Lord of the Wolves by S K McClafferty Page A

the
wolf, and the wolf Kingston?
    It
was difficult to countenance, but Kingston had been gone when the wolf arrived
to save her life. Its wounds were similar to Kingston’s wounds, wounds he’d
been reluctant to explain.
    Suffice
to say that I was never far away. His cryptic comment echoed in her mind, and
with startling clarity she saw him again in her mind’s eye, as he’d been that
first night, silvered by moonlight, a host of wolves whimpering at his feet.
    The
image confused her. Before she realized it, she was on her feet and moving,
away from the camp. She could not stay. His smoldering black gaze was her
undoing. A single glance from him could dissolve her will in an instant, a
touch of his hand had the power to make her forget everything she stood for. And,
if by chance he should attempt to seduce her again, she might not be able to
summon the will to resist.
    Even
now, she longed to surrender. Suddenly, it all became frighteningly clear. As
hard as it was to fathom, she was falling in love with him, and she had to act
immediately. She had to leave this place, had to leave Kingston and his
compelling air of dark mystery behind, or risk losing her immortal soul.
    Sarah
glanced at the sky. Kingston had told her that Harris’s Ferry lay due west of
here, a half day’s walk. If she hurried, she could put sufficient distance
between her and Kingston to discourage him from following.
    As
the evening advanced, Sarah’s footsteps dragged. The sun slowly slid behind the
rolling hills; the gold of evening ripened. The details of the landscape
blurred. She came upon a gnarled oak, the trunk of which had been blasted by
lightning, the same tree she passed a quarter of an hour ago.
    Sarah’s
heart sank. She was walking in circles. Weary, disheartened, she sat down at
the base of the trunk and tried to decide what to do next.
    Then,
she saw a man appear from the shadows, weapon in hand. As the indistinct figure
emerged from the forest into the half light of evening, Sarah froze.
    The
man was smaller and slighter in build than Kingston, with a tuft of black hair
standing erect at the crown of his head like the comb on a rooster. The ends of
his scalp lock were tipped with yellow ochre, and streaks of the same brilliant
paint had been drawn horizontally across his lower face.
    He
was a demon risen from the depths of Sarah’s worst nightmare. Only, this time,
there would be no waking from the terror, no escape. She caught her breath as
the warrior leveled his musket, whispered a prayer, and waited for death to
claim her.
     
    A
few hundred yards upstream from the campsite, Sauvage paused on the banks of
Cocalico Creek. The evening air was sultry, as soft as a woman’s caress against
his skin. He’d just finished his nightly rounds and what little Indian sign
he’d come across was days old, giving him little cause for concern.
    The
last of the light gave way to the violet dusk that in a moment or two would
blanket the land. Only a thin golden thread remained to separate the hills from
the endless purple sky.
    Another
night would soon be upon them, and with it would come yet another test of his
strength of will. A few hundred yards upstream, Sarah Marsters was waiting. Doubtless
by now she would have finished her nightly ablutions and would be trying to
comb out her shimmering brown tresses with her fingers.
    How
alluring she was, even in her dishevelment, so sensual and appealing—all soft
tangled curls, a shimmering gold in the firelight, and a faint rose blush
blooming high upon her cheeks.
    She
was alone, waiting for his return, and though he did not wish to be, he was anxious
for the sight of her... anxious for the night to come, with all of its
possibilities.
    Perhaps
tonight she would soften and come to him. His body throbbed at the thought, and
he had to fight the urge to turn away from his contemplation of the evening sky
and hurry back.
    Instead,
he forced himself to wait, to kneel and slake his thirst with the