It’s a scent trail only, and barely that—at least a couple of weeks old, maybe more. But every time I think I’ve lost the trail, I find another marker, still potent, after all this time.

Brennan follows behind, true to his word. Fucker. If ever he was going to challenge my authority, this would be the time. But I guess it’s like he said—that’s my bit.

With each step forward, my uneasiness grows. How can this intrusion possibly go unpunished? Especially when it’s so clearly marked? I start to lay my feet down more heavily, just in case.

I’d rather not surprise anybody.

The trail leads down into a wide gully, so choked with tall grasses and mullein, that it must be utterly invisible from above. The ground closes in around us as we descend, and the wind drops, or, at least, whistles softly past us, overhead. The herby scent in the air grows much stronger, but, then, so does the scent of the trail. We thread our way through.

As we climb out, the trail grows suddenly fresh, and sharply intense. I freeze, every hair on my back instantly upright at the story it tells—of a vicious, gleeful hunter—strong and huge.

Someone who will not welcome us as friends.

Brennan bumps up against my flank and stops, then leans down to take a sniff for himself. He’s nearly two stone bigger than me, but he still backs off from the marker. I hear his tail flick nervously at the weeds behind him.

I look back. Our eyes meet—mine tense, his apprehensive, but steady. His tail gives away more.

If these people are so reclusive, we could probably just go back to the car, and head straight through. They’d never know we passed through their territory. We could just drive until we were clear.

But that would be a monstrous slight. Maybe even an act of war. And we’d have to run the same risk through every territory until Carrigan’s, because nobody would be vouching for us.

He flicks his tail again, but shows no sign of leaving.

I nod and turn back to the path, take a deep breath, and set out again. Brennan’s footsteps resume, behind.

The trail leads off to the left, along the bottom of a small rise, becoming more solid—more trodden—in short order. The scent markers grow less frequent, but also more intense. I sniff at one that is no more than a day old—sharp and pungent, full of all sorts of little details that had aged out of the earlier ones. They needle at me with a thousand tiny daggers of warning, but I push on. We’re invited, I tell myself, though that’s only a half-truth.

We round a corner into a wall of earth. I leap up and everything comes clear. Across a small flat area, a house is built into the side of a hill. A heavy wooden door hangs in a wall of rough-sawn timber, and leaded glass. The scents of fur and old meat hang in the air, mixed with the scent of burning peat, all hidden from us earlier by an unhelpful wind.

Brennan leaps up beside me, almost silently.

I glance at him and take a step forward. Then another.

A loud bark startles me from behind, above, on a rise. I spin to look as nearly a dozen Faolan-sized wolves emerge from nowhere around us.

To a one, fangs drip saliva and malice onto the ground.

The bitumen of the old road dies a natural death, petering out to a deeply rutted dirt track, clogged with tall, browning grasses and weeds. They close in around us, quickly, obscuring the view both forward and to the sides. Only the path behind us remains open.

Brennan downshifts, and we slow to a crawl.

“You’re sure this is the way?” he asks as we splash into a deep puddle, throwing water up and out into the meadow with a loud hiss. “This road hasn’t been used in months.”

“I don’t know,” I reply and shrug. “She seemed pretty clear about the directions . . . . Maybe they just don’t like company—she did seem to think they were a little . . . odd.”

He glances at me then back to the . . . track. “I hope you’re right. It’s going to be—”

“Stop!” I yell, and at the same moment he slams on the brakes. We slide to a stop, just short of a wire gate, closed across the track, almost entirely hidden in the weeds.

“Shit,” he breathes.

Yeah.

I glance around and spot a very old wooden sign, just off to the right of the gate. “Look,” I say and point. No trespassers. And, just below it, Beware of Dogs.

“I think this might be the right place.”

I open my door and climb out, reaching to avoid a slimy-looking mud puddle, then slog to the gate. The air smells heavily of rotting vegetation, and something else.

“It’s locked,” I call back to him when I see the chain. “Heavy steel—no way we can open it. Just a sec—I need to check something.”

I glance down the track, but it’s deserted. I peel off my shirt and toss it on the bonnet of the car, then start unlacing my shoes.

