Red Moon Rising Page 7

  Snap’s head and tail drooped, and she gave a resentful growl, but she lowered her shoulders and gave a single nod. “Yes, Alpha.” She shuffled back to a dazed Mickey’s side.

  Warmth returned to Storm’s belly and limbs. Alpha trusts me, she thought, and so does Omega. And so do many dogs in the ranks between them. I don’t have anything to fear from my own Pack. The relief made her dizzy.

  Chase grunted and growled. “Alpha . . . there is another dog who could have killed Bruno.”

  Alpha swung around sharply. “I said no wild accusations!”

  “I’m not making one.” Chase took a pace forward, and raised her head to stare at Alpha.

  “Hush, Chase!” Breeze nudged her anxiously. “Don’t say—”

  “I am going to say it,” she snapped at Breeze, and returned her gaze to Alpha’s. “I think—it might have been the Fear-Dog.”

  There was a moment’s shocked silence. Then Mickey gave a dark growl of derision. “There’s no such thing as the Fear-Dog!”

  “Exactly, Mickey.” Snap barked a laugh of agreement. “And even if there was, Spirit Dogs don’t go around tearing out throats. They don’t bother themselves with flesh-and-blood dogs like us!”

  Storm listened in silence as others in the Pack began to ridicule Chase’s claim. She should have felt reassured by Mickey’s scorn, by Snap’s dismissal of the whole mad idea of murderous Spirit Dogs. . . .

  But she wasn’t nearly so sure.

  My dreams. I’ve dreamed of the Fear-Dog; that has to mean something. Even Lucky trusts the power of dreams—after all, they showed him the Storm of Dogs long before it happened. She shuddered.

  The Fear-Dog was an invention of the mad Terror—or so they’d thought. Every dog in the Pack knew the great, black, snarling Spirit Dog had just been a story that Terror had made up, to strike fear and obedience into his own cowering Pack.

  But what if he’s real?

  When the dogs of Terror’s former Pack had joined the Wild Pack, they’d brought the stories and the belief and the legend with them, the way they’d brought their own scents, their own ears and tails and paws: that was how deeply they’d believed in Terror and his fake Spirit Dog.

  But what if a spirit can become real? wondered Storm, her gut icy-cold. Can it be created out of stories? If enough dogs believe, does a Spirit Dog come into being?

  What if it wasn’t just the stories they brought with them?

  What if they brought the Fear-Dog himself?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Storm paced the camp’s border, over and over again, every muscle and nerve drawn tight. Beyond the trees, the Sun-Dog was creeping below the horizon, gilding the pine trunks with his golden glow, and Storm couldn’t help feeling that even he—even that great Spirit Dog—was slinking away to avoid her. Perhaps the Sun-Dog had a problem with Fierce Dogs, too? Maybe, thought Storm, even the Sun-Dog is made a little nervous by the presence of such a big, ferocious—Fierce—dog. Perhaps he, too, rejects dogs like me. . . .

  Storm was beginning to grow very tired of all this. None of the Pack dogs would meet her eyes, however hard she glared at them. If she turned her head and caught one of them watching her, she saw only fear and suspicion in their swiftly averted faces.

  Did it mean nothing when all of you began to trust me? Have you forgotten how I saved the pups? Have you forgotten I’m your loyal Packmate?

  Daisy stood up for me. Sunshine did, too. And Alpha trusts me absolutely!

  So why can’t all of you?

  She turned her stare on Snap, but the hunt-dog looked sharply away, glowering at the ground. Mickey rose to his paws, looking embarrassed, but when he took a pace toward Storm, Snap muttered something that she couldn’t hear. Mickey swallowed, gave Storm a hesitant, sympathetic glance, but sat back down.

  Even you, Mickey? Even you?

  She didn’t know which feeling was stronger: the anger or the hurt. Their suspicion stung her like a swarm of bees in her belly.

  It was not so long ago that they couldn’t be nice enough to me. Snap brought me soft moss to lie on. And now . . . Storm growled, deep in her throat, and paced faster, breaking into a trot.

