“Is that true?” I asked.
Mr Crepsley shrugged. “Where legends are concerned, who knows?” He crouched in front of Streak and studied him silently. Streak sat up straight and ruffled his head to make his ears and mane erect. “A fine specimen,” Mr Crepsley said, stroking the wolf’s long snout. “A born leader.”
“I call him Streak, because he’s got a streak of black hair on his belly,” I said.
“Wolves have no need of names,” the vampire informed me. “They are not dogs.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Gavner said, stepping up beside his friend. “Let him give them names if he wants. It can’t do any harm.”
“I suppose not,” Mr Crepsley agreed. He held out a hand to the she-wolves and they stepped forward to lick his palm, including the shy one. “I always had a way with wolves,” he said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.
“How come they’re so friendly?” I asked. “I thought wolves shied away from people.”
“From humans,” Mr Crepsley said. “Vampires are different. Our scent is similar to their own. They recognize us as kindred spirits. Not all wolves are amiable – these must have had dealings with our kind before – but none would ever attack a vampire, not unless they were starving.”
“Did you see any more of them?” Gavner asked. I shook my head. “Then they’re probably journeying towards Vampire Mountain to join up with other packs.”
“Why would they be going to Vampire Mountain?” I asked.
“Wolves come whenever there’s a Council,” he explained. “They know from experience that there will be plenty of scraps for them to feed on. The guardians of Vampire Mountain spend years stocking up for Councils. There’s always food left over, which they dump outside for the creatures of the wild to dispose of.”
“It’s a long way to go for a few scraps,” I commented.
“They go for more than food,” Mr Crepsley said. “They gather for company, to salute old friends, find new mates and share memories.”
“Wolves can communicate?” I asked.
“They are able to transmit simple thoughts to one another. They do not actually talk – wolves have no words – but can share pictures and pass on maps of where they have been, letting others know where hunting is plentiful or scarce.”
“Talking of which, we’d better make ourselves scarce,” Gavner said. “The sun’s sinking and it’s time we got a move on. You chose a long, roundabout route to come by, Larten, and if we don’t pick up the pace, we’ll arrive late for Council.”
“There are other paths?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “There are dozens of ways. That’s why – except for the remains of the dead one – we haven’t run into other vampires – each comes by a different route.”
We rolled up our blankets and departed, Mr Crepsley and Gavner keeping a close eye on the trail, scouring it for signs of whoever had killed the vampire in the cave. The wolves followed us through the trees and ran beside us for a couple of hours, keeping clear of the Little People, before vanishing ahead of us into the night.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“To hunt,” Mr Crepsley replied.
“Will they come back?”
“It would not surprise me,” he said, and, come dawn, as we were making camp, the four wolves re-appeared like ghosts out of the snow and made their beds beside and on top of us. For the second day running, I slept soundly, disturbed only by the cold nose of the cub when he snuck in under the blanket during the middle of the day to cuddle up beside me.
WE PROCEEDED with caution for the first few nights after finding the blood-spattered cave. But when we encountered no further signs of the vampire killer, we put our concerns on hold and enjoyed the rough pleasures of the trail as best we could.
Running with wolves was fascinating. I learnt lots by watching them and asking questions of Mr Crepsley, who fancied himself something of a wolf expert.
Wolves aren’t fast, but they’re tireless, sometimes roaming forty or fifty kilometres a day. They usually pick on small animals when hunting, but occasionally go after larger victims, working as a team. Their senses – sight, hearing, smell – are strong. Each pack has a leader, and they share food equally. They’re great climbers, able to survive any sort of conditions.
We hunted with them often. It was exhilarating to race alongside them on bright star-speckled nights, over the gleaming snow – chasing a deer or fox and sharing the hot, bloody kill. Time passed quicker with the wolves around, and the kilometres slipped by almost unnoticed.
One cold, clear night, we came upon a thick briar patch which covered the floor of a valley sheltered between two towering mountains. The thorns were extra thick and sharp, capable of pricking the skin of even a full-vampire. We paused at the mouth of the valley while Mr Crepsley and Gavner decided how to proceed.
“We could climb the side of one of the mountains,” Mr Crepsley mused, “but Darren is not as strong a climber as us – he could be damaged if he slipped.”
“How about going around?” Gavner suggested.
“It would take too long.”
“Could we dig a way under?” I asked.
“Again,” Mr Crepsley said, “it would take too long. We will just have to pick our way through as carefully as we can.”
He removed his jumper and so did Gavner.
“What are you getting undressed for?” I asked.
“Our clothes would protect us a bit,” Gavner explained, “but we’d come out the other end in tattered rags. Best to keep them intact.”
When Gavner took off his trousers, we saw he was wearing a pair of yellow boxer shorts with pink elephants stitched into them. Mr Crepsley stared at the shorts incredulously. “They were a present,” Gavner mumbled, blushing furiously.
“From a human female you were romantically involved with, I presume,” Mr Crepsley said, the corners of his normally stern mouth twitching upwards, threatening to split into a rare unrestrained smile.
“She was a lovely woman,” Gavner sighed, tracing the outline of one of the elephants. “She just had very poor taste in underwear…”
“And in boyfriends,” I added impishly. Mr Crepsley burst into laughter at that and doubled over, tears streaming down his face. I’d never seen the vampire laugh so much – I’d never guessed he could! Even Gavner looked surprised.
It took Mr Crepsley a long time to recover from his laughing fit. When he’d wiped the tears away and was back to his normal sombre self, he apologized (as though laughing were a crime). He then rubbed some foul-smelling lotion into my skin, which sealed the pores, making it harder to cut. Without wasting any more time, we advanced. The going was slow and painful. No matter how careful I was, every few metres I’d step on a thorn or scratch myself. I protected my face as best I could, but by the time we were halfway into the valley, my cheeks were specked with shallow red rivulets.
The Little People hadn’t removed their blue robes, even though the cloth was being cut to ribbons. After a while, Mr Crepsley told them to walk in front, so they endured the worst of the thorns while beating a path for the rest of us. I almost felt sorry for the silent,