"h.e.l.lo, you little b.i.t.c.h," Michael said, and tapped noisily on the cage. The hawk shivered with anger, feathers ruffling at the back of its neck, and began to make that hissing sound. "I ought to eat you and spit your bones out on the floor," Michael said. The hawk crouched over, its body quivering like a lightning rod in a storm. "Well, maybe next time." He reached for the doork.n.o.b.

He heard a faint, almost musical ping. Something clattered. Michael looked toward the hawk's cage, and saw counterweights descending from the ceiling. A small chain was playing out. Michael realized he'd just snapped a trip wire between him and the door, and he had no more time for further deliberation because the counterweights pulled the cage's door up and the golden hawk lunged out at him, its talons already shredding the air.

9.

As Michael was balancing on the hotel's ledge, Jerek Blok wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. Onstage, the spectacle involved a female midget and a burly Slav who obviously had been the idiot in some G.o.dforsaken Russian village. The man's physical equipment, however, was huge, and he grinned at the n.a.z.i laughter as if he understood the joke. Blok looked at his pocket watch; he was getting sated on debauchery, and after a while all a.s.ses-no matter how big or small-looked the same. He leaned toward Chesna and touched her knee in a gesture that was far from fatherly. "Your baron must not have a sense of humor."

"He wasn't feeling well." As for that matter, neither was she. Her face hurt from all the false smiles.

"Come on, enough beer-hall entertainment." He stood up and grasped her elbow. "I'll buy you a bottle of champagne in the lounge."

Chesna was overjoyed to be able to make a graceful exit. The show was far from finished-there were cruder, audience partic.i.p.ation events yet to come-but the Brimstone Club had never been anything for her but a way to meet people. She allowed Colonel Blok to escort her to the lounge, thinking that the baron might at this moment be either on his way in or out of Blok's suite. So far, there'd been no shriek of a plummeting body. The man-whatever his real name might be-was crazy, but he hadn't lived this long in a dangerous profession by being careless. They sat down at a table, and Blok ordered a magnum of champagne and checked his pocket watch again. He asked the waiter to bring a telephone to the table.

"Business?" Chesna inquired. "So late?"

"I fear so." Blok closed his pocket watch and put it away in his neat uniform. "I want to hear all about the baron, Chesna: where you met him, what you know of him. As long as I've known you, I've never thought you were the type of woman to be foolish."

"Foolish?" She lifted her blond brows. "How do you mean?"

"These dukes, earls, and barons are cheap currency. You see them every day, holding court and dressed up like department-store dummies. Any man with a drop of royal blood p.a.w.ns himself off as gold these days, when he's really pig iron. You can't be too careful." He wagged a warning finger at her. The waiter came with the telephone and proceeded to plug its p.r.o.ngs into the proper socket. "Harry and I were talking this afternoon," Blok went on. "He thinks the baron might be-how shall I say this?-interested in more than true love."

She waited for him to continue; her heart was beating harder. Blok's pinched nose had picked up a scent.

"You say you've only known the baron a short time, yes? And already you're planning marriage? Well, let me get to my point, Chesna: you're a beautiful and wealthy woman, with a great reputation in the Reich. Even Hitler loves your films, and G.o.d knows the Fuhrer's favorite film subject is himself. But have you ever considered the possibility that the baron simply wants to marry you for your money and prestige?"

"I have," she answered. Too quickly, she thought. "The baron loves me for myself."

"But how can you be sure, without giving it time? It's not as if you're about to vanish from the face of the earth, is it? Why not give it through the summer?" He picked up the telephone, and Chesna watched him dial a number. She knew what number it was, and she felt her blood chill. "Colonel Blok," he said, identifying himself to the operator. "Medical, please." He spoke again to Chesna: "Three months. What could it hurt? I have to tell you, neither I nor Harry like the man. He's got a lean and hungry look. Something about him doesn't ring true. Pardon me." He returned his attention to the telephone again. "Yes, Blok here. How was the operation?... Good. Then he'll recover?... Enough to talk, yes?... And when might that be?... Twenty-four hours is too long! Twelve at the most!" He was speaking in his haughty colonel's voice, and he winked at Chesna. "Listen to me, Arthur! I want Frankewitz-"

Chesna thought she gasped aloud. She wasn't sure. What felt like a band of steel closed around her throat.