  It would be best if she could tire herself out before it was time to sleep, but her brain was buzzing with resentment and fury. She couldn’t imagine ever sleeping again. On she paced, walking and running around the clearing, until the Sun-Dog had vanished altogether and the Moon-Dog had risen in the gray-blue sky. She at least wasn’t turning her face away from Storm; she shone full and round and bright on the glade, lighting every pair of suspicious eyes with her silver glow.

  One by one, the Pack members were padding to the center of the camp, gathering in their circle for the Great Howl. Storm hung back, reluctant to share space with any of them, her anger still hot in her throat.

  But as they settled, sitting or lying down, giving one another friendly licks and flicking their ears as they greeted one another, Storm began to relax.

  It’s time for the Great Howl. The whole point is to bind us together, as a Pack. It’s what the Moon-Dog wants. And it’s what we need right now.

  Her stiff legs trembled as she stalked forward to join the Pack. Maybe this Howl will make everything the way it was again. Maybe this will fix things.

  Maybe this is my last chance . . . my last chance to prove I belong in this Pack.

  And if I can’t show them, if I can’t make them believe it . . . what then? What will I do? Misery and confusion sank into Storm’s bones.

  She sat down, her tail curled tight against her, picking a spot where her flanks wouldn’t touch any other dog. No dog moved closer to her; maybe they could feel the rage that lifted the fur of her hide. Maybe they’re afraid of me.

  Maybe they’re right to be.

  Storm tilted back her head to stare morosely at the Moon-Dog. Then she narrowed her eyes. There was something odd about the great silver Spirit Dog now. Her glow had dulled, and Storm wasn’t the only one who had noticed it.

  Around her, dogs were shifting, fidgeting, muttering. Ears were tucked tightly back, claws scraped nervously at the earth. Is it a cloud? wondered Storm.

  But as the Moon-Dog rose higher, the cloud didn’t pass. The pale disc reddened, as if it was stained with blood. Stars were blinking into life, glimmering in the darkening sky, and Storm realized suddenly: There are no clouds.

  What’s happening?

  A whimper from Sunshine broke the silence. “The Moon-Dog is angry!”

  Storm glanced at her, shocked. Maybe the little dog was right. When Storm turned back to the sky, the Moon-Dog’s hide was not silver at all: She looked like a giant, sinister red eye, staring at the Pack with a dull, blank rage. It reminded Storm of something . . . something awful. Abruptly she realized: It looked just like the mad dog Terror’s crazed glare.

  A ripple of icy fear ran beneath Storm’s fur, mixed with a horrible shame. Have I caused this? Has the Pack? The things that have happened lately—have we done this to the Moon-Dog? Is she really this angry with us?

  A quivering voice broke the silence. “The Fear-Dog,” whined Breeze, crouching low to the ground. “It’s the Fear-Dog.”

  Chase gave a low, terrified howl. “The Fear-Dog has cast his shadow over the Moon-Dog! Is he eating her?”

  Chase and Breeze both believed firmly in the Fear-Dog, Storm remembered: They had both been members of Terror’s Pack. But the others were cowering now too—even Mickey had pressed himself to the earth, trembling.

  “Is it a sign?” whined Beetle. “Is something bad going to happen?”

  “Quiet, now!” Alpha took a step into the circle. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my Pack. There’s no such thing as the Fear-Dog!”

  “Yes,” whined Chase. “There is. Look at him.”

  “No!” barked Alpha. “That’s no Fear-Dog, It’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off, her ears tucked back, and her tail trembled anxiously. “It’s the weather. That’s all. Just the weather. Rain’s coming.”
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br />   But that’s no cloud. Storm stared at the rust-red Moon-Dog. There are no clouds tonight. . . .

  “I’ve never seen this happen before,” said Moon, her eyes wide. “There’s never been a cloud like that. Not ever!”

  “Is it hurting the Moon-Dog?” whimpered Omega in distress. “If that is the Fear-Dog, he’s harming her!”

  “Pack! Stop worrying.” Lucky sprang forward past Alpha. “This is not the Fear-Dog!”

  “I agree with Lucky,” declared Twitch, stepping forward to stand beside the Pack’s Beta. “This is something we haven’t seen before, but it’s natural. It’s only a mood of the Moon-Dog.” He drew a breath. “But since she’s in a bad mood, maybe it’s best that we don’t Howl tonight.”

  “That’s true,” said Lucky. “It’s clear the Moon-Dog is not herself. Alpha, do you agree?”

