Cry Wolf

Charles was slowing down. Some of it was walking through snow that was two inches thick one place and hip high in others; even with them both in snowshoes, it was hard going. Most of it, she was pretty sure, was from his wounds.

Walter, still in wolf form, had taken to walking next to Charles and steadying him unobtrusively with a well-placed shoulder.

When she saw Charles shiver, she stopped.

“Change.” She knew it wouldn’t help much, but the wolf had four legs to bear his weight instead of two. The wolf would generate heat better than the human, and his fur coat would retain it. She knew from her own extensive experience that the wolf could function better wounded than her human form.

It was a measure of Charles’s exhaustion that he didn’t bother arguing but simply stripped. He stored his snowshoes, bandages, boots, and clothes tidily in some brush.

When he was naked, she could see all of his wounds clearly. They looked horrible, gaping desecrations of the smooth perfection of muscle and bone.

He crouched down so he didn’t have as far to fall if he lost his balance when he changed. The new view of the hole in his back wasn’t as bad as the last time she’d seen it. Despite everything, he was healing.

His change took almost as long as most wolves would have. The bullet hole looked odd on wolf-shaped ribs; the entry and exit wounds no longer lined up, the larger exit wound above the smaller hole.

“We’ll need to rest and eat before we get there,” she told him. “We won’t do your father any good if we are exhausted. ”

He didn’t answer her, just put his head down and followed Walter.

Walter’s shortcut was the roughest ground so far, leaving A

A

THIRTEEN

She hadn’t told him how to find Charles, so Asil started them back toward her cabin. He’d carefully explained to Mariposa that he’d felt Charles there, that Charles might have decided to wait where he thought they would come.

It was possible that Charles had done just that-so he wasn’t lying to her, precisely. Bran had somehow shut down the pack links, so Asil couldn’t check, but he was pretty sure Charles was nowhere near the cabin. The boy was cautious, and he had his fragile new mate with him. He’d have taken off to contact Bran before the last sliver from the cabin’s explosion had fallen. The witch and Sarai’s wolf was one thing-but the boy would know he stood not a chance against Asil as well.

Charles should be well on his way to the cars by now. Asil didn’t know the mountains here that well, but he had a good head for distances. He’d have to track him after they got to the cabin-or what was left of it-but if Charles was smart enough to drive away, the witch’s search would be fruitless.

Of course, if Charles found out his father was out here, too, the damn fool would probably head right back into the maw of danger; he was that kind of heroic idiot.

Still, it would be a while before they reached the cabin, so Asil had bought Charles that much of a head start. He didn’t know what to do that might help more than that.

Besides, he wanted to see Mariposa’s face when she saw the wreckage. Destroying the cabin had been smart, smarter than he thought Charles was. Maybe he hadn’t been giving Bran’s pet assassin a fair shake.

He hoped that Charles had killed the poor coyote trapped so near death but held alive by Mariposa’s will and magic. He never wanted to spend another night listening to some poor tortured creature breathe in ragged gasps in the space beneath the floor he lay upon. It had taken him most of the miserably long night to figure out what it was. For the longest time he’d had the terrible suspicion that it had been the lost hunter everyone had been making such a fuss over.

He never wanted to watch someone cut up a live animal again, either. Never wanted to see Sarai’s beloved person filled with some stranger who watched the witch as if she were her goddess and did her bidding. His Sarai would never have fetched an animal for Mariposa to hurt. Would never have fetched Asil. She’d done it without orders, too. Mariposa hadn’t expected him.

Guardians were supposed to be obedient, incapable of thinking for themselves. He thought there was more to the wolf than Mariposa’s mindless guardian. It was the same stupid hope that had led him into this mess.

If only Charles’s A

If he’d stayed with Charles, helped him figure out what to do about Mariposa, maybe they’d have had a chance. But A

No, he was too old to be blaming other people for his mistakes. It had never been A

When Mariposa had scried with water this morning and discovered a new wolf was coming, he’d known who it was. Had known what a disaster it would be if she got her hands on Bran. So when she’d asked him what other wolf Bran would send after Charles, he’d lied. And he’d lied with the truth. The next wolf Bran would have sent was Tag.

Asil didn’t look at Bran, pacing beside them with all the ferocity of a golden retriever. Bran was always a deceptive bastard, gentle and mild right up until he ripped your throat out. He had many other fine qualities as well.

Asil’d been sure that, even with the weakness he, himself, had left in Bran’s defenses, the old one would somehow wiggle out. Maybe if he’d been able to give him more warning? If he’d told Bran everything when he’d first come to Aspen Creek years ago?

Too late, too late.

Asil wasn’t troubled by modesty. He knew his own strengths, which were many-and he’d fallen victim to her. He didn’t know why he’d managed to convince himself that Bran would be able to resist her when he hadn’t been able to.

At least she didn’t know who Bran was. Yet.

He wished it had been Samuel in the woods instead of Charles. Charles was a thug, a killer. He didn’t say much, just lurked silently behind his father to inspire the terror that Bran should have been able to cause by himself if he weren’t so concerned with looking like a harmless boy.

Asil’d seen Charles in action a time or two-and he was impressive, Asil had to give that to him. Charles might be strong and swift, but what they needed here was subtlety, not brawn. Samuel was old and ca

Something brushed his hip.

He glanced down, but didn’t see anything, even when it touched him again. Unobtrusively, so as not to attract the witch’s attention, he dropped his hand and it landed on a furry back-that wasn’t there to any of his other senses. Even so, he knew what he touched. Foolishly, hope grew in his heart as his fingers closed on a silky coat he’d once been very familiar with.

Can the witch change shape?

Bran again, dragging him back to reality. Unfortunately Mariposa noticed his hesitation.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked.

“A lot of things,” Asil told her. She’d been right, he was happy to mislead her with the truth as much as he could. She hadn’t yet acquired the ability of all good Alphas to ask specific questions. Bran was a lot harder to deceive.