"-able to answer questions within twelve hours. Yes? End of conversation." He hung up and pushed the telephone away as if it were something distasteful. "Now, we were talking about the baron. Three months. We can find out everything there is to know about him." He shrugged. "After all, that's my specialty."

Chesna thought she might scream. She was afraid she'd gone as pallid as a corpse, but if Blok noticed he didn't say anything.

"Ah, here's our champagne!" Blok waited, drumming his spidery fingers on the tabletop, as the waiter poured flutes for them both. "To good health!" he toasted, and Chesna had to use all her skills to keep her hand from trembling as she lifted her gla.s.s.

And, as champagne bubbles tickled her nose, the counterweights fell, the chain rattled along its distance, the cage's door slid up, and Blondi came out at Michael Gallatin.

The talons raked air where his face had been a second before, because Michael had ducked low and Blondi's momentum carried her over him. She twisted in midair, her wings beating, and swooped upon him as he back-pedaled, his arms up to protect his face. Michael feinted to the light and dodged to the left with a wolf's speed, and as Blondi flashed past him two talons ripped into his right shoulder and sprayed bits of black cloth. She turned again and let out an enraged shriek. Michael backed away, frantically looking for anything to defend himself with. Blondi spun around the room in a tight circle, then suddenly reversed direction and darted at his face, her wings widespread.

Michael dropped to the floor. Blondi shot over him, tried to stop, and skidded along the arm of a black leather sofa, clawing deep furrows in the cowhide. Michael rolled away, got to his knees, and saw an open doorway in front of him: a blue-tiled bathroom. He heard the beating of golden wings behind him, sensed claws about to dig into the back of his skull. He flung himself forward, rolling head over heels, and through the open door into the bathroom. As he spun around on the blue-tiled floor, he saw Blondi streaking after him. He grasped the edge of the door, slammed it shut, and heard a satisfying thunk as the hawk hit it. There was a silence. Dead? Michael wondered. Or just stunned? His answer came a few seconds later: the sound of frenzied clawing as Blondi attacked the door.

Michael stood up and gauged the boundaries of his prison. There was a sink, an oval mirror, a toilet, and a narrow closet. No windows, and no other door. He checked the closet but found nothing of use. Blondi was at work, tearing furrows on the other side of the bathroom door. To get out of Sandler's suite, he had to get out of this room and past the hawk. Sandler might return at any moment; there was no time to wait for the hawk to exhaust herself, and little chance that she'd lose interest. Michael knew she could smell the wolf on him, and it was driving her crazy. Sandler evidently didn't trust the Reichkronen's security system; the thin trip wire he'd managed to wrap around the doork.n.o.b as he'd gone out for the evening was a nasty surprise for the curious. Once a hunter, always a hunter.

Michael cursed himself for not being more alert. The grisly photographs had been on his mind. But what he'd found out tonight would be worthless if he couldn't get out. Blondi attacked the door again, her fury waxing. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw the ripped seam of his jacket. Some of the shirt was gone too, but his flesh was unscathed. So far. Michael gripped the edges of the mirror and lifted it off its mounting brackets. Then he turned it around, so the mirrored gla.s.s was aimed away from him. He lifted the mirror up over his face, like a shield, and then he went to the door. Blondi's talons must have been an inch deep in the wood by now. Michael held the mirror up with one hand, and then took a breath and with the other hand turned the k.n.o.b and wrenched the door open.

