The Last Lycan

~~~~~~~~~~ This book is a stand-alone story and a prequel to Accepting My Twin Mates, but is designed to be read as part of The Rogue Beginnings Series. Spoilers will be discussed. ~~~~~~~~~~ Стая Огненной горы, Камчатка, Россия 31 год назад (Fire Mountain pack, Kamchatka, Russia 31 years ago) The keen amber eyes glinted under the late summer sun in honey hues and their pupils expanded, gauging me, determining whether I would be a hard fight or an easy prey. His shoulders bunched and his muscles rippled, undulating his black-striped orange pelt. His maw hung open, displaying the bottom row of thick pointed teeth that could pierce flesh and crush bone, and his tail whipped behind his thick body in interest. I hadn’t seen a tiger this close in all my life and never had one come so close to the pack village. My father was still on the deck of our fishing boat and this tiger would rake my skin to shreds before I could inhale to shout. I lowered the basket of fish in my hands, reaching for the bone-carved knife tucked into my waistband that I always kept handy while on the boat with my father. If this tiger thought I would go without a fight, he was sorely mistaken. My dedushka (grandfather), goddess rest his wolf, had brought one of these beasts down with his bare hands and I knew the same fight lay within me. As I stepped forward, the tiger flinched backwards. It was working! He was scared of me. I raised my knife and bared my teeth, like I had seen other lycans do. Only, I was years away from meeting my wolf spirit. The tiger tucked his tail between his legs and skittered backwards as I continued to stalk towards it. As I was about to rush it, an almighty roar behind made me leap out of my skin, my knife tumbling to the ground and tangling in the low grass. The tiger was off in a flash, his massive body bounding away in retreat, while my heart soared somewhere up in the blue sky. A wet tongue from my father’s lycan, Rurik, licked up my cheek, his huge black frame shaking with wolfish laughter. My face flushed bright red that I had thought I had actually intimidated a tiger, me, a skinny boy of fifteen that was all height and waiting on muscle to catch up. “That’s not funny, papa.” I blew a dangling lock of my long wavy dark blond hair out of my face and pushed my father’s towering wolf away. I fumbled to find my knife that I had dropped in the grass, to hide my crimson cheeks. By the time I had found it and sheathed it in its leather pouch, my father had shifted and was dressed in his trousers and pulling on his boots. He tucked his discarded shirt into the back of his waistband, still chuckling away to himself. “Is my little wolf still pouting?” his deep rumbling voice teased, slinging his arm around my neck to kiss my forehead. “You were positively ferocious. All that was missing was a tiny growl.” “Papa!” I struggled against his burly arm trying to get out of his hold. “Let me go!” “Never.” He laughed, grappling playfully with me. “You were eager to take on the tiger. An old fart like me should be no problem.” “Fine, I get it. It was stupid.” I finally pushed him off and cast my eyes low, my shame setting in. “Konstantin, my boy” – my father’s dark smokey blue eyes, the same as mine, sparkled with a mix of pride and strain – “if you try and take on a tiger again when you haven’t shifted and with nothing more than a pocket knife, I’ll string you up like one of our fish and hang you by your toes in the smokehouse.” He wrapped his arms tightly around me, squeezing me in a pincer. “You and your sister are my most precious gifts and I would much appreciate you making it to your sixteenth birthday in six moons’ time. Don’t you dare put yourself at risk like that again. If you have to run, you run and never look back. Promise me?” “I will.” I continued to inspect the dirt under my leather boots, sulking that I wasn’t as strong as the other lycans, yet. “But when I get my wolf, I won’t be running anywhere.” “You are your mother’s son to a fault.” He shook his head, rumbling with laughter as he strode away to pick up the heaviest of our catch, hoisting it up on his shoulder. “Don’t stand around, Konstantin, pick up your basket. We have fish to smoke and bands to fire and ink before sun’s end.” “...And maybe don’t tell your mother about the tiger,” he tagged on. I shook my head vigorously. Like I would even dare dream of it. She would dunk my head in the river that flowed past our home and scream my ear off. I hauled the basket, balancing it in front, and made quick steps to catch up with my father on the path into our village from where our boat docked on the shore. The fish would take the longest to prepare and descale before they were hung in the smokehouse, a task I hated because the scales went everywhere and were a pain to clear up after. Firing the pack bands would make up for all the infuriating fish scales I would have to clean up. The bands were the symbol of our pack and a tribute to our heritage. Every year, on the anniversary of a lycan male’s shift, he would receive