“This is a nice car!” she says, from the back seat, as I drop into the front. She looks around with a big smile, and buckles her seat belt.

Brennan glowers at me—a very clear, “Why the hell did you agree to bring her along?” Part of me wants to explain, to get him onside . . . but that’s not the way this works. I’m in charge. I ignore him and lean down to tie my shoes.

The engine roars to life. He guns it a few times, then slams it into reverse and we launch backward up the weed-choked drive, away from the still-closed gate. At this angle, the motion is sickening, and I push myself upright and crane around to watch the track. Keely’s smile has turned into a huge grin—but her eyes look around nervously. Gleeful, but a little terrified, too. The car almost bottoms out as we blast through the large puddle, and we leave the depression almost dry. Keely squeals with delight.

“Brennan,” I growl, not nearly as impressed. “Chill!”

He doesn’t look at me—fortunately—but does drop the speed a bit.

I hope he’s not going to be like this for the rest of the trip. I’ve already got one child to worry about. I don’t need a second.

We bounce across the rough edge of the bitumen and Brennan veers off into a flat space on the right, then pulls the wheel around in one short, smooth movement, and floors it back toward the main road. We’ve barely come to a complete stop in the whole motion.

Keely giggles again, clearly in love with Brennan’s driving.

“So, Keely,” I ask, as my stomach returns to rest, “I probably should have asked earlier, but you can get us to Torrin’s, right?”

“Oh, yeah—no problem! I’ve been there a few times. Do you want to go by good roads? Or take the scenic route?”

“Well, we need to get there as quickly as possible.”

“Oh. Scenic route it is, then,” she says, and before I can ask, she adds, “Can we stop in town for a bite, first? You guys were in such a hurry, I didn’t get to have lunch.”

I glance at Brennan, but he doesn’t even acknowledge me. Come to think of it, he hasn’t said a word to me since we left Dugan’s.

But I am getting a bit hungry. “Sure,” I reply. “You know a place?”

“Oh yeah. There’s a pub just up the road from here. Haven’t been there in a long time, but I’m pretty sure they serve lunch. Just turn left when you get out to the main road.”

I nod. “Okay with you, Brennan?”