Free Hair of the Wolf by Peter J. Wacks Page A

interrupted the tirade she was about to launch. “We aren’t at cross purposes. We are acting like dogs fighting over turf. We all want to survive, but that won’t happen if we waste our power coming to blows with each other.”
    The gods eyed each other warily, but settled down. Lilith spoke. “What of the Archangel? His first brush with the younger vampires who call themselves Dracula is supposed to happen. That sets the course for his collision with Kaine. Are we on track?”
    “To my knowledge, yes.” Loki thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Though I still don’t approve of the death you say is necessary. Wells is as close to a friend as I have.”
    Lilith traced a galaxy floating through a column with a delicate finger. “Are you saying I am stripping you of your allies? Your friends? Don’t blame it on me. If the sisters three would reveal the pattern to us, we could plot a course. But it’s all ‘wah wah destroy the web if a god knows the pattern.’”
    Clotho slammed her staff against the ground. Gathering her black skirts and shawls close, she narrowed her eyes. “You know even we cannot act in the mortal realm on what we know. To do so would shake the foundation of reality and potentially erase us from the web.”
    Lilith snorted. “Whatever. We are gods. The world is ours to play with.”
    “How forward thinking of you.” Loki scuffed a boot against the marble floor. “Enough of this. We came to assess the plan, yes? Let’s check in on the players.”
    He snapped his fingers and patterns swirled in the floor until a picture was revealed. New York appeared, and the gods watched.
    ***
    Skid
    Steam wisped up from the cup of espresso, dancing merrily in front of the blond man. Outside the small New York café, pedestrians flocked by in multitudes, a sea of salmon swimming upstream in both directions, hurrying to their spawning grounds.
    Watching the New Yorkers rushing to their destinations, he pushed a lock of hair away from the aviator glasses covering his eyes and smiled at the young man across the table. “True, it may take a while.” Time had never meant much to Wells, making the sentiment one of little concern.
    Skid, the younger of the two, ran his hand over his bald head, shaved to the skin, and raised an eyebrow. His British accent was starting to fade, a result of six years spent in the States. “I’d rather not wait years and years to suss them out, Wells.”
    “Tsk. Patience is a virtue. It is the only virtue. The soul you are bonded with should know that, and know it well.”
    Skid eyed the older man. He was well toned, in his early thirties, and had a strong jaw. His looks did not betray his age. “Yeah, yeah, old man. You try being trapped in a sixteen year old body. It was fun for the first few years, but try dealing with teen hormones for a decade. No fun.” Skid grumped about the last twelve years, since he had stopped aging.
    Wells threw back his head and laughed. “We each carry the burdens of our responsibilities. That is what sets us apart from those we are in conflict with. They choose a darker path, one in which they use others to avoid those burdens. We defend our kind. The dark immortals use humanity as food and labor. They are things to them, nothing more.”
    Skid cocked his head to one side, thinking. “This is so frustrating. I kind of get what you are saying, and Uriel definitely does, but I can’t get more than that feeling.” He sighed.
    “Patience, my young friend. Your mind is very young as of yet to start grasping the lessons the Angel has to teach.” He glanced at the sword propped on the side of the table. “Even your body has lessons to learn. Your mastery of the skills you will need is lacking.”
    The sword, invisible to most people, seemed to hum when it was mentioned and both of them glanced at it. Skid shrugged. “It led me to you, as you know. How long will it take to get me ready?”
    “How long will it take you to get ready?