a tattooed pack band, beginning at his wrist. They were a pattern of three arched interlocking lines: one representing the soul, one for the family and one for the pack, the three as one. A larger and more intricate design would take its place on the shoulder after twenty-five years of a man’s first shift, to represent the paths taken in his life. And as the pack’s tattooer, my father was responsible for inking each and every one etched onto the shifted males’ skin, an honour passed down from my dedushka and my pradedushka (great grandfather). My father had thirty-eight in total, after shifting at the age of twenty-two, along the right side of his body, as he had to do his own and used his left hand to draw them. As I had grown, he had let me practise the last five of his bands because one day, I would take over his role. With his torso bare, I could see the first one I had attempted, low on his left wrist. The edges were a little messy, but the three lines were the right shape and were distinct. He had purposely started a new row of bands on his left arm to proudly display my attempts. After I had etched my first, he would constantly mention and show it off to anyone who would listen. The two of us were similar in height. I had a few more grains to grow, as my mother would say, before I matched my father. It was his broad build that dwarfed me and made me feel like a pebble compared to a mountain. Where my hair was a wavy dark blond, his was black and thick with long curls, undercut underneath and flecked with grey. He had it collected and tied up with the woven sash my mother had gifted him. His long black beard, streaked with grey at his chin, was usually braided, but it had fallen out in his shift. To look at him, he appeared intimidating and menacing, but a more gentle and kind man couldn’t exist. The village came into view over the ridge, the quiet sounds accompanying it along the breeze. Our pack was diminishing in size little by little every year. Fewer and fewer pups were born, fewer lycans found a fated mate – settling for a chosen – and our population was ageing beyond what the young could replenish. My parents were a rarity, a fated pair among three other couples of the pack. Some of the pairings of the pack had children, others didn’t, and fewer boasted siblings, making my sister and me another rarity of the pack. With the death of three elders these past moons, our pack had dropped into double figures for the first time. Their bodies had been burnt by our traditions, wrapped in linens and placed over coals lit by fire from the volcano nearest our pack, one of many near our home. The flame didn’t come from the volcano directly, it came from a lamp and was fed to be kept alive by our Alpha. While ever the flame of the mountain lived, so would our home. “The mountain is burning brighter today, Konstantin.” My father nodded towards Kronotsky volcano in the distance, jostling the basket on his shoulder as we peaked the steepest part of the ridge. As he did so, a ceramic jar rolled over the wickerwork lip, dislodged by his movements. With a free hand, I snatched it from the air before it could break on the rocky worn path. Within it contained the salt water needed to clean a freshly banded tattoo and make the paste of the ink. “Good catch, son. Why don’t you hold onto it?” I dropped it on top of the fresh fish in my basket and started on the path ahead of my father. A gentle quake rumbled underfoot. They had been occurring every so often recently. The steam pockets that were rising from the volcano and the glow my father had pointed out indicated it would erupt soon. We were too far away to be affected or in danger of it, but it was always fun to watch the lava spill and billow. A couple of brown bears were spooked by our approach, grunting their bawls as they ran away. They would sometimes venture into our village in the night, but the strong scents of lycan deterred them from wandering too deep. Perched on its rock that brushed the path, a sea eagle that had grown wise to our route and spoils waited. As soon as it spotted us, its body hunkered down and its wings spread, softly screeching to receive a gift. My father reached up into his basket and slung a fish high in the air for the bird to swoop and catch. Its massive talons wrapped around the fish and it was off, flapping its wings to gain height before levelling out in a glide. At our village's heart lay the markets, simple stalls where growers and producers would display their goods for the pack to take home at their leisure or barter to trade. Around the central fire crucible, unlit because of the seasonal warmth, an elder lycan she-wolf sat with her small shadow puppet display. She was busy entertaining a small group of young pups with the old folklore of our origins past the Uralskie Gory (Ural Mountains) to the far west. I had listened to and watched the same stories as a child. They would begin with strange wolves that ran on all fours, like the wild ones that didn’t shift. A single wolf, alone and rogue, was chased