His wolf tore after the vampire, weaving carefully through the undergrowth from memory, methodically herding it away from the trees and towards an outcropping of rocks and cliffs. The ravine echoed with the thunder of a cascade of boulders and stones, the wolf and its quarry scrambling up towards the cliffs. The rocky terrain was a challenge. His balance had to be perfect, every jump half a step ahead of the monster he chased. The wolf's instincts guided them through the treacherous maze. Jacob never could've managed on his own. But he was still a Quileute; man and wolf were both born for the hunt.
Jacob was only ten years old when Harry Clearwater and Charlie Swan took him hunting for the first time. He was so excited he was almost shaking, his mouth running a hundred miles a minute. He knew they were trying to distract him from the chaos of his home. Billy Black took the death of his wife hard. Too hard. And Jacob paid the price, cleaning up his father's mess day after day, and night after night.
"We hunt to live," Harry had said. "Never for sport, never careless with the gift the animal gives us."
Jacob had nodded. Every deer season his father had helped to feed their family. Now it was Jacob's turn. "Does it hurt them?" He'd asked, gripping his rifle tightly, his knuckles turning white.
"If you're a good shot, no," Charlie said, shrugging one shoulder, and looking away. Harry had glanced sideways at him, and Charlie coughed. "I guess it hurts a little, kid. We don't have to do this today if,"
"No," Jacob had interrupted and raised his chin. "I want to." He would take care of his dad and sisters. He had to.
He had sat in the deer stand for hours, the weather getting wetter and colder, the silence falling over the three of them like a suffocating blanket. His first deer was a beauty, a breathtaking buck, all sinews, strength, and dignity. Harry and Charlie had held their breath, waiting. Jacob's hands shook, but he'd pulled the trigger and the deer had died. He'd watched it happen almost in slow motion, the graceful legs curling, the sleek brown body sinking into the misty long grass.
"Nice shot," Charlie had breathed, impressed. They scrambled down and through the field to where the deer lay.
Ten-year -old Jacob's throat had burned, bile threating to choke him, as he stared at the dead animal. He'd wanted to throw his father's rifle across the field and run. Later that night, Billy found him in the garage, crying in the cab of the truck. His father said nothing. But after that, he'd called Charlie and agreed to get help. He quit drinking so much, and started taking his medication. That hunt had saved his father, but Jacob never forgot the cost.
Wolf and vampire thundered along the edge. Everything had a cost; every life taken, every choice made, every word spoken. It took him years to understand the weight of every choice and how to bear the responsibility of living. He knew now and he wouldn't fail. Every time he hunted a vampire, the cost of failure haunted him. He couldn't lose. If he did, hundreds of others would lose. As he closed the distance between them, the wolf veered off at the last second, as if to cut off the monster at a bend in the path.
check, bloodsucker.
He heard the monster's footsteps falter as it paused for a fraction of a fraction of a second, changing directions in response to his move. And that was all the wolf needed to get the upper hand. Leg muscles bunched and the wolf pivoted, sprang, catching the monster in it's blind spot. They tumbled over the cliff's edge, plunging down to the rocks below. The wolf twisted like a cat in midair, landing on top of its prey as they hit the ground with a rock splintering crack that shook the ground.
The glowing red eyes of the bloodsucker widened as Jacob's wolf snarled, check mate, you bloodless bastard.
Then, with a screeching wrench of metal and stone, the wolf ripped its head from its body.