Grey Stone Read online

  To my mother, who was sometimes more canine than human.

  To Mark, who helped me remember the joy of spending time in magical places.

  And to my three sister cats, Elizabeth, Savannah, and Emma, who keep me young.

  —JKP

  To my lovely wife, Cara, who had a dream that an elementary school teacher was a werewolf.

  —JK

  Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Pronunciation Guide

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Grey Stone

  by Jean Knight Pace and Jacob Kennedy

  Copyright © 2016 Jean Knight Pace and Jacob Kennedy

  All Rights Reserved

  Book cover designed by Deranged Doctor Design

  Map by L. Jason Queen

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  Printed in the U.S.A, 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-7332550-1-1

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  www.jeanknightpace.com

  Prologue

  The young witch, Zinnegael, set down her mid-morning mug of chamomile and stood abruptly. She felt the thundering of their paws as though they ran through her veins. She felt them stop. All except one. This animal walked toward the chosen.

  The tea leaves drifted in the cup, steam rising, igniting the girl-witch’s nerves. Her mother’s chamomile never lied. Now the group formed a small triangle: boy, halfling, and leader of the pack. Of course they still needed the verlorn, but the race of dogs would not be able to help her with that.

  The girl-witch crushed another handful of herb into her mug and watched. The dogs, she knew, would need to be reminded. For that she would send one of the riddle keepers. The boy would hear it first; he was the one with ears that listened. And she trusted that the leader of the pack would then know what to do.

  Two of her most beloved animals stood at her side—one dark as moonless night, one streaked like rays of sun. Both were as big as mountain rams with coats soft as petals and claws much sharper than rosebush thorns.

  “Go to them,” she said to the sun-streaked one. The witch did not look up, but her words were kind. “Do not let yourself be seen. Not yet.”

  Had Zinnegael not been so accustomed to the silence of the enormous animals, she would not have known Savah had left at all. But she was used to quiet, and to listening with a deepness most girls her age didn’t know could exist.

  Quietly she stirred her tea. And watched.

  The pup bowed.

  The great dog paced.

  One of many unknown things would become clear to them. The poor pup would understand it last of all and feel it most keenly.

  Zinnegael may have been a sorceress and a prophetess and a master of potions, but she—barely fifteen and an orphan of sorts as well—felt her insides tremble with the young dog until finally the boy came to him and rested his hand against the pup’s soft ears. “Well then, that’s more like it,” she said. “And Savah—swift and soft as wind—should be there shortly to help.” With that, the young witch gave a final swirl to her prophetic tea, and drank it up.

  Chapter 1

  Pietre watched the red sun as it hunched over the horizon like a fiery bear about to relax into sleep; he quickened his steps. The moment the great sun set completely, the wolves of the Blødguard would be released to hunt any humans remaining in the woods.

  Pietre’s mother had sent him to gather mushrooms for sunset meal and had warned him not to dawdle. He had found no mushrooms, but had caught two fat fish. He planned to make a present of them to his parents. One fish could be fried that evening by his mother while the other slowly cured in his father’s new drying machine—a strange rounded contraption made of the metal his father had mined during the day.

  The fish, however, had caused him to be late, and now the moon sat high and broad across from the setting sun. His mother would be worried. Pietre moved swiftly through the woods that grew just outside his village. Even in the increasing darkness, he knew the lay of the creeks and ditches, the hunting grounds off limits to humans, and the coves where deer, rabbits, and squirrels sometimes hid from the weekly hunts of the wolves and their shapeshifting masters, the Veranderen.

  Pietre jogged past one of the coves when he noticed a thick patch of serilla mushrooms. He got on his knees to quickly gather them and, when he did, he heard the faint sound of an animal whimpering. He paused to listen and could hear that it wasn’t just one voice, but many. He crept toward the sound, into the shadow of a rock, and there on a bed of moss was a litter of pups.

  Pietre caught his breath. Seeing a dog was rare enough; a whole litter of young ones was almost unheard of.

  The pups pushed and pawed at each other, hungrily sucking their mother’s milk. The she-dog, in contrast, lay perfectly still and even in the deepening shadows, Pietre could see a long gash along her snout. Beads of blood had dried into her light gray fur and she breathed heavily.

  Pietre began to crawl backwards to the mushrooms when her soft voice came to him, the tones as gentle as those his own mother used. “Boy, the good God of the White Sun did not give dog and man the power to speak to one another so you could crawl away like a thief.”