by those gathered in a group over the paper mountains that represented Uralskie Gory. Many of the rogues gathered and settled under the glowing mountain, Kronotsky, and the elder sprinkled grey confetti to depict the ash settling. The puppets changed to wolves that began to walk on two legs, like the lycans we were, and the males’ fur was marked in lines as they protected their families. This was why all lycan males tattooed their skin in our pack bands to represent the protection of our families and pack. The stories were best when told in the dark, so that the candle-lit backdrop illuminated the colours of the shadow puppets. The elder regaling the folklore was one of the last wolves in the village that knew the old tongue of our ancestors from beyond the western mountains. Like many, I had always thought the idea of wolf shifters who looked like us and walked on four legs sounded absurd and the stuff of nonsense, but our Alpha swore he had seen them. He had found one of these wolves eager to help us, who boasted a large and dedicated pack that could assist ours. Passing by the tiny gathering of pups listening to their story, and hoisting my basket beginning to slip in my hands, my father and I neared the stalls, the passers-by greeting us. A few collected fresh fish directly from us to take home for their meal, offering an exchange, but the only items we required were from the herb farmer. Fewer fish in my basket meant fewer fish for me to descale later, so I was more than happy to hand them out and lighten my load. “Rodion!” the herbal grower at her stall greeted my father. “More pine bark?” “Please.” He slung down his basket from his shoulder, spilling the top layer of fish. It was fortunate I had held on to the jar of salt water, otherwise, it would have smashed open. “Any bazal’t (basalt)?” the grower asked, knowing exactly what my father needed from her assortment. “Not today. I have plenty stocked up, but I will take some meadowsweet, dried if you have it.” The pine bark was burnt and ground in a pestle and mortar with the bazal’t and mixed into a paste with boiled seawater. This created the ink for the tattoo bands. If my father needed fresh meadowsweet, it meant the lycan male coming to be tattooed was a first-timer. Meadowsweet was used for pain relief for those receiving their first-ever band to make it as easy as possible to endure. The needle delivering the ink needed to puncture the skin deep so that the bands showed on the fur of their lycan wolf. “And how's Duscha and Galina?” the herbalist asked about my mother and sister, chipping up the pine bark and funnelling it into a drawstring pouch, preparing a second for the meadowsweet. “And is young Konstantin here behaving himself?” “My mate and daughter are as well as ever. As for my boy here,” my father slapped his heavy arm around my shoulder, giving me a teasing smile. “He likes to keep me on my toes, but he behaves, most of the time.” I tried to fight a tiger one time and I would never live it down. “Anything else?” The grower handed over the pouches to my father, exchanging them for some fish. My father caught my line of sight. “Some honeyberries and lingonberries, I think.” He threw me a pouch once it was filled, knowing they were my favourite. As we left the stall, I spotted a glass bottle which brought back memories of flying and dying, all at once; puchka wine, a hallucinogenic drink made from a poisonous plant. It was the best feeling in the world to drink, but the following morning, my friend and I, who had snuck a bottle, felt like death under a furnace. Suffice to say, we never touched it ever again. Thank goddess, my father didn’t catch us. I would have been blamed for giving him more grey hairs. Leaving the market and heading home, my basket was empty and instead of splitting his haul, my father hoisted his basket back up onto his shoulder to leave me with my hands free. I knocked back a hand full of the berries, the gentle sounds of the market fading behind us. Just as I was about to take another, my father elbowed me in the side with his free arm. “Hey. Share, little wolf.” I rolled my eyes and split the remaining berries between the two of us, shaking out half into his awaiting hand. “You can’t keep calling me ‘little wolf’, papa. I’m almost as tall as you.” I was nowhere near as built, but once I got my wolf, I’d catch him up in no time. “You’ll always be my little wolf.” He playfully tweaked my nose. I batted his hand away and rubbed at the pinch across the tip. “No matter how tall you get or how much of that fuzz you try to grow on your chin.” “Hey!” I ran my fingers over the smattering of facial hair growing. