Eye of Hecate

Piper

"Wolves," I say. "They sound close."

Jason rises and summons his sword. Leo, Ozzy, and Coach Hedge get to their feet too. I try, but black spots dance before my eyes.

"Stay there," Jason tells me. "We'll protect you."

I grit my teeth. I hate feeling helpless. I don't want anyone to protect me. First the stupid ankle. Now stupid hypothermia. I want to be on my feet, with my dagger in my hand.

Then, just outside the firelight at the entrance of the cave, I see a pair of red eyes glowing in the dark.

Okay. Maybe a little protection is fine.

More wolves edge into the firelight—black beasts bigger than Great Danes, with ice and snow caked on their fur. Their fangs gleam, and their glowing red eyes look disturbingly intelligent. The wolf in front is almost as tall as a horse, his mouth stained as if he just made a fresh kill.

I pull my dagger out of its sheath.

Then Jason steps forward and says something in Latin.

I don't think a dead language will have much effect on wild animals, but the alpha wolf curls his lip. The fur stands up along his spine. One of his lieutenants tries to advance, but the alpha wolf snaps at his ear. Then all of the wolves back into the dark.

"Dude, I gotta study Latin." Leo's hammer shakes in his hand. "What'd you say, Jason?"

Hedge curses. "Whatever it was, it wasn't enough. Look."

The wolves are coming back, but the alpha wolf isn't with them. They don't attack. They wait—at least a dozen now, in a rough semicircle just outside the firelight, blocking the cave exit.

The coach hefts his club. "Here's the plan. I'll kill them all, and you guys escape."

"Coach, they'll rip you apart," I say.

"Nah, I'm good."

Then I see the silhouette of a man coming through the storm, wading through the wolf pack.

"Stick together," Jason says. "They respect a pack. And Hedge, no crazy stuff. We're not leaving you or anyone else behind."

I get a lump in my throat. I'm the weak link in our "pack" right now. No doubt the wolves can smell my fear. I might as well be wearing a sign that says FREE LUNCH.

The wolves part, and the man steps into the firelight. His hair is greasy and ragged, the color of fireplace soot, topped with a crown of what looks like finger bones. His robes are tattered fur—wolf, rabbit, raccoon, deer, and several others I can't identify. The furs don't look cured, and from the smell, they aren't very fresh. His frame is lithe and muscular, like a distance runner's. But the most horrible thing is his face. His thin pale skin is pulled tight over his skull. His teeth are sharpened like fangs. His eyes glow bright red like his wolves'—and they fix on Jason with absolute hatred.

"Ecce," he says, "filli Romani."

"Speak English, wolf man!" Hedge bellows.

The wolf man snarls. "Tell your faun to mind his tongue, son of Rome. Or he'll be my first snack."

I remember that faun is the Roman name for satyr. Not exactly helpful information. Now, if I can remember who this wolf guy is in Greek mythology, and how to defeat him, that I can use.

The wolf man studies our little group. His nostrils twitch. "So it's true," he muses. "A child of Aphrodite. A son of Hephaestus. A faun. And a child of Rome, of Lord Jupiter, no less. All together, without killing each other. How interesting." His gaze drifts over to Ozzy. "And who might you be, my dear?"