Brett didn’t have to go to him. If he wanted Hudson River, he would have to come for it. An invisible line in the sand had been drawn and his wolf glared until the other dipped its eyes. Foolish wolf would be better to surrender the field, but he’d given him his one and only chance.
The other animal released a vibrating growl, stalking in a circular fashion. Tail low, and hackles raised, it searched for the best position. Tracking his motion, Brett studied his physicality. Mischa possessed a slight limp. His right foreleg didn’t quite complete the full step and he had a longer stride with his front left. The left side of his hindquarters hung a fraction lower than the right.
Cataloguing potential weaknesses, he turned unerringly, following the other wolf’s path. He held his ground though, if Mischa wanted him, he had to come and get him. The other wolf snarled, a fierce growl rumbling from the other’s middle rose to a roar.
Brett yawned at the wild sound. Posturing. The wolf wanted to intimidate. But growls and snaps were only sounds, and they couldn’t injure.
Mischa switched paths and reversed his circling path to pace in the opposite direction, edging closer with each step. The tactic was an old one and held a certain allure. The pacing let him get closer, without a direct charge. It was also designed to relax the vigilance of the target. On his third circuit, Brett wanted to grin. The Russian’s patient stalking would aggravate another wolf.
He wanted to see what made Brett flinch or draw out his ire and get him to lunge into a fight unprepared. While he’d rather not be standing on a deserted stretch of road all night, he refused to hurry. Haste made for openings other wolves could take advantage of—like the ill-advised charge Landon made earlier. Patiently tracking his path, Brett kept his ears forward and his mind on the upcoming battle.
Whatever injury had lamed Mischa’s right foreleg extended over his back. The tightness stretched from the right shoulder to the back left hip. His back was a vulnerable target. Some wolves could survive a broken back and even heal from it, but without a skilled healer to guide the finer work, the body didn’t always realign correctly.
Third or fourth vertebrae if Brett had to guess. He’d want to protect his neck. A common technique was to seize the scruff, twisted and fling the wolf. Or use it as an anchor point while slamming them into the ground, then claws could be used to tear into the skin. When they tried to twist or roll away, the attacking wolf could go for the soft underbelly.
The show continued on a fourth pass and the limp on the right foreleg proved more pronounced, yet he still edged closer. In another few minutes, he’d be in snapping range. The breeze picked up and carried the wolf’s scent toward him. The foreign taste to the other wolf included fur, snow and…no pain. The limp was the distraction.
Brett braced himself as the wolf made a show of reversing his circular stalking. The split-second gave him insight. It had been a trap. One designed to draw his attention to a different attack, within striking range. Mischa raced forward and Brett sprang adroitly avoiding the charge. The wolf’s bulk slamming into him would have transferred momentum and he wanted the other wolf off balance. Landing behind him, he struck even as Mischa skidded to a halt and tried to turn.
The battle was vicious. They slammed into each other, and the force cracked a bone in his rib. The Russian wolf wasted no time sinking his teeth into Brett’s right shoulder. He tore away skin and fur. The drawing of first blood didn’t phase his wolf, because he opened a strip along the other’s side. Back and forth, they went snarling and rending. Lacerations littered them both and their blood speckled the road. Every charge, every bite, every claw mark designed to weaken the other. Twice, Mischa tried to use his bulk against him and twice Brett avoided the holds. The third one, however, he allowed as he went low. Caught up in bloodlust, the Russian pounced and Brett slid down against the blacktop, dragging his wounded side against the pavement. The pain was excruciating, but he craved it for the angle. Too late, Mischa saw his folly, but Brett’s teeth sank into his soft underbelly and he clenched his jaw and ripped even as the other tore into the muscle of his left hind leg. Blood spurted.
He’d severed an artery. Surging upward, he tucked his wounded leg higher and went for an ear. The soft flesh tore beneath his teeth and his opponent’s snarls became interspersed with harsh explosions of pain. Blood dripping from his jaws, Brett didn’t slow even as Mischa tried to escape him. He seized the back left leg and like the bastard had done to him, he severed tendon and muscle with a wrench.
The abrupt scream released from the other wolf’s throat held the notes of surrender he’d waited to hear. The battle became one of trying to get away, but Brett refused him pity. The wolf came to take what was his, he would leave the battle only when his corpse lay on the road. Landing on his back, he seized his neck and locked his jaws. It was harder to kill from above. Heavy layers of fat protected the bones and muscles, but Brett was determined.