Brennan leans out of the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

Stupid question. “I’m horny—I want to fuck you. Isn’t it obvious?”

He watches me cooly as I toss my shoe and sock up on the car, then start on the other.

“I can smell something, all right? Old urine, I think. I’m going to check it out.”

“You’re serious,” he replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Got any better ideas?”

He doesn’t reply, but slides back into the car. I finish undressing and change.

Definitely urine. From several people. All of them big. Even the females. All of them strong and healthy, too. Sheep eaters, I think. A loud announcement—a threat, even.

And so much more effective than a little wooden sign.

There’s a trail, too, off to the right.

I change back.

“You ever met this Dugan,” I ask, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else.

He shakes his head and leans out the window again. “No. Why?”

“Nothing. This is definitely the place.

“Leave the car. Looks like we’re going in on foot.”

“What?”

I nod my head back, over my shoulder. “There’s a trail. Smells like the way in.”

“You’re sure about this?” he asks as he opens the door. It’s oddly comforting that I’m not the only one with doubts.

“Not even remotely. But we’re here, so what else are we going to do.”

He wades over to me, but I shake my head.

“We’d better leave the clothes in the car.”

A bell rings over the door and announces my presence as I step into the small shop of the petrol station. A middle-aged woman behind the counter looks up from her book and smiles. “Top o’ the morning, to you, lad. Now what can I be doing for you today?”

Her smile is easy and infectious, and I find myself returning it without effort. “Top o’ the morning, to you,” I say and step over to the counter with my map.

I glance out to the car, but Brennan hasn’t moved from the driver’s seat. He hasn’t even turned off the engine. I return my eyes to her, and the warmth of her smile burrows right down inside me. A mother’s smile. I remember one a lot like it.

“Ah,” I say, and lay down the map in front of her, “we’re a little bit lost? We’re trying to find our way to the home of Dugan Coey, and, our . . . map . . . ?”

At Dugan’s name, her smile has utterly vanished, replaced by what can only be fear—even her scent changes, though it would say much more to my other nose. She stumbles back a half step and hurriedly crosses herself—head, stomach, shoulder, shoulder. “Oh, Mary, Mother of God,” she whispers.

”I’m sorry . . . is there . . . something wrong?” I ask.

“Leave now,” she mumbles, her voice cracking. “I don’t want no trouble. Please just be on your way. I ain’t never done you any harm.”

“Harm? Ma’am?” I ask, totally at a loss. Okay, perhaps not totally at a loss, but incredulous, at least. The sign of the cross? Seriously?

“I know you be one of the them—none other would be asking after that one. Please, just leave me be!”

Odd. Dugan’s lot not been keeping out of sight when changing, or something?

I blink at her a few times before I formulate an adequate response. “Ma’am, I’m really . . . not sure what you’re talking about,” I say, shaking my head slowly. I hold my hands out, palms up, and shrug. “We’re just lost, and need some directions. I have no intention of hurting you . . . .”

She huddles further back against the wall, her hands up defensively near her shoulders, and says nothing.

“Ma’am, please. I’m just up from the city, I’ve never been out this way before. I have to deliver a package for my boss. Really! I just need some directions . . . . “

I do my best to sound innocent and confused. I don’t have to work too hard on the confused part, at least.

What the hell has been going on out here?

I hold the map out again, but she still doesn’t budge from the wall. Tears are forming in her eyes, and her breathing is fast and shallow.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry Ma’am,” I say, as sincerely as I can. “I really didn’t mean to trouble you. I’ll go. Again, please . . . I’m sorry.”

I turn and step to the door. The bell peals out again as I pull it open.

“Don’t go out there, lad,” she says, in a strangled whisper, as if it might cost her her life.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, turning back to look at her. Her hands have dropped from her shoulders, and are now clasped together in front of her chest.

She makes a strong effort to calm herself, and the smile almost manages to regain a hold on her face, but not quite. “It’s not a place for . . . good folk, the Coey lands. You mustn’t go out there.”

Wow. But at least she’s decided I’m human.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I have a package I have to deliver. My boss . . . he’s not the kind of man you want to anger.” And my own smile returns, at the thought of how much truth I wrapped up in that lie.