  “Yes.” Alpha nodded firmly. “Let’s leave our Howl till the Moon-Dog is more kindly inclined toward all dogs. But listen to Beta and Third Dog, Packmates. There is no such thing as the Fear-Dog.”

  She sounds determined, thought Storm, eyeing Alpha. She sounds convincing. But there’s fear in her eyes, too. Alpha’s as confused and unsure and distressed as the rest of us. . . .

  Storm swallowed hard, suddenly more afraid than ever.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” Alpha went on, a hint of a tremor in her stern voice. “But it has nothing to do with Terror’s wild stories. Go to your dens. We will leave the Moon-Dog to rest and recover; she will be our beloved Spirit Dog again soon.”

  One by one, the dogs rose to their paws and slunk off toward their dens, watched by that great round red eye. Around them everything seemed so still and quiet, thought Storm, as if the forest itself were afraid of the Moon-Dog tonight.

  She gazed up at the great Spirit Dog in awed trepidation, feeling the dark night press in on her hide, and a violent shudder ran through her bones.

  Rain. It fell in a torrent from the sky, relentless. The black downpour was so heavy it was hard to breathe, and water streamed into her eyes and nostrils.

  Water? Storm wasn’t sure. Was it blood, then, or only the stench of it? It seemed that blood filled her mouth and her head; it streamed into her eyes, it drenched her fur. That meant it was a dream, she was sure. Only in dreams did the sky rain blood.

  And yet it felt real, all real. Blood in her eyes or not, Storm could see enough. She could see too much.

  All around her, dogs were battling to the death. Fighting, biting, scratching, and snarling. Dogs collided in a mass of violent confusion, slithering in the mud. High above, the Sky-Dogs were joining in the fight; thunder crashed and rolled, and Lightning streaked across the sky in white flashes, over and over again.

  Despite the chaos and the noise and the driving rain, nothing could blunt Storm’s sense of smell. The stink of blood was thick on the sodden air; she tasted its rusty tang in her mouth.

  Lucky and Terror were locked in combat, rolling over and over on the slippery ground, the golden dog’s jaws tearing at Terror’s ear. There were so many other dogs Storm knew—of course there were. She remembered this battle against Terror’s Pack too well. It was real. The place and the struggle were real; the blood was real.

  But why was she back here? Why was it happening again?

  Bella and Martha and Moon were in the heart of the chaos, fighting with savage desperation. She could see Twitch, snarling and biting at dogs of his own former Pack; of course, this was when he had finally turned against Terror’s brutal rule. But others had stayed loyal to the mad tyrant: dogs Storm now knew as friends were attacking her Pack. There were Splash, Chase, and Breeze, fighting in a frenzy. Off to her flank she saw Ruff and Rake, Whisper and Woody, their teeth snapping wildly at her Packmates.

  The smell of the blood and the rage of the storm thrilled through her bones. Through the blinding rain she saw Terror throw off Lucky and charge straight toward her. She wasn’t afraid. She leaped gladly to meet him, her jaws open in a snarl of fury.

  I want this fight!

  She crashed into Terror head-on, their jaws locking in a deadly struggle. His mad yellow-red eye glared into hers, but she wasn’t scared of this brute; she bit and tore, feeling her fangs sink into his flesh.

  And suddenly, horribly, her hold broke. Terror fell away, flailing and uttering a gurgling, agonized howl. His dismembered jaw was still caught between her teeth; she spat it out, tasting blood on her tongue. Her mouth was full of that dark, thick fluid.

  But of course it was. She’d tasted it from the start. This was always going to happen. It was always meant to happen.

  On the ground, in the sticky, sucking mud, the maimed Terror writhed and squirmed in agony, his face disfigured almost beyond recognition, his life spilling out of him. Storm felt no pity. She gazed down at the dying dog, his lifeblood filling her mouth and nostrils, seeping through every fiber of her body. Triumph surged through her, making her bones thrum with a fierce and lethal joy.

  She became aware of eyes fixed on her, and she jerked her head up to look around. Dogs were staring at her, their faces full of horror and shock. And fear. Terror’s Pack and her own friends: They had all gone unnaturally still, the battle forgotten, to gape at her victory. They were afraid of her; she could see it in their wide white eyes.

