Free The Winter Wolf by D. J. McIntosh

PENGUIN
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    Published in 2013 as a digital edition only
    Copyright © D.J. McIntosh, 2007
    â€œ The Winter Wolf” was first published under the title “The Hounds of Winter” in the anthology Blood on the Holly , edited by Caro Soles, Baskerville Books, Toronto, 2007.
    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
    Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either
    are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
    ISBN: 978-0-14-319001-1
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L ilacs border my front walk, the bushes so aged they’ve reached the size of small trees. I scrape a hole in the window frost with my fingernail and see they’re hunched over like old men, coated with ice. Our street, lined with majestic maples, is a cool forest of shade in summer and a long flash of colour in the fall. Now, with each trunk, limb, and branch enveloped in ice, the trees seem to be made of glass. Beautiful but treacherous. Buffeted by gusts of wind, their coatings of ice crack like rifle shots.
    The power has failed and the storm’s icy fingers have stolen through loose window frames and under doors, snaking around the wires and pipes that finally burst last night. No serviceman will come to my rescue. My only choice is to make the trek over to Grandmother’s on Rue Dorien. There’ll be a cheery fire burning in the grate when I get there and lights instead of the few smoky candles I’ve had to use here. Walking to her house in the wake of the storm will be difficult, cold and lonely—but I have no choice. I can’t stay here. Even under the best conditions, I’m afraid to venture out alone after dark. Keep to the safe streets . A woman can never be too careful , Grandmother often reminds me.
    Her words seem to echo off the narrow walls of the hall as I put on my red parka with its snug hood and pack leftover Christmas cake and a bottle of her favourite sherry in my little hamper. I step out onto ice-glazed pavement, slippery underfoot, and a coldwind snatches the breath from my lips. I put my head down and concentrate on my treacherous path, taking some comfort in the knowledge that soon, Grandmother will fold me into flannel sheets and goose down pillows. A cup of hot apple cider and this hardship will fade away like a bad dream.
    The storm fights me every step of the way. A huge willow moans when it splits down the centre, telephone poles teeter