The Sea Wolves by Christopher Golden

was only brine and sweat, and that underlying animal stink—wet fur, musk—that he had come to know so well.
    It did not belong here on the ship. The last time he’d smelled that, he had seen a wolf and its pack preparing to battle the dreadful Wendigo.
    Several times he considered breaking away from his duties and searching the Larsen , but each time he’d find one of the crew in the mess or, closer yet, in the corridor outside the galley. They rarely acknowledged him—he was beginning to think Tree could not speak, and the Scandinavians wore the constant glazed expression of people isolated behind a language barrier. But he knew that to step out of line might bring down another beating like the one he’d received from Finn. And with his jaw and nose aching, and his ribs bound tight with torn blankets, more such treatment might just be the end of him.
    So he cooked and cleaned, scrubbed the galley and sorted the ship’s limited foodstuffs, and by sunset he was so tired that he could barely stand.
    In the corner of the galley, bloody pelican feathers and the proud creature’s bones sat ready to be flung overboard. All those meals he’d prepared in the Yukon—shooting an animal, skinning and gutting it, making the most of the carcass—had prepared him for his painful duties here. But still he’d found butchering the bird a difficult task, and the compliments from Ghost after he’d cooked and served the meal did nothing to lessen the impact. If anything, knowing that the dead bird had provided an enjoyable meal to these bastards made Jack despise himself, just a little. He could have spat in the meal, or found a bottle to crush and scattered powdered glass inside—a meager, symbolic revenge for the bird’s death. But instead, he did the best that he could. It was all part of his instinctive effort to survive, and he was sure the bird would understand.
    By the time he went up on deck again, the sun was bleeding across the western horizon, and the sea had risen into a heavy swell. The sails slapped in the wind, and rigging rattled as the Larsen dipped and rose. Maurilio stood silently at the wheel, ignoring Jack and staring up at the moon, smudged behind a veil of high clouds. A few others were on deck, but there was no sign of Ghost nor, to Jack’s continuing dismay, Sabine.
    But the ship was not large, and he knew that she was somewhere close.
    Jack tipped the waste bucket over the side and bade a final farewell to the pelican. Then he descended to the galley, blew out the oil lamp he’d been burning for the past few hours, and settled into the galley’s tight sleeping nook, which still smelled of Finn. Ghost had moved Jack from the sailors’ cabin in the forecastle, at least.
    Midnight , he promised himself. It’ll be time for a stroll . And despite everything, he slipped into an exhausted sleep.
    Jack snapped awake and sat up, and something smashed him in the head. He groaned and rolled, bringing his hands up to defend himself, lashing out in the darkness and feeling his bare feet striking wood. He paused, listening and sensing. There was nothing. He was alone, and the nightmare had brought him fighting awake, banging his head in that confined sleeping space.
    He gathered his senses, breathing in the foul scents of stale cooking that permeated the galley, however much he cleaned. The ship creaked and rolled, and a metal ladle hanging on a wall hook scraped back and forth across the bulkhead, back and forth, a metronome that had aided his sleep.
    No time for sleep . Jack stood and leaned on the galley work surface, scooping a mug of water from the large bucket kept there. It tasted gritty and warm but quenched his thirst. He’d need a clear head for what was to come.
    Beyond the galley lay the mess, and in the other direction, at the ship’s stern, the captain’s quarters and several other smaller cabins. Johansen kept one of these,