Cry Wolf

Damn his penchant for causing trouble. What had he done?

Sage dug her fingers into the dirt, doubtless reliving her own brutal assault, which had resulted in her seeking sanctuary here in Aspen Creek a few years before he had come here. He should apologize for bringing that up, too. Clumsy, clumsy, Asil.

“What do you think they did to her?” she said finally, darkness clinging to her voice.

“Allah,” he said softly-he’d never managed to get Charles so worked up before. And he’d left that poor child to deal with the results, thinking that any Omega could soothe her mate. He hadn’t realized she’d already been hurt before. Truly he should have forced Bran to kill him a long time ago.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to go talk to Charles,” he said, setting down his knife and getting to his feet. He was getting old and complacent, too ready to believe he was omniscient. He’d thought the boy had been waiting until his wounds were healed before consummating their attachment-instead he’d almost certainly been trying to give the girl time.

That Charles had come this morning to ask about Omegas might mean that something had gone wrong…and on the heels of that thought, he realized that Charles hadn’t been asking about Sarai when he asked what happened if an Omega was tortured. He’d been asking about A

“Talking with Charles is going to be difficult,” Sage said dryly. “He took A

“The Cabinets?” He frowned at her, remembering the limp Charles had been hiding in church yesterday. He’d been doing a better job this morning, but Asil could still see he was stiff. “He was wounded.”

“Umm.” She nodded. “I heard he got shot in Chicago, silver bullets. But there’s some rogue werewolf ru

How Sage knew so much about everything that went on in the Marrok’s pack had ceased to astound Asil a long time ago.

“He could have sent me,” said Asil, not really paying attention to his own words. It was good news if A

Sage looked at him. “Send you? Could he, really? I saw you at church yesterday morning.”

“He could have sent me,” Asil repeated. Sage, he knew, was begi

Asil was a danger to everyone around him, and if he weren’t such a coward he’d have made Bran take care of the problem when he’d first arrived here, or any day since then.

He could have at least taken out the lone rogue wolf; he owed Bran that much.

“I don’t think Charles was hurt too badly,” she said in conciliatory tones.

So Charles had been successful at hiding his wounds from Sage, but he knew better. It would take a lot to make that old lobo move so badly at the funeral, where so many could see.

Asil took a deep breath. Charles was tough, and he knew the Cabinets better than anyone. Even wounded, a single rogue wolf would be no match for him. It was all right. He’d just make sure and apologize to both of them when he saw them next-and hope he hadn’t caused any irreparable damage with his goading. He’d just been so jealous. The peace that A

Ah, Sarai, you’d be so disappointed in me.

“Are you all right?”

He knelt again and picked up his shears. “I am fine.”

But why would the Europeans send only one wolf? Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe Charles would need backup.

He sighed. He owed the boy an apology that shouldn’t wait. If he knew where they had started, he could track Charles down and make sure he hadn’t done any real damage to the bond between him and his mate.

“I need to talk to Bran,” he said. He threw down the shears again and strode out the door, closing the greenhouse door behind him.

When he exited the air lock, the cold fell over him like the cloak of the ice queen. The contrast between it and the artificially warm and moist air of his greenhouse was so great he gasped once before his lungs made the adjustment. Sage followed him, pulling on her coat, but he didn’t wait for her.

“I don’t know that it is the Europeans,” Bran told him calmly after Asil expressed his opinion of the wisdom of sending Charles out wounded after an unknown foe, in words that were less than diplomatic. “More likely it is simply a rogue. The Cabinets are remote and might appeal to someone trying to run from what he has become. Even if it were the Europeans, there was only one wolf. If there were two wolves, Heather wouldn’t have been able to drive off the one who attacked them.”

He paused, but Asil just crossed his arms over his chest and let him know by body language that he still thought Bran had been stupid.

Bran smiled and put his feet up on his desk. “I didn’t send Charles alone. Even if there are two or three werewolves, Charles and A

That made sense. So why was dread growing in his soul? Why was every instinct he had telling him that sending Charles out after this rogue was such a stupid thing? And when had he stopped worrying about Charles and started worrying about what they chased? About the werewolf they chased.

“What did the wolf look like?” He rocked slowly from one foot to the other but didn’t bother controlling himself. He was too busy thinking.

“Like a German shepherd,” Bran said. “Tan with dark points and the saddle, with a bit of white around his front feet. Both the grad student who escaped it and Heather described it the same way.”

The door to Bran’s study opened, and Sage burst in. “Did…I see he made it here. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Bran gently. “Asil, go home. I want you to rest today at home. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

Asil stumbled by Sage, no longer worried about Charles at all. That coloration might be common in Alsatians- German shepherds-but it was not seen much in werewolves.

Sarai had looked like that, tan and dark brown with a saddle-shaped dark patch of fur on her back. Her left front paw had been white.

Too upset to be careful of his strength, he broke the door handle of his car and had to slide in from the passenger side. He didn’t remember the drive to his home, just a need to go hide that was even more powerful than the necessity of obeying his Alpha.

He didn’t bother garaging his car; for tonight it could face the elements, just as he must. He went to his bedroom and opened his closet. He took her favorite shirt, frayed by age and handling, from the hanger. Even to his nose it no longer smelled like Sarai, but it had touched her flesh and that was all he had. He put it on his pillow and slid onto the bed, rubbing his cheek against her shirt.

It had happened at last, he thought. He was crazy.

It could not possibly be his Sarai. First, she would never kill anyone without cause. Second, she was dead. He’d found her himself, days after she’d died. He’d taken her poor body and washed it clean. Had burned it with salt and holy water. Knowing who had killed her, he wanted there to be no way to raise her from the dead, though neither Mariposa’s family nor the witch they’d sent her to for training were of the family of witches who played with the dead.