The look of worry on her face doesn’t ease, but perhaps I can reassure her. “I won’t stay long, if that makes you feel better . . . just drop it off and go.”

She watches me for another moment, then reaches out her hand. I close the gap and give her the map.

“You’re here,” she says, pointing to the spot I’d already identified. Her voice and hand are shaking. “Take this road to here”—she traces a route with her finger—“and then turn down here. You’ll be going all the way to the end, over here.” She looks up and meets my eyes with one of the most worried-motherly looks I’ve ever seen. “And please, lad, do your business and get away from there as fast as you can.

“That lot is unholy.”

I nod and do my best to reassure her with my smile. “I will. I promise. Thanks for your help—and the warning.”

As I step out the door I say again, “I won’t stay,” and nod. She manages a smile in response.

I run to the car, eyes wide, and hop in. I point in the right direction and Brennan pulls the car back out onto the road.

I haven’t a clue what I could say about what just happened, so I say nothing at all.

The narrow road rises steeply towards a line of trees. Brennan guns the engine, a little harder than perhaps he needs to, and my stomach floats as we crest the hill. For barely a moment, I glimpse the wide valley laid out before us, a broad expanse of old woodland; one of the few real forests left anywhere near the city. And then we’re over, and my stomach drops again as we shoot down the other side. Trees close in around us in a dense tunnel of grey branches and low, green brush.

So many times, she said we should come out here, but I had no idea. It’s as if we’ve driven out of our world and into a much older one. It’s nothing like the woods near home, nor even those at Rian’s estate. Those places feel young, man-made. Civilized. This place is not.

Massive trunks grow every which way, branches intertwined, stretching far above. Some have fallen where they stand, so little space between that they are still mostly upright. They lean against their neighbours and slowly crumble in place. The undergrowth is dense with smaller trees and bushes, rotten trunks—every last square inch of terrain is covered with something grey or green or brown. And even now, as winter approaches, this place feels alive, a dark, brooding presence, as if it has stood here, both changing and unchanged, forever. A place that keeps its own secrets.

And those of others, too.

Do all old forests feel like this?

A rabbit breaks on the left as we round a sharp bend, and I crane around to watch it dart for cover. It scampers around a tree and dives into a bush. I smile, in spite of my mood.

“So when do you step in?” I ask, returning to the conversation we haven’t been having, and look over to him.

Not that I expect him to answer it truthfully.

“Huh?” he replies, and glances over at me.

“This whole me in charge thing. I’m just curious—how much do I get to fuck up before you take over?”

He watches me for a second longer—steering instinctively around another curve—before returning his eyes to the road, and laughs. “Tiergan, that’s your bit. I do what I’m told. I’m here to get your back, nothing more. Whatever shit you get us into, it’s your problem.”

“My problem.”

“Damn’ straight. Good or bad, I’m not answering to Faolan for you.”

Ah. So that’s how it is.

His left hand rests casually on the steering wheel, not even really gripping it. The other rests on the door frame, against the window. He barely tenses as we bounce across a series of potholes, and fly around a tight curve.

I look out the window again, into the ancient forest.

Another thing to regret.

“She wanted me to come out here with her, you know? To hunt together.”

“You said no, of course,” he replies, and fixes me with a worried look.

I laugh, without feeling. “Of course. I’d have felt like a thief.”

“Yeah. No way Aiden would’ve given his consent.”

“Yeah, well, he made that pretty clear this morning. But it’s not like I didn’t already know.”

He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again, and taps the gas a little as we glide through an s-curve.

“What?” I ask, as the road straightens out again.

He doesn’t answer, but I wait. It feels like a fight’s coming. But what else are we going to do?

“I don’t know why the fuck you got involved with that bitch. You had to know what would come of it.”

“Her name’s Keaira.”

“Her name might as well be Bean Sídhe, for someone your size.”

“Yeah—fuck you.”

“I’m serious, Tiergan. If her father doesn’t kill you for sniffing around her, there’s got to be a dozen other guys—big guys—who would consider her a worthy conquest, and you a nice snack. Even Faolan’s going to find it a job.”

Fuck.

