him in the cell at Magadon. Peter had promised that he wouldn’t, but it must have been clear to the rest of the pack that something had happened. Brennan’s personality had lightened considerably. “And incidentally, don’t worry too much about missing the Sky River feast anyway. Too much kissing up to elders and observing protocol. We’ll be having our own feast right here — to celebrate our new pack member.” He gave Peter a wide smile. “Did I mention that the Severed Arm has an initiation ritual for new members?”

Peter looked at him suspiciously. “And what does that entail?”

“It’s a secret, but I can tell you this much. You’re finally going to wear one of these.” Steps-Lightly slapped a loincloth into Peter’s hands.

“That’s part of the initiation?” asked Peter doubtfully. “No, not really. But we’re getting tired of having you parade about in the altogether. It’s embarrassing.” “What’s the rest of the ceremony, then?”

Brennan scratched his chest. “You’ll find out, Glass Walker. You’ll find out.”

Later that night, Peter walked out to the Magadon helicopter. The others were back at a campfire near the caern, preparing the secret elements of his initiation into the Severed Arm. He had a few things to arrange himself, however. He climbed into the helicopter’s pilot seat of the helicopter. “Spirit,” he asked, “can you still make contact with the Magadon communications center?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I?”

“I can do it myself.” Even if Peter couldn’t fly a helicopter, a radio was something any Glass Walker could figure out. “Does Magadon have the capability to patch the radio through to a telephone call?”

“Yes, sir. I can do it for you.” The spirit hesitated. “Sir, I think I’d like a name.”

Peter blinked and paused in reaching for the radio handset. “All right.” He picked up the handset, but held it while he thought. “Are you male or female?”

“Female,” the spirit replied after a moment.

“Your name is Cassie.” He patted the helicopter’s instrument panel. “Live up to it.”

“Thank you, sir. Patching you through to an operator now.”

It took several minutes to explain to the Brazilian operator what he wanted, but finally the sound of a telephone ringing came over the helicopter’s radio. Peter waited patiently. At last someone picked up the phone at the other end. “Hello?”

“Aunt Penny, it’s Peter.” His voice caught. “I’m coming home. I have the cure.”

“That’s wonderful. Where are you?”

“I’m still in Brazil. I need you to open the caern so I can come back by moon bridge.” Roshen had guessed correctly. The Taddle Creek Caern could hide its moon bridges. “There’s no hurry — I’ll come back tomorrow evening. Is everything all right?”

“We’re making do. The...” Aunt Penny’s voice paused for a moment as she tried to find a polite way to refer to the Garou in suspended animation. Peter smiled to himself. The same old Aunt Penny. “The sleepers are fine. How are you?”

Peter rubbed his chest. “I think I'm going to be getting a tattoo shortly. Listen, I don’t want to talk too long. Pentex is paying for this and they might get suspicious.” “They’ll never get my number, dear. The phone company doesn’t even know I have a line.”

Same old Aunt Penny. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grinned, a wry smirk spreading across his face. “I’ll bring flowers.”