The hawk shrieked and retreated. It had seen its own reflection. Michael protected his face with the mirror and backed carefully toward the terrace doors. He couldn't risk running into Sandler in the hallway; he'd have to get back to Chesna's suite the same way he'd come. Surely Boots and his prize had stopped dawdling by now and had left the balcony. Michael heard the whooshing sound of Blondi's powerful wings, coming at him. The hawk stopped short of its mirrored reflection and clawed wildly at the gla.s.s. Its strength almost knocked the mirror away from him, and he fastened his fingers around the edges. Blondi flew away and darted back again, unconcerned with Michael's fingers but concentrating on killing the hawk that had dared to invade her territory. Again the talons scratched at the gla.s.s. Blondi made a high skreeling sound, flew a circle around the room, and attacked the mirror once more as Michael backed toward the terrace. This time Blondi hit the mirror a glancing blow, and the force of it staggered Michael. His heel caught on the leg of a low coffee table; he lost his balance and fell. The mirror slipped and shattered against the fireplace stones with the sound of a pistol shot.

Blondi flew just below the ceiling, making tight circles around the crystal chandelier. Michael got to his knees; the terrace doors were about twelve feet away. And then Blondi made one final circle and swooped down at him, talons outstretched to tear into his unprotected eyes.

He had no time to think. The hawk was coming in a blur of deadly gold.

It reached him, wings outspread. The talons drove downward, and the hooked beak started to stab for the soft glittering orbs.

Michael's right hand flashed up, and he heard the seam rip at his armpit. In the next second there was a burst of golden feathers where the hawk had been. He felt Blondi's talons grip his forearm, tearing through the jacket and shirt to find the skin-and then the b.l.o.o.d.y, mangled thing spun away like a tattered leaf and whacked against the wall, puffing more feathers. Blondi slid down to the floor, leaving smears of gore against the paint. The b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.s that had been a bird of prey twitched a few times, then was still.

Michael looked at his hand. Black hair seethed and rippled over the powerful claw of a wolf, and the curved nails were wet with Blondi's blood and entrails. The forearm muscles bulged under his sleeve, straining the seam. The hairs had advanced almost up to his shoulder, and he could feel his bones starting to warp and change.

No, he thought. Not here.

He stood up, on human legs. It took him a moment to stop the change before it overwhelmed him, because the odor of blood and violence had flamed his nerves. The curved nails withdrew, with little p.r.i.c.klings of pain. The hair retreated, making his flesh itch. And then it was over, and he was human again except for a taste of musky wildness in his mouth.

He hurried out to the terrace. Boots and the girl had disappeared into Blok's suite. Michael wished there was something he could do to cover his tracks, but the damage was done; he stepped over the bal.u.s.trade, got onto the ledge, and made his way to the southeast corner, where he descended to the level below by using the carved gargoyle faces and geometric figures again. In another eight or nine minutes he stepped onto the balcony of Chesna's suite, and went inside, closing the terrace doors behind him.

Now he felt as if he could breathe again. But where was Chesna? Still at the Brimstone Club's gathering, of course. Maybe he ought to make another appearance as well-but not in a hawk-clawed tuxedo jacket. He went into the bathroom and scrubbed all traces of blood from beneath the fingernails of his right hand, then changed into a fresh white shirt and put on a dark gray suit jacket with black velvet lapels. He wore his white bow tie again, since that had survived the blood spattering. His shoes were scuffed, but they'd have to do. He checked himself quickly in a mirror, making sure he hadn't missed a spot of crimson or a golden feather, and then he left the room and took an elevator to the lobby.

The Brimstone Club's meeting was apparently over, because the lobby teemed with n.a.z.i officers and their companions. Laughter boomed out from beer-sotted throats. Michael searched for Chesna in the crowd-and felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

He turned, and found himself face-to-face with Harry Sandler.

"Been lookin' for you. All over," Sandler said; his eyes were bloodshot, his mouth wet and slack. "Where'd you go?" Beer had finished the job wine had begun.