  “I’m sorry, she-hound,” he mumbled, trying to sound older than his thirteen years. “I did not wish to disturb.”

  “I know, boy, and you must not linger, as the sun descends quickly. But I can smell the fish in your pouch and I have not been able to hunt for days. You hear for yourself how the pups cry in hunger as my milk grows thin.”

  Pietre paused only for a moment before nervously approaching the she-hound and tossing her his largest fish. It was true that his father would have loved to try one in his drying machine, but Pietre knew that more than that his father would be disappointed if he had left a dog—much less a whole litter of them—to suffer. Pietre watched the she-houn
d devour the fish. He had never been so close to a dog before. Her fur was sleek, her eyes dark and soft with wispy black lashes that closed out thousands of questions. At her stomach, pushing and fighting for position, Pietre counted eight pups—little lumps of brown, white, and black. He could not take his eyes off the squirming, furry bodies. He had an intense urge to reach out and hold one, but wasn’t stupid enough to grab at a dog pup uninvited.

  “I’ll return tomorrow with more,” Pietre promised the she-hound, patting his pouch. As if in thanks, the smallest dog rolled over, let out a tiny yeep, and nudged Pietre’s toe with the soft cool tip of a pink-black nose. Pietre touched one finger to the velvet muzzle and then made haste to return to his hut before dusk had fully settled.

  He could hear the Blødguard assembling—the screeching howls of hunger. As the lowest class of wolves, they were kept from food for days so that when released they would be motivated to hunt without mercy. The sun was just a slice of red now against a pale purple sky and one of the wolves wandered close to the gates, waiting, his breath blowing hot into the winter air.

  Pietre picked up a large rock and threw it as far as he could away from the entrance. The animal turned and when he did, Pietre ran. His head told him there was no reason for this, that the sun still shone and the law would protect him, but the tightness in his throat urged him to keep moving. He did not stop until he could see his house. Then he slowed, breathing deeply to calm himself. As he did, he imagined the tiny pup soft against his finger and wondered briefly where the she-dog’s mate had gone. Usually, the father of the pups fed the females as they nursed. Pietre thought of the gash on her snout and wondered no more. Wondering did little good to young human boys, and as the world around him darkened and braced for night, he could hear the Blødguard keening anxiously as they stood at the forest edge, eager to be released to hunt for human renegades, runaways, or the unlucky straggler.

  Chapter 2

  The wolf general Grender walked slowly down the corridor, stopping at the great iron door of his master only for a moment before pushing it open.

  “Come,” commanded Crespin—king over all—the shapeshifting Veranderen, their wolf allies, the free-ranging dogs, and the human serfs. The king stood in wolken form, wolfish and fierce, as he always did. Most other shapeshifters found the flesh form easier to maintain and maneuver on a day-to-day basis—smaller, simpler, softer. But his majesty was unconcerned with small, simple, soft things, and he had not been seen in his flesh form for at least 900 years. Though he stood on two feet, he could run on four when necessary. His hair was dark, almost black, and covered his body and face. His eyes were a deep russet that seemed to glow like the bauble at the tip of his staff. Many of the olders said that those eyes held even more magic than the staff—magic pulled from his foes when he rose to power nearly a millennium ago. He wore a long red robe with exquisitely worked golden thread woven throughout and an amulet of garnet around his neck. His voice, though always clear, was unusually soft—so soft that his servants had to strain to hear his important words. He was twice the size of the wolf Grender, with a hard, muscular body that stretched into slender, strong paws—the nails polished like spearheads. The king stood flanked by his sons, Wittendon and Kaxon—the one tall and pale, the other broad and dark.

  “You have been busy again General,” the king stated, still not looking at the wolf.

  “My liege?” Grender asked, tucking his front legs beneath him in a low bow.

  “Please,” King Crespin growled, dismissing his sons as though they were flies, and with a flit of magic closing the large doors behind them. “My spies have picked up an unwelcome scent in the western wood—pups they suspect to be half-dog and half-wolf.”

  Grender stiffened and looked directly at his king, but said nothing.