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Our homestead sat on the outskirts of the village, nearer the river that flowed to the sea. It consisted of a small cottage built of stone and thatch, a smokehouse and an outbuilding serving as my father’s inking den for etching his tattoos. The scents of home tingled and chased away the salty air behind me, the aromas of spice and fire mingling and welcoming me home each time I left. A black-haired figure was busy with a shovel in the smokehouse furnace, tossing out the old ash, ready for the new. She cupped her hand over her eyes, hearing our feet crunch under the gravel, and waved over. My older sister of twenty-one, Galina. She shared mine and our father’s eyes, the same smokey-midnight shades that couldn't decide which they wanted to be, blue or grey. By rule of thumb, our mother said grey tones blazed when we were angry and our blue tones shimmered when we were happy. Galina’s hair was as black as our father’s, but pin-straight like our mother’s dark blonde hair, where I got my colouring from. We ambled along the path, up to the smokehouse and lean-to where we would prepare the fish for curing. “You made papa do all the heavy lifting, twig?” My sister reached up to pinch my cheeks with both hands, knowing how much it annoyed me. I jerked out of her reach and, grabbing the saltwater jar out first, bopped her on the head with my empty basket. “Ew! Konstantin!” she shrieked, shaking her head. “It’s covered in fish juice!” “Serves you right.” “Enough you two.” Our father dropped his haul on the prepping table and threw me a couple of the pouches he had picked up. “Kon, head into the inking den and set up the ink ready so it’s cooled in time and light the burners.” The inking den faced inland, in the direction of the volcano, a short ways from our house. This protected the large glass windows from the storm winds that would roll in winter. I opened up the doors and removed the window shutters, flooding the round room with light. By the curved walls of the hut, vanilla grass grew wild, as it did over all our homestead. The scent was a pleasant sweet warmth that I found myself quite attached to. There was plenty of it dried in bunches inside, so I didn't need to pick more to replenish stocks. First things first in the den, I set the largest crucible up on the stone floor and struck the flame within to burn the pine to black coals. Next was the smaller ceramic burner for the vanilla grass on the crescent table that fit against the round wall. I lit a small candle under the pottery bowl and placed some finely diced dried vanilla grass above. The heat from beneath would slowly burn the plant and release its scent. As I was selecting the pieces of bazal’t, my mother’s figure glided through the door carrying a metallic kettle steaming away. “I figured you’d need this for the brew.” She set the kettle on a wooden mat, along with a large ceramic cup. “Have you been eating berries?” She turned my chin and wet her thumb on her tongue to wipe at some juice that must have dribbled down it. “Mama! Stop it,” I garbled through my smooshed mouth, from my mother pinching my face together. Goddess, I hated being the pup of the family. “Is my treasure trying to grow a beard?” Her honey-brown eyes gleamed, her thumb now tracing over the fine stubble around my jaw. “Mother!” “Alright, alright.” She laughed, finally letting me go. “Here’s a little fresh herb bread to keep your strength up, treasure.” She pushed the warm bread into my hands and breezed out through the door, her long blonde hair flowing behind her and braided with the yellow stonecrop flowers my father had picked for her in the morning. I chewed on my bread as I worked on making the ink. My mother was a feeder and would always be one. Whenever someone came calling, regardless of whether they were hungry or not, they were fed and often were so full by the end, they needed to roll away. The sweet fragrance from the smouldering vanilla grass filled the open room. The bazal’t was fully powdered in the pestle and mortar with the burnt pine bark. The meadowsweet was steeping in the hot water. The only thing left now was the seawater beginning to boil in the crucible. I added enough to make a thin black paste with the powder in the mortar, leaving the rest as sterilised water to clean up after, and laid out clean linens to wash with. In the carved wooden cabinet, safely kept out of the way, was where my father kept his assortment of needles, handles and hammers and thin paintbrushes for marking out the lines. I removed a few and left them on the side for my father to choose which would be best depending on where the man would be getting tattooed. The handles and hammers varied in size and thickness but followed the same basic shapes. The handles were straight, broadening at the top, and the needle was inserted on the side, angled to be pierced into flesh. The hammers were much the same shape, but thicker on the end with a flat surface to strike against the handle. They were carved from either bone, wood or antler, all hand carved and some had been passed down several generations of our family, made by our hand. Returning to my family who were busy prepping the fish for smoking, I weaved my way through the small flock of eagles that had gathered to pilfer the cut-offs of fish. None were scared of us and accustomed to being fed when we were spotted around the lean-to to the smokehouse. A