"For a walk," Michael answered. "I wasn't feeling well. Have you seen Chesna?"

"Yeah. She's been lookin' for you, too. Asked me to help. Good show, wasn't it?"

"Where's Chesna?" Michael repeated. He pulled loose from Sandler's hand.

"Last I saw, she was in the courtyard. Out there." He nodded toward the entrance. "Thought you'd decided to go back home and pick some more tulips. Come on, I'll take you to her." Sandler motioned him to follow, and the big-game hunter began staggering and weaving across the lobby.

Michael hesitated. Sandler stopped. "Come on, Baron. She's lookin' for her loverboy."

He followed Sandler, through the crowd toward the Reichkronen entrance. How the matter of the disemboweled hawk was going to be handled, he didn't know. Chesna was an intelligent, charming woman; she'd think of something. He was glad Mouse hadn't seen any of that hideous "entertainment," because it might have snapped the little man's last threads. One thing was clear to Michael: somehow, they had to find out what Gustav Hildebrand was working on. And, if possible, they had to get to Skarpa. But Norway was a long way from Berlin, and Berlin held enough danger on its own. Michael followed Harry Sandler down the steps, where the hunter almost lost his balance and broke his neck, which would have taken care of a task Michael planned to complete very shortly. They crossed the courtyard, the stones holding puddles of rainwater.

"Where is she?" Michael asked, walking beside Sandler.

"This way." He pointed toward the dark trail of the river. "There's a garden. Maybe you can tell me what kind of flowers are in it. Right?"

Michael heard something in the man's voice. A hardness, beneath the drunken slurring. His steps slowed. It occurred to him that Sandler was walking faster, keeping his balance on the uneven stones. Sandler wasn't as drunk as he pretended to be. Now what was this all a- Sandler said, "Here he is," in a quiet, sober voice.

A man stepped out from behind a section of broken stone wall. He wore black gloves and a long gray coat.

There was a sound behind Michael: a boot sole, sc.r.a.ping stone. Michael whirled around and saw another man in a gray coat almost upon him. The man took two long strides, and the hand he'd already lifted came down. The blackjack he gripped in his fist hit Michael Gallatin on the side of the head and drove him to his knees.

"Hurry!" Sandler urged. "Get him up, d.a.m.n it!"

A black car pulled up. Michael, adrift in a haze of pain, heard a door open. No, not a door. Heavier. The trunk lid? He was lifted up, and his scuffed shoes dragged across the stones. He let his body slump; it had all happened so fast, the gears of his brain had been knocked loose. The two men dragged him toward the car trunk. "Hurry!" Sandler hissed. Michael was lifted up, and he realized they were going to fold him up like a piece of luggage and throw him in the musty-smelling trunk. Oh no, he decided. Can't let them do that, oh no. He tensed his muscles then and drove his right elbow sharply backward. It hit something bony, and he heard one of the men curse. A fist struck him hard in the kidneys, and an arm gripped him around the throat from behind. Michael fought them, trying to get loose. If he could just get his feet on the ground, he thought dazedly, he'd be fine.

He heard the whistle of air, and knew the blackjack was falling again.

It hit the back of his skull, making black explosions burst across the white landscape of a ghost world.

Musty smell. Sound of a coffin lid slamming shut. No. Trunk lid. My head... my head...

He heard the sound of a well-tuned engine. The car was moving.

Michael tried to lift his head, and when he did, an iron fist of pain closed around him, and dragged him under.

EIGHT Youth's Last Flower

1.

On a morning in the summer of Mikhail's fourteenth year, as the sun warmed the earth and the forest bloomed green as young dreams, a black wolf ran.

