Hair of the Dog, Gordon Carroll [top 100 novels of all time TXT] 📗

Max would have driven him out or killed him. But he felt a change in himself that he couldn’t account for or understand. A change that had somehow been brought about by the Alpha. Max didn’t know how, but he sensed, on some primal level, that just being around the Alpha and constantly interacting with his actions had changed his attitude and thought process. So that now, he had no desire to drive away the old dog or harm him in any way. And instead of becoming irritated at the silly old dog’s antics and swiftly advancing limitations, Max felt a sense of comfort with him near; a presence of friendship and camaraderie that stirred forgotten feelings. Feelings of playing with his siblings when he was just a pup, before the coming of the Great Gray Wolf.

As he approached the house on top of the small mountain, he saw Pilgrim outside, relieving himself on a bush. Max stopped and sensed his environment. The moon was bright overhead and a small breeze blew from behind him toward the bigger dog. Pilgrim gave no sign that he even knew Max stood behind him.

Max let the night fully into his senses. He smelled the plants, the two rabbits thirty yards to the north, the exhaust from the cars below. He heard the voices of humans, hundreds of yards away behind their walls, and the velocity of the wind as it touched the tops of trees. He felt the pull of gravity as the Moon spun in perfect synchronicity with the Earth in its incredible orbit around the Sun, and the vibration of a mosquito’s wings as it buzzed nearby. All this and a thousand things more that Pilgrim was now oblivious to. Max felt a type of pity for the old dog and this, too, was new for him — pity.

A vagary of wind brought the scent of a mountain lion wafting by. Max stayed loose, letting his nostrils take in what they could. The cat roamed far away; probably no danger. Max stayed guard anyway. Pilgrim didn’t even know Max stood less than fifty feet away and would have no warning or defense if the lion suddenly appeared. So he stood watch and stayed in his place, even after Pilgrim waddled his way back through the pet door into the kitchen. He held his ground, motionless, until Pilgrim flopped down on his bed and begin to snore. Then Max silently padded his own way into the house. The scent of the Alpha hit him instantly. He smelled fear emanating from him. Fear and adrenalin and rage. Max moved like thunder-less lightning. He pushed open the bedroom door, knowing already the Alpha was alone in the room. He heard the rustle of the covers and smelled the sweat.

Max leapt lightly onto the bed, barely shaking its frame. He watched the Alpha, seeing his distress. But there was nothing Max could do for him. No enemy to destroy. On a primal level, Max understood that the Alpha was facing his own Great Gray Wolf. And that kind of foe could only be faced alone.

So he lay down next to him and, just as he had with Pilgrim, kept watch over him for the rest of the night.

16

The Sun sent spears of bright light in thin shafts through the tattered old curtains, cutting diagonally across Jerome’s eyes. He looked over at the clock on the night stand and saw that it was just after seven, which meant he’d gotten about four hours sleep. Not enough, but it would have to do. Keisha still slept and she hadn’t awoken once, not even to use the bathroom, which was unusual for her. He thought about slipping out to get her some breakfast, but decided against it, choosing instead to stop somewhere on the road. Less chance of someone getting a trace on them.

Sitting up, his body felt like one great bruise. His nose, still fat and swollen with blood caked around the nostrils, matched the aching, stitched swell of flesh over his eye. And his chest and leg, where the white man had stabbed him with that stupid stubby knife, hurt like crazy. The man could fight. Jerome had gone against some tough opponents, but the white man had been somehow different. If he ever ran into him again, he would shoot fast and not stop till he ran out of bullets.

Only Jerome’s iron willpower allowed him the strength to ignore his body’s demand to lay back down and get more sleep and instead, drag his feet over the edge of the bed and stand up. The room spun for a few seconds and his head felt like a mushy tomato. In the bathroom mirror, he saw his face pretty much looked like a mushy tomato. He ran water cold and cupped it in his swollen, stiff fingers before splashing his face and head, letting the water drip and pour with its refreshing power. He scrubbed around his nose and sucked in a few mouthfuls, letting the water dribble past his lips until it went from pink to clear. When he looked back in the mirror, he appeared a little less pulped. Toweling off, he walked back into the outer room just as the doorframe splintered in. The first man through pointed a shotgun at Jerome’s chest, a look of surprise on his face at finding him actually standing there. The instant of hesitation was all Jerome needed. He slipped the towel from his neck in one graceful movement and snapped it like a bull-whip, striking the Blood in the right eyeball full force, the crack registering the near breaking-of-the-sound-barrier speed. The man screamed, the gun jerking to the side. Jerome grabbed it by the barrel and expertly flipped it up and around as the second and third man filled the doorway. The twenty-aught buck took them full in their faces and throats. High velocity blood misted the air as both bodies dropped in place. The