couple were alike to the one that waited by the shore, slate grey with white patches, a few were a darker brown and white tail, and a few of the smaller ones were a deep golden brown. All squabbled over each other to grab the scraps being thrown out; nothing here was ever wasted. As I lifted the last rack of fish, hung, salted and ready to be housed, a voice called to my father. I looked over my shoulder as the heavy rack balanced in my hands, almost losing my equilibrium as the fish swung. An older lycan male with greying deep brown hair, and a younger version of himself tagging behind, was greeting my father, clasping their hands around each other's forearms: a common way many of us greeted each other as a sign of respect. I recognised the two of them; Ilya, who tended the pack’s sheep flock and headed the hunts, and his son, Natan. “Twig, are you putting the fish in or what?” Galina called from the back of the smokehouse, ready to lift the sliding hatch door of the furnace and let smoke and heat fill the smoker. “Quit dawdling and move.” “I am, shut up,” I huffed, sliding the rack into position. Once it was slotted, I snapped the door close and double-bolted the door. A simple latch was too easy for the bears to undo. My sister followed my mother back into the house, carrying the rested smoked fish that had been removed before the fresh had been placed, to wrap and take to market tomorrow. I scrubbed my hands clean with the last of the soap by the river and hurried after my father to the inking den, ready to fire some bands, providing he let me. Inside, the younger lycan Natan, sat on the padded chair with a long armrest, sipping the meadowsweet tea with his sleeve rolled up ready. My father was notching a fine needle into a smaller handle, one used for the smaller lines around the wrists. “Ah, Kon. We have a double today. Your needle is there on the table ready.” He nodded his head over to the carved bleached reindeer antler resting on the wooden surface. It was one my pradedushka had made 110 years ago. “I’ll be doing Natan’s first band. You’ll be inking Ilya’s shoulder, it’s your early birthday treat.” “Wha?” My jaw hung open, that I would be given one of the most important bands, that one marked every twenty-five years after a first shift. “It’s ok pup.” Ilya slapped me heartily on the back, sending my shoulder slinging forward from his meaty hand. “I trust you to do it.” He perched on the edge of a stool he pulled out from under the table and removed his shirt. His entire right and left sides were etched, one shoulder banded and the other empty waiting for me to fill it in, making it his fiftieth band. My father gave me a warm and encouraging smile, turning to his own task at hand. “Now, Natan, deep breath. Because even with the tea, this is going to hurt like a bitch.” He patted the young lycan’s arm and lined up his needle on the charcoal line, taking the first strike. Natan rumbled a growl of pain, pursing his lips together to grin and bear it. His claws extended and gripped hard onto the armrest his arm was spread out on. “The first is always the worst and the swiftest.” My father positioned for his next strike. “Keep still and I’ll be done quickly.” The only time he stopped was to refill his needle, flying through the lines and filling in the gaps. I had barely started Ilya’s shoulder when my father was wiping Natan’s wrist and washing away the excess ink and blood. The few wounds left behind were already knitting back together, his advanced healing of his wolf sealing the surface anew. It would be five or six years, maybe seven or eight, before my wolf would show himself and another year on top of that before I would be sitting in my father's chair, my arm out in front of him to etch my first tattoo. “Did you hear about our Alpha’s return?” Ilya suddenly spoke and I suspected he was trying to distract my nervous hands. “Yes, he’s wanting to bring that electricity malarkey here,” my father grumbled, wiping his hands on a piece of linen. “I’m still not sure if I agree with what he’s trying to do.” “The idea of outsiders worries me too, Rodion,” Ilya sighed, his muscle clenched as I began to ink over the bone of his shoulder. “But if he doesn't do something, our pack is at its end.” “Our Alpha said he found that one wolf with a pack happy to help us, right?” I jutted in, optimistically. “Who knows what he can do for us?” ~~~~~ Note for new readers: The characters of this pack only speak Russian and have had little contact with the outside world. They are a pack of lycan wolves that stand on two legs and would have never seen an ordinary werewolf that walk on all fours. Please be aware, if you are a new reader, I write many of my supernatural species differently. ~~~~~ If you'd like to read my other work in the series, please see the list below: Book 1 - The Rogue Alpha's Return Book 2 - The Wanted Alpha Book 3 - His Mute Luna Book 4 - Accepting My Twin Mates Book 5 - The Luna’s Escape, coming soon Side story - The Alpha’s Fight (free) Side story - The Rogue Anthology (free)