He knew the tricks now: Wiktor and Nikita had taught him. You propelled your body with the back legs, braked and turned with the front. You were always alert to the surface under your paws: soft dirt, mud, rocks, sand. All those called for different touches, different tensions of the body. Sometimes you kept your muscles tight as new springs, sometimes relaxed like old bands of rubber. But-and this was a very important lesson, Wiktor had said sternly-you remained constantly aware. That was a word Wiktor used many times, beating it into Mikhail's impatient brain like a bent nail. Aware. Of your own body, the keen rumbling of the lungs, the pumping of the blood, the movement of muscles and sinews, and the rhythm of four legs. Of the sun in the sky, and the direction you were traveling. Of your surroundings, and how to get home again. Of not only the world in front of you, but what was happening to right, left, behind, above, and below. Of the scent trails of small game and the sounds of animals fleeing your own scent. Aware of all these things and many more. Mikhail had never realized that being a wolf was such hard work.

But it was becoming second nature. The pain of transformation had lessened, though Wiktor had told him it would never entirely go away. Pain, as Mikhail understood it, was a fact of life. Still, the pain of change paled before the utter, exuberant thrill that Mikhail felt whenever his body bounded on all fours through the forest, his muscles rippling beneath his flesh and the sensation of power beyond anything he'd ever known. He was still a small wolf, but Wiktor said he'd grow. He was a fast learner, Wiktor said. He had a good head on his shoulders. In these burning days of summer Mikhail spent most of his time in the shape of a wolf, feeling naked and pale as a maggot when he wore his boy skin. He slept very little; every day and night there were new explorations to make, new things to see from eyes that missed nothing. Objects that had been matter-of-factly familiar to his human vision were a revelation to his wolf's gaze: rain was a shower of shimmering colors, the tracks of small animals in high gra.s.s were edged with the faint blue of body heat, the wind itself seemed to be a complex living thing that brought news of other lives and deaths from across the forest.

And the moon. Oh, the moon!

The wolf's eye saw it differently. An endlessly fascinating silver hole in the night, sometimes edged with bright blue, sometimes crimson, sometimes a hue that was beyond description. The moonlight fell in silver spears, lighting the forest like a cathedral. It was the most beautiful glow Mikhail had ever seen, and in that awesome beauty the wolves-even three-legged Franco-gathered on high rocks and sang. The songs were paeans of mingled joy and sadness: We are alive, the songs said, and we wish to live forever. But life is a pa.s.sing thing, as the moon pa.s.ses across the sky, and all the eyes of wolves and men must grow dim, and close.

But we'll sing, while there's such a light as this!

Mikhail ran for the thrill of running. Sometimes, when he returned to human form after hours spent on four legs, he had trouble balancing on two. They were weak, white stalks, and you couldn't get them to go fast enough. Speed was what entranced Mikhail; the ability of movement, of cutting left and right and having a tail that acted like a rudder keeping your balance in turns. Wiktor said he was becoming too enraptured with his wolf's body, and neglecting his studies. It wasn't only the changing of shape that made the miracle, Wiktor told him; it was the brain in the wolf's skull that could follow a scent of an injured stag on the wind and recite Shakespeare at the same time.

He burst through the underbrush and found a pond in a hollow rimmed with rocks. The fragrance of the cool water on such a hot, dusty day was a beckoning perfume. There were still some things a human boy could do better than a wolf, and one of them was swimming. He rolled in the soft gra.s.s for the mighty pleasure of it. Then he lay on his side, panting, and let the change come over him. How this worked exactly was still a mystery to him: it began by imagining himself as a boy, just as he imagined himself a wolf when he desired to change in the other direction. The more complete and detailed he saw himself in his mind's eye, the faster and smoother the change. It was a matter of concentration, of training the mind. Of course there were problems; sometimes an arm or leg refused to obey, and once his head had balked. All this led to much merriment for the other members of the pack, but considerable discomfort for Mikhail. But with practice he was getting better. As Wiktor told him, Rome wasn't built in a day.