  And between them . . . other dogs skulked. Shadow dogs, with featureless faces.

  Watching her. Watching, and seeing, and knowing what she was. . . .

  Storm woke with an abrupt, awful jolt. Her paws were no longer half sunk in mud; she stood on dry, dusty earth that was littered with twigs and leaves. The rushing sound of water still filled her ears, but it wasn’t raining; the noise was the river, flowing only a rabbit-chase away. She stared at it in shock, watching the dance of moonlight on its surface.

  I did it again. I walked in my sleep.

  A sickening rush of disappointment flooded through her. I thought it was over. I haven’t sleepwalked in so long. I hoped it would never happen again.

  The dream was still vivid in her head. She could still see the horrified faces of those dogs, Terror’s Pack and her own. The worst of it was, it was no dream, but a memory. It had happened; she had done that awful thing, and her feeling of triumph and delight in Terror’s death had been real.

  I ripped off his jaw. I remember how it tasted. It didn’t disgust me: I loved that moment. It tasted . . . good. Like victory.

  I remember I was glad.

  And Bruno had died like that. Bruno’s life had ended in just the same way as Terror’s: his jaw torn savagely from his head.

  The terrible things that have happened lately . . . Are they because of Terror? Has it all been about that insane dog?

  The red Moon-Dog that rose tonight had reminded her so vividly of his crazed eyes. And Bruno’s death had echoed Terror’s. Perhaps the Fear-Dog was not only real but haunting their Pack, seeking revenge for his disciple-dog?

  Alpha doesn’t believe in the Fear-Dog. She says he isn’t real.

  But Chase believes. Breeze believes. They thought the Fear-Dog spoke through Terror.

  Terror thought that, too.

  Storm’s head spun, and she stumbled, feeling faint. How can I fight a Spirit Dog? That is a battle no mortal dog can win. Despair and fear made her dizzy, and she wanted to howl in misery.

  Along her trembling hide, a breeze whispered. Leaves rustled in the branches above her, and the gentle tumbling sound of the river was suddenly clearer. A night bird cried somewhere in the trees, and a beetle scuttled in the grass beneath her paws. It was as if Earth-Dog were trying to wake her up, making the world around her solid and true, a place she could know with her nose and eyes and ears and paws.

  No. No, there’s no Spirit Dog behind these attacks. That traitor dog is as real as I am.

  There was no questioning the facts: Bruno had suffered the same fate as Terror, and that had to mean something. But it did not mean that the Pack was being hunted by a ghost. Terror was dead and gone to the Ear
th-Dog. As for the Fear-Dog: He didn’t even exist. Storm knew that in her head and in her heart.

  She clenched her jaws and narrowed her eyes. Think, Storm! Think with your brain, not your frightened belly.

  Bruno hadn’t been there on that horrific night. He hadn’t been part of that battle. But his death had to point to . . . something. Could the bad dog be one who was there the night of Terror’s death?

  Many of those dogs had already been targeted by the traitor. Even Whisper, though in that battle he’d fought loyally for Terror.

  It wasn’t Lucky; she knew that as surely as she knew anything. Lucky would not, could not do that to another dog; what was more, he was the Pack’s Beta. He had led the Leashed Dogs out of the Empty City to safety, and a new life. And he would never invite fear into the Pack to threaten his own pups. If there was one dog Storm could be sure of, it was Lucky.

  Breeze loved the pups, too, and devoted her life to protecting them; Twitch and Moon had both been targets of the bad dog’s deadly malice. Chase?

  Storm pictured the small dog in her mind. She was little, but quick, and ferocious. Chase could stand up for herself; there wasn’t much that frightened her, except the imaginary Fear-Dog. And the bad dog hadn’t brought chaos or violence or misery to Chase.

  Closing her eyes, Storm tried to go back into her dream. She could recall so vividly the sensations that had flooded her body: fury and infinite strength and a fearless certainty. Nothing had mattered in those moments but putting an end to Terror. She could have torn the jaw off a giantfur, never mind a big, burly, mad dog.

  Nothing could have stopped me. Nothing.

  Chase was little, but size mattered nothing next to rage. Perhaps Storm wasn’t the only dog who had felt that power: the fire in the blood that burned everything it touched.