Eileen Wilks: Humon Error

“Did you see that?” a young voice piped up. “Did you see? He told Harley to come, and he did! Just like that!”

“Hold on to Havoc,” Clay Delacroix reminded the boy in a voice deep enough to rival that of Benedict’s father. He nodded at Benedict in a friendly way. “Harley there is an expert at selective deafness. He knows all the usual commands. He only hears them when food is involved.”

Arjenie turned in the circle of her uncle’s arm to beam at Benedict. “Benedict, this is Clay Delacroix and my aunt, Robin Delacroix, and the man holding little Amy is Uncle Gary—Gary Brown—and this is Uncle Hershey,” she said as the man they’d first spotted reached them, “and the two hellions with all the nosy questions are—”

“Oh, no!” cried the boy who’d been holding the terrier—past tense, since the dog had squirmed free. “Havoc! Come here, Havoc!”

The dog ignored such poor advice to race around the car, barking madly. Both boys raced after her. Which, of course, just increased her excitement. Being chased was almost as much fun as chasing, and maybe the boys would help her get rid of this weird-smelling intruder.

You never know what will work with a terrier, and Jack Russells could be fearless bordering on suicidal. But they were smart and curious, so sometimes . . . Benedict dropped down on his heels and stared at the little dog charging him.

Havoc skidded to a stop, startled into silence, then darted to the right, trying to flank him. Even a Jack Russell hesitates to charge straight at a predator twenty times her size, but she knew she was fast, and for all that he smelled like the scariest canid she’d ever run across, he was shaped like a big, slow human. She figured she could outmaneuver him.

She was wrong. Crouching on his heels was more awkward than some positions, but Benedict taught a version of the troika , or Cossack dance, as part of his training program. He kept up with Havoc’s movements easily as she circled him, looking for an opening that didn’t appear, and he kept his gaze pinned to her. I see you, little warrior. I respect you, but I can take you. You know this. Will you make me prove it?

“What’s he doing?” one of the boys asked. “He’s not afraid of Havoc, is he? Mr. Benedict, why are you—”

“Shh.” That was Arjenie. She’d come around to his side of the car—as had the others. “He’s talking to Havoc.”

“He’s not talking,” the boy objected.

Robin Delacroix answered. “Yes, he is. It’s a language we don’t speak.”

It occurred to Benedict that this was not the way to blend in with humans.

Havoc stopped. Cocked her head. Gave a single wag of her tail.

Benedict smiled. He held out one hand down low— Come greet me, see, I understand how to do this—

And a wall of power slammed into him like a mountain’s belch or the laughter of gods.

Benedict had no chance to fight. His control was superb, but control governed only whether or not he entered the Change. All the will in the world couldn’t stop the Change once it began—and that giant hand had swatted him into it as easily as a child’s foot can send a beetle tumbling. He could only submit and speed it along.

Between one breath and the next, the man was gone, his clothing fallen to the ground in the instant of transformation, when he was neither truly here nor not-here. An enormous black wolf stood in the Delacroix front yard, snarling with rage at what had been done to him.

“Stay back! No, he’s safe, he’s perfectly safe, only he isn’t supposed to—that shouldn’t have happened!”

Unlike many lupi, Benedict had never thought of his wolf form as something separate or distinct from the rest of him. He thought differently as a wolf, perceived the world differently, and some instincts were heightened. But he had no sense of the man needing to control the wolf, as many did. Man or wolf, he remained himself. Man or wolf, control was necessary.

Benedict heard his Chosen, heard the fear in her voice, and mastered his anger. “Benedict?” she said, and stepped toward him—and the man beside her, who smelled like charcoal and iron and smoke, seized her arm. “You’ll stay back, too.”

The smoke-and-iron man was not an enemy. Names were uninteresting to him at the moment, but he knew the man was dear to Arjenie, so he forgave him for restraining her. She would rebuke him for it herself, he was sure. Arjenie did not like to be restrained.

He wanted to go to her, but he had no idea what had happened, where the threat lay. So he gave her a quick, reassuring nod and leaped onto the hood of the car, then the roof.

This startled the humans. He was sorry for that, but he had to see and smell out what was going on. His men—had they been Changed, too?

The breeze came from the south, so he allowed his nose to advise him on what lay in that direction while he used his eyes to check north, east, and west. Nothing looked threatening or obviously out of place, but he didn’t know this place.

His men had not been forced into Change; they stood two-legged beside their car, aware something was wrong but not knowing what or if they should come to him.

This form wasn’t good at communication, but he could offer that much direction. He shook his head firmly at them.

The humans were doing a great deal of talking. Arjenie, too—she was angry at the man who still held her arm. The woman—she had an especially interesting smell—had hold of both boys, one by the shoulder, the other by the hand. She told the man to let go of his niece, who was an adult and able to make her own decisions, adding under her breath that Arjenie had better know what she was talking about.

A horse screamed. It was a stallion’s battle cry, and it came from the barn. Where the door was open slightly. It had been closed earlier.

Benedict shot off the roof of the car, sailing over the head of the woman and hitting the ground at a dead run.

Someone followed him. Someone about one-twentieth his size and with no concept of the value of silence. Havoc barked furiously as she raced after him, either believing she had him on the run or delighted by the chance to pursue whatever he was chasing.

There was no point in stealth with the terrier ferociously announcing her approach, but the noise might mask the sound of Benedict’s feet. He might yet surprise whoever or whatever had infuriated the stallion. He angled for the open door, charging inside.

What he smelled brought him up short.

When Muffin screamed, Uncle Clay’s hand relaxed in surprise. That was all Arjenie needed to twist away—just as Benedict sailed off the roof of the car in one of those stunning leaps lupi were capable of. He hit the ground running flat out, which meant very fast indeed.

Havoc took off after him. And Arjenie took off after them both.

She wasn’t fast. She wasn’t graceful. She had to be mindful of her ankle, which could turn under her if she wasn’t careful. She wasn’t much of a fighter, either, but she’d seen Benedict signal Josh and Adam to stay where they were. There was no way she was letting him go after whatever-it-was without backup.

Benedict vanished inside the barn well before she reached the halfway point. Muffin trumpeted again, sounding frantic—but having a huge wolf race into his domain would do that. It didn’t necessarily mean he was being attacked and hurt.

Arjenie heard feet pounding behind her and stole a quick glance. Uncle Hershey and Uncle Clay. Good. They’d be better backup than she would. She kept going, anyway. Her uncles passed her about the time Havoc zipped into the barn, still barking.

The barn was 130 yards from the house. That was just over the length of a football field—American football, that is. In European terms, it was approximately one-and-a-third times the length of a soccer field—facts that Arjenie knew and had shared with her family years ago and was thinking about now because facts soothed her and she was afraid. Afraid for Benedict, for herself, for her uncles, and for silly little Havoc.