Mikhail leaped into the water, and it closed over his head. He came up spouting, and then he arched his white body and dove into the depths. As he stroked along the rocky bottom, he remembered how and where he'd first learned to swim: as a child, under the tutelage of his mother, in a huge indoor pool in St. Petersburg. Had that been him, really? A pampered, shy youth who wore shirts with high starched collars and took piano lessons? That seemed like a foreign world now, and all the people who had inhabited it had almost faded away. Nothing was real, except this life and the forest.

He shot up to the surface, and as he shook the water from his hair he heard her laugh.

Startled, he looked around and saw her. She was sitting on a rock, her long hair the color of spun gold in the sunlight. Alekza was as naked as he, but her body was infinitely more interesting. "Oh look!" she said teasingly. "What a minnow I've found!"

Mikhail treaded water. "What are you doing out here?"

"What are you doing in there?"

"Swimming," he answered. "What does it look like?"

"It looks silly. Cool, but silly."

She couldn't swim, he thought. Had she followed him from the white palace? "It is cool," he told her. "Especially after you run." He could tell that Alekza had been running; her body was moist with a fine sheen of sweat.

Alekza carefully eased down on the rock, reached forward, and cupped a hand into the water. She lifted it to her mouth and lapped it like an animal, then poured the rest of it over the golden down between her thighs. "Oh yes," she said, and smiled at him. "It is cool, isn't it?"

Mikhail was beginning to feel much warmer. He swam away from her, but it was a small pond. He swam in circles, pretending that he didn't even notice as she stretched out against the rock and offered her body to the sun. And, of course, to his gaze. He averted his face. What was wrong with him? Lately, through the spring and now into the summer, Alekza had been much on his mind. Her blond hair, her ice-blue eyes when she was in her human form, her blond fur and proud tail when she was wolfen. The mystery between her thighs pulled at him. He'd had dreams... no, no, those were indecent.

"You have a beautiful back," she told him. Her voice was soft; there was something pliable in it. "It looks so strong."

He swam a little faster. Maybe to make the muscles of his back tense, maybe not.

"When you come out," Alekza said, "I'll dry you off."

Mikhail's p.e.n.i.s had already guessed at how that was to be accomplished and grown hard as the rock Alekza perched on. He kept swimming as Alekza sunned herself and waited.

He could stay in the pond until she got tired and went back home, he thought. She was an animal: that's what Renati said about her. But, as Mikhail's swimming began to slow and his heart pounded with an unknown pa.s.sion, he knew his time with Alekza would be soon, if not today. She wanted him, wanted what he had. And he was curious; there were lessons Wiktor could not teach. Alekza was waiting, and the sun was hot. Its glare off the water made him feel dizzy. He made two more circles, turning the situation over in his mind. A vital part of him had already made its decision.

He pulled himself out of the water, feeling a mixture of longing and fear as he watched Alekza stand up, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s drawing tight as she looked at what he offered. She came down off the rock, and he stood in the gra.s.s and waited.

She took his hand, guided him into the shade, and there he lay down on a bed of moss. She knelt beside him. Alekza was beautiful, though up close Mikhail could see that lines had deepened around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. The wolf's life was hard, and Alekza was no longer a maiden. But her ice-blue eyes promised pleasures beyond his dreams, and she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. He had a lot to learn about the art of love; his first lesson had begun.

Alekza made good her promise to dry him off, using her tongue. She began at the south and crawled ever so slowly northward, licking dry his legs, slowly lapping the water that beaded on his shivering skin.

She came to his blood-gorged center, and there she displayed the true quality of an animal: the love of fresh meat. Alekza engulfed him, as Mikhail moaned and sank his fingers into her hair. Like an animal also, she was fond of using her teeth, and she bit and licked up and down as pressure rapidly built in his loins. He heard a roaring in his head, and luminous streaks leaped through his brain like summer lightning. Alekza's warm mouth held him, her fingers squeezing at the base of his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. He felt his body convulse, a movement that was beyond his control, and for a number of seconds his muscles tensed as if they were about to rip through the flesh. The lightning in his brain danced, striking his nerves and flaming them. He groaned: a b.e.s.t.i.a.l sound.