“I don’t understand you at all,” he continues. “You’re young, you’re attractive—what do you need a mate for? You can walk into any bar in town and walk out with something to fuck, any night of the week. Hell, even half your pack-mates would be willing to play with you. You could probably even talk me into it, if you tried.

“Why even go after her?”

“I think you should shut up now.”

He laughs. “Yeah, well, you’re the boss.”

Fucker! “You don’t know a damned thing about it! It’s not about the sex, and I didn’t go looking for a mate! We became friends, and then . . . we became more.”

I pause for a deep breath.

“It’s like we’ve known each other forever. Do you have any idea what it’s like, for someone to know you so well that half the time, you don’t even have to speak. You just know what the other’s thinking? To be so comfortable with each other that you don’t hide anything? Wouldn’t you want that?”

He laughs again. “Oh, get off it, Tiergan. You and Tara have been that close since birth. You don’t need a mate for that.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Of course it is. You just want to pretend that it’s love or some other human bullshit. A mate is for making puppies, Tiergan, and for running a family. Nothing more. You have no use for a mate. You couldn’t take care of one if you had one, and you certainly couldn’t take care of a whole family.

“You know, you really are an asshole, Brennan.”

“Maybe,” he replies, and nods his head. “You showed you had some balls yesterday. But it changes nothing. You’re forty pounds light and a whole lot of speed and viciousness short on being a First.

“And that’s not going to change, because you don’t want it to.”

Keaira is running toward the house on the east trail, a hundred feet away, as I step out of the entrance way—a sleek, white and charcoal form I would recognize anywhere. Her long strides are fluid and graceful, two feet striking separately, then two together, as she bounds up the Hill towards the house. It seems an eternity since we’ve run together, since we’ve shared the wind in our faces, since we’ve raced through the forest on the Hill, or near Home; two forms, moving as one, running, jumping, weaving, playing. Together.

My god, how I would join her now—wipe away the last month, wipe away the things I’ve said, the things I’ve done, to push her away—if only I could.

She stops dead as she sees me. Her white tail, high in the air, dips. I imagine I can see her blue eyes, even from here, calm and steady, with just a hint of mischief. Just a tiny hint of its true measure.

But I know it’s just my imagination.

I hear her laughter in my ears. I feel her hand on mine, in mine; her soft breath on my face, in my ear. I feel her head on my side as we lie together—for warmth, for comfort, for each other.

Warmth and tightness—from the memory, and from her presence now. The feel of her soft skin under my hands, against my tongue; or the feel of her supple muscles and warm fur against me. Her presence beside me, under me, on top of me—with me . . . no fear, no shame.

I want to run to her now. If only I weren’t such a miserable coward.

She counts on me, too, I know. To listen, when no one else will. To hear her, to see her, when everyone else sees just a pawn, or a problem. To accept her, for exactly who she is. To want to be with her, and no one else.

She takes a hesitant step towards me. An opening, if I ever saw one. An invitation. A plea.

If only we could go back, if only we could be just friends again. But I don’t think I can. And I don’t think she can, either.

Her father’s right. She deserves better than me. She deserves someone who would choose her, regardless the cost.

And that is something I just can’t do.

I close my eyes, because I can’t watch, because I can’t bear to see her reaction as I mouth the words, the only ones I dare.

“I’m sorry.”

But they’re just words. In the end, they mean nothing. In the end, I’m no better than anyone else, making choices for her that are hers alone to make.

But what else am I supposed to do?

Eyes down, I turn, and walk down the drive to the car.

I hear no sign that she follows.

The butler knocks on the door of the den, then leaves me to wait. It’s Keaira’s older brother, Cashel, who opens the door, a few moments later. “Come in”, he says, not even a hint of a smile. His six feet of solid muscle completely fill the doorway, and he steps back only a bit to let me by. I have to squeeze to get around him—which I’m sure is intentional. The door closes, and I can feel him looming behind me, but I don’t turn. It’s a game—it’s his job to intimidate me, to make sure I don’t think to try anything. And I’m intimidated, no doubt about it—he could snap me in half—but there’s no point letting on. Not right now, anyway.