  “You have, it seems, a penchant for the females not of your kind. This I do not understand. The dogs may be soft of coat and weak of mind, but I need you to understand that half-breeds can have no place in this land.” The king turned from his subject and walked the length of the granite floor. “This has always been so, but whispers of a new rebellion grow louder. These rebels who call themselves the Septugant speak of a seventh era and a return to bygone times—times when men and wolves walked side by side. Times they do not understand. Such talk must be controlled, quelled if need be. Half-bloods of any sort will only escalate it.” His sharp nails clicked with each step, the tip of his staff crackled with heat, and his fur glowed with pulses of angry magic—tiny charges of energy seeking a place with which to connect.

  Grender did not move.

  “See that those younglings become what all such abominations must. And see that you create no more.” The king stopped, looking down at Grender. “Otherwise you shall be relieved of your position as head of the Königsvaren and the mighty Wolrijk—he who now leads the night hunts of the Blødguard—shall stand in your place.”

  Grender repressed a snarl at the sound of the Night Hunter’s name. “Yes, my lord,” he said, and bounded from the castle into the night—howling for his wolf brothers to join him in the hunt.

  Pietre lay in bed listening to the howling of the wolves. It was not an unusual sound, but it was one he never got used to. The howls of the Blødguard were not as terrifying as those of the Veranderen—their wolf-shifting masters, but they were much more frequent, carrying into the villages night after night. Occasionally, if a human had not returned before sunset, Pietre heard the human cries as well. That was the most horrible sound of all. For as long as Pietre could remember, his mother had tucked his blankets firmly around his ears to drown out the sounds. Or try to.

  But tonight the howls were particularly fierce and oddly close. The snarling of the Blødguard was mixed with the smooth well-trained howls and whispers of the Königsvaren—the king’s wolf guard. The Königsvaren did not hunt for stragglers and castaways as did the Blødguard; the Königsvaren hunted for the convicted, the delinquent. They did not hunt to eat, but to avenge. Pietre tossed in his bed for the better part of the night, dreaming in blood until at last the amethyst dawn washed into his nightmares, pressing against the dagger-like sliver of a moon and waking him. His muscles ached and he was oddly relieved when his mother asked him to take a basket to the woods to gather mint and sweet leaves for tea. The stink of the overpopulated human village would wake him, the gossip of the biddies who sat by the gates would give him news, and it’d been several days since he’d been able to sneak a morsel to the she-dog—she whose name was Hannah. He tucked an egg and a few strips of dried venison in the basket and hurried out into the brisk red morning.

  Hannah’s growls came to him first. He stopped just short of her cove and sat behind the rock from which he had first spied her with her pups.

  “Hannah,” he whispered. “She-dog, what’s wrong?”

  She murmured no response, but her growls became snarls and snaps and Pietre could now clearly hear the dark gnarl of a wolf that had moved almost directly in front of Pietre’s hiding place. Pietre spoke no more, barely daring to breathe. Further back, the pups whimpered and moaned. Suddenly there were jumps and barks and the clear cry of a dog that had been struck. “Hannah,” he whispered again, and again he received no response.

  Stealing a glance he saw that dog and wolf were circling, speaking to one another in deep guttural tones Pietre could not understand until he heard Hannah leap up screaming, “They are MINE!”

  She struck her mark. The wolf lay still a moment, breathing heavily. She circled him panting. From the way she moved on the grass, Pietre could tell that at least one of her legs was wounded. The sounds of the wolf seemed to fade and, for a moment, Pietre thought the attacker was dead. Pietre nearly stepped into the low clearing when he heard the wolf growl again, fierce, low, unforgiving.

  The wolf sprang on the she-dog, and for much too long dog and wolf were a tumble of fur and howls and low, rasping speech. Pietre heard something else as well—the sounds of the pups, creeping along toward the r
ock where he was hidden.

  The wolf heard it too and this time when he struck Hannah, it cut desperately, deeply. Pietre, even with his weak human senses, could smell the blood. The pups began to cry, pitiful tiny sounds as the wolf jumped towards them. Hannah had fallen close to Pietre’s rock—part of her body lay in his view. He could smell the fur matted with saliva and sweat, could hear her breathing, and could see the tiny ball of a singular pup at her feet.

  “Take him,” Hannah said in a fierce whisper. “Take him and leave.” And then with a distracting roar, Hannah leapt at the wolf, kicking the small black and pink-nosed pup to Pietre’s side.

  Pietre did not think to do anything but obey and, tucking the pup into his pouch, he crawled away as quickly and quietly as he could.

  Behind him, he could hear her again, hissing at her enemy, “They are mine.” And then, not daring or wishing to hear more, Pietre took the shivering puppy and ran.