Alekza released her grip on him and watched the seed fountain from Mikhail's body. He convulsed a second time, and delivered another hot white explosion. She smiled, proud of her power over this young flesh; then, as Mikhail's banner began to droop, she continued her journey of the tongue across his stomach, over his chest, and playing circles around and around on his skin. Goose b.u.mps seethed in the wake of her pa.s.sage. Mikhail began to harden again, and as his mind cleared from its initial delirium he realized now that there was more to be learned than the monks had ever dreamed.

Their mouths met, and lingered. Alekza bit at his tongue and lips, she grasped his hands and placed them on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and then she sat astride his thighs and eased herself down on him. They were connected, a pulse clenched within moist heat. Alekza's hips began a slow rhythm that gradually increased in power and intensity, her eyes staring into his and her face and b.r.e.a.s.t.s glistening with sweat. Mikhail was a fast student; he rocked deeper into her, meeting her movements, and as their thrusts became harder and more urgent, Alekza threw back her head, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, and cried out with joy.

He felt her shudder, her eyes closed and her lips making soft moaning noises. She offered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to his kisses, her hips moving in tight, hard circles, and then Mikhail was overcome by that uncontrollable convulsion again. As his muscles tensed and the blood roared through his veins, a bounty of his essence exploded into Alekza's warm wetness. He felt stretched, his bones throbbing with swampy heat. The sky might have crashed down on his face like blue gla.s.s, and he wouldn't have cared. He drifted in an unknown land, but one thing he was certain of: he liked this place, very much. And he wanted to go back again as soon as he could manage the journey.

He was ready again faster than he would have thought. Body to body, he and Alekza rolled over the bed of moss, out of the shade and into the sunlight. Now she was underneath him, her legs up over his hips, and she laughed at his eagerness as he plunged deep again. This was better than swimming; he couldn't find the bottom of Alekza's pond. The sun beat down on them, its heat making their flesh wet and melding them together. It burned away the last vestiges of Mikhail's shyness, as well, and he met her thrusts with steady power. Her thighs were pressed against his sides, her mouth urging at his tongue, his back arching as he stroked in her depths.

As their bodies moved again through tension toward release, it happened without warning. Blond hair scurried over Alekza's stomach, over her thighs and arms. She gasped, her eyes dazed with pleasure, and Mikhail caught her wild, pungent odor. That smell triggered the wolf in him, and black hair rippled over his back, underneath her clenching fingers. Alekza contorted and began to change, her gritted teeth lengthening into fangs, her beautiful face taking on another form of beauty. Mikhail, still embraced within her, let himself go, too; black hair emerged over his shoulders, his arms, b.u.t.tocks, and legs. Their bodies writhed in a mingling of pa.s.sion and pain, and they turned and angled so the body that was becoming a black wolf was mounting the emergent blond wolf from behind. And in the instant before the change became complete, Mikhail shuddered as his seed entered Alekza. The pleasure overwhelmed him, and he threw back his head and howled. Alekza joined his singing, their voices combining in harmony, breaking apart and combining again: another kind of lovemaking.

Mikhail pulled out of her. The spirit was still willing, but the black-haired t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es were drained. Alekza rolled in the gra.s.s, then jumped up and ran in circles, snapping at her tail. Mikhail tried to run, too, but his legs gave way and he lay in the sun with his tongue hanging out. Alekza nuzzled him, rolled him over, and licked his belly. He basked in the attention, his eyes heavy-lidded, and he thought that there would never be another day like this one.

As the sun began to sink and the sky turned red, Alekza picked up the scent of a rabbit in the breeze. She and Mikhail started following it, racing each other through the woods to see who could track down the rabbit first, and as they ran they bounded back and forth over each other, happy as any lovers on earth.