Aiden sits at a low table across the room, lingering over the remains of a late breakfast or an early lunch. He looks up from his paper. “Mmmm, it’s Tiergan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, but remain where I am. I know the drill.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he says, after a moment.

“Yes, Sir,” I say again, and cross the room, winding my way through the furniture groupings that fill the large space. Cashel’s heavy footsteps follow behind.

As I near him, I realize why he is so universally respected. And feared. He’s barely smaller than his son, despite his extra years, and something about the way he sits, the way he holds his paper—he’s still nothing but muscle. He must have been enormous, in his youth.

He lays his paper down and takes a sip from his mug. Coffee, from the smell. I stop a few feet from him. He looks me up and down, once, then meets my eyes with a hard gaze. Not angry, just . . . unimpressed.

I decide to get the point. “Sir, I am here to—”

“Yes, yes,” he says, and cuts me off with a wave of his hand, “I already know why you’re here. Faolan requested passage for you on the phone this morning. I’d have waived protocol altogether, except that he mentioned it would be you passing through.”

“Sir?”

“You’re friends with my daughter, correct?”

Ah. Of course. I guess I should have realized it would come up. “Yes, Sir,” I answer carefully. I feel Cashel take a half step closer behind me.

A memory of Keaira’s voice surfaces in my mind. If she were here . . . she’d laugh, and tell me I should casually lean back against Cashel and hug him around the shoulders. Maybe look teasingly up into his eyes and call him “lover”.

I almost laugh out loud.

“Something funny?” Aiden asks, unamused.

I shake my head and force myself still. If she were here . . . . I guess that’s not something I need to worry about, any more.

Deep breath. Take your lumps. Arrange passage. Leave quietly.

“No, Sir.”

He looks me up and down again while I stare over his head and through the window, out into the grounds. But there’s too many unhelpful memories there, too. I settle my eyes on a tree and wait.

“I knew your father well,” he says, and I find my eyes on his again. “I had a lot of respect for him. What he did with so little. Even fought me off his territory a few times.

“You don’t look like you could fight off a dog.”

Try me, asshole.

But he likely would. I keep it to myself.

“Pup, I don’t like you. You don’t know your place.”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, as calmly as I can manage. But I lock eyes with him, and if it kills me, I, will, hold.

“I expect the best for my daughters, and, we both know you’re not it.”

Yeah, well, fuck you, too.

“You’ve been putting bad ideas in Keaira’s head.”

Now that’s off limits.

“Sir, nobody puts ideas in Keaira’s head except Keaira. Which you would know if you’d ever bothered to talk with her. You know, instead of at her.” The words are out of my mouth before I can pull them back. But then, I didn’t really want to pull them back.

He regards me impassively for a moment, but I know I’ve crossed a line. I don’t flinch. And I won’t. I tighten muscles and prepare to be hit.

But it doesn’t come.

“You’re braver than I’ve been told.”

Yeah, well, people underestimate me.

He continues to watch me calmly, but I refuse to relax. I’ve seen how fast Faolan or Cormac can move . . . and I suspect he can move even faster.

“Sir.”

“Forget about my daughter, Tiergan. She’s not for you. Not until you are strong enough to take her from me.”

Like that’s ever going to happen—his implication is clear. It’s time to end this conversation. Now.

“Sir, I don’t think that will be an issue. She ended our relationship yesterday.”

“She did?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll be heading to see Dugan, next. You know the way?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Fine. I’ll call him shortly to vouch for you. There’s two of you, correct?”

“Yes, Sir. Me and Brennan.”

“Faolan tells me you are in charge for this trip.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“From what I’ve heard about you, I would have thought Brennan would be in charge.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, but I’m beyond caring.

“Okay, Tiergan. Cashel will show you out.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

He nods. I turn and Cashel indicates I should lead. He follows me to the door, opens it for me, then pushes it shut behind.

I look around for something to hit, but there’s nothing convenient. At least, nothing that won’t make a lot of noise. I clench my fist, instead—hard—then release it, stalk to the front door of the house, nod to the guard, and let myself out.

The gates are open as we pull up to Aiden’s mansion on The Hill. Brennan stops to let me out, then moves the car into a parking space to wait. I nod to the security guard as he steps out of the booth and approaches.

