Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

11. Sibling Rivalry

In Montana Volya had the run of Lydia's property. To avoid embarrassment when returning from his night excursions, he wore XL sweatpants. They flopped around his ankles and had to be held at the waist when he was in his human form. On his werewolf, they fit as snugly as his high-performance speedos fit Michael Phelps.

He made a quick prayer of gratitude for inventing this little trick when he entered the Circle. Dozens of gazes fastened to his body, inspecting purple splotches of fresh bruises. He didn't remember how he'd gotten half of them, but it was his ego that took the worst beating. A gigantic she-wolf sitting on your caving-in chest, dripping saliva all over your neck, with her long jagged teeth nearly snapping your nose off would knock down any guy's self-esteem.

Flagging self-esteem notwithstanding, Volya had stepped into the Circle.

Or, more precisely, he had stepped into the outer circle, for a smaller arena was now marked out in the middle with smooth river rocks.

It was the same size as Nadezhda had drawn for him: thirty paces across. Big enough to roll away from the opponent's lunge, but not big enough to stay completely out of reach. Nadezhda's voice echoed in his head, the circle is infinite, yet the boundary is set to test the mastery of self. He wasn't sure what it meant.

Stones and oak trees weren't the only boundary markers. Solemn Crones took place in front of their favorite trees. A wise precaution, probably, because in a werewolf form, in a frenzy, charging past the dotted line would be too easy.

To step out of the circle was to admit defeat. It was a way out... for a loser.

With a sigh, Volya glanced at the largest of the three circles, the circle of eyes. Not much comfort there, mostly glares as before. Though some women, the kind who giggled no matter how hard or serious things were, squinted in merriment. This was probably thanks to his giant pants and the anticipation of them comically dropping down if his attention lapsed.

He looked for Nadezhda. Once he found her, he almost giggled himself, because she shimmied up an oak tree, stretching along a mighty branch. After the duel was over, he was going to elbow her in the ribs and ask her if she was sure she wasn't a were-squirrel.

His other sister, Kramola, already waited for him in the middle of the fighting circle. She didn't pace, just stood there, straight as an arrow, arms bent at the elbows, clawed hands flexing into fists and relaxing again. It brought to his mind how Liam warmed up his fingers by the keyboard, but he couldn't afford a pang of longing.

Kramola's werewolf is about the same size as yours, Nadezhda had instructed him.

She looked bigger, though. Then again, the only reference Volya had for his own size was the lintels he bumped his head against and the claw marks on the wall. Liam refused to fix them under the pretext that it looked epic. Again, he shouldn't be thinking about Liam.

He was fine with Kramola being larger than him. He even expected it subconsciously. She was older after all, and a Huntress.

What he didn't expect was the snow-white fur on her legs and belly, with a russet streak starting at her muzzle, running up her forehead, down to her shaggy shoulders, ending somewhere on her spine.

"That would hide blood," he muttered, and took a step over the symbolic barrier. "That's good."

His werewolf emerged in spasms.

He could do better than that, but not under scrutiny. Damn it, he had bigger things to worry about than the opinions of his multiple aunties.

The main thing, his werewolf had emerged.

The family resemblance between Kramola and him had disappeared.

His fur was charcoal-gray, with a smoky tint along his cheeks and his neck. Volya shuddered as it hit him that his thick mane's function was to protect him against tearing claws, rather than for a werewolf beauty pageant. Involuntarily, he glanced down at his hands and wished that the fur was twice as thick.