“Tiergan!” he exclaims and smiles. “Here to see Miss Keaira?”

A flicker of a sad smile crosses my face before I can do anything to stop it. It does seem strange, though—I would have expected the news to be out, already. I wonder why it isn’t.

I shake my head—as much to clear it as to signal my answer—and say, “No. I have business with Aiden, today. He’s expecting me.”

He runs his finger down his clipboard, then nods. “Oh, yes, here it is. You know the way?”

I nod.

“Go on up, then. I’ll let them know you are coming.”

The house is just visible from here, halfway up the Hill, all horizontal lines of stone and wood, nestled amongst casual gardens and mature trees. So many people with their kind of money would have built something to impress, to intimidate visitors. Theirs just ignores them, as if they don’t exist. It’s a private house, built for family. The only people who matter.

And I’m not family.

“Is she here today?” I ask, without looking back to him. I grind my heel into something I can’t be feeling.

“Miss Keaira? Yes, sir,” he replies.

Yeah, well, that was to be expected. Better just deal with it.

I glance over to him—“Thanks, Mick.”—and head up the drive.

Chapter 4

“Morning, Faolan,” I say as I step into the den. He glances up from some papers on his desk and motions to a chair—our eyes barely meet before he is back to his work. Whatever happened between us last night seems to have been for one night only.

As expected.

I nod to Brennan by the fire as I sit down. He nods in response and salutes me casually, not even a hint of sarcasm. Wow. I guess he really was impressed. I smile, in spite of myself, but quickly suppress it and look away—back to Faolan.

“Cormac said you wanted to see me?” I ask. Any other day, I’d have waited for him to get around to me, but I’m feeling strangely brave, this morning. Or something.

He ignores me for a few moments more, scrawls a note on one of the papers and looks up.

“Sleep okay?” he asks. His apparent sincerity surprises me, almost enough to tell him the truth, but some deeper instinct jumps up to stop me. He wants strength from me. Anything less will piss him off.

“Yeah,” I say and nod. He watches me closely for a few moments, but I remain impassive. Like I kill people five times a day, and whenever I’m hungry.

“Feeling better about things?” he asks, again, oddly sincere. But that deeper instinct warns me again.

“It’s all good,” I add with a bit of a smirk. “Fucker got what he deserved.”

He watches me for a moment longer, then nods. “I’ve got a job for you,” he says, “you and Brennan.” I glance over to him, but he seems unsurprised. At least some things haven’t changed.

“Do you remember Aunt Aisling?” he asks.

Father’s sister. Carrigan’s mate. I nod.

“I need you to go talk to her, get an audience with Carrigan. He owed Father some favours. Tell him I’m calling them in.”

I blink at him a few times, unsure of what to say. “What specifically do you want me to ask him?” I reply.

He growls. “We’re going to wipe Rian out.

“We get his estate. Our allies can divide up everything else. Business included.”

Fuck. Trust Faolan to go for the throat. Even when he can’t make it.

“You’re aware Carrigan shares borders and a non-aggression treaty with Rian?” I ask. But I keep my opinion to myself.

“He’ll break it for us. He’ll break it for Father’s sake.

“Be sure to tell him about the girl.”

I nod. Because I know it’s a lost cause. Besides, I don’t know for how long my apparent new status will last. Maybe I can come up with something Carrigan will agree to, on the way.

Faolan eyes me for a moment, then glances over to Brennan and says, “Brennan’s your Second.”

“What?!” I hear myself cough. So much for staying cool. I look over to Brennan, but, again, he seems to have expected this. In fact, from his smile, I’d say he’s amused by the idea.

I look back—but Faolan isn’t grinning.

“But why?” I ask, and I know it’s a stupid thing to say, even as I say it.

His voice is low and quiet when he replies: “You’re an adult now, Tiergan. Don’t disappoint me.”

I look over to Brennan again. He’s still smiling. And both of us know that if it comes to it, I can’t take him.

I guess I’m screwed.

“When do we leave?” I ask, and try to smile. This time, it doesn’t work.

“Now,” he replies.

I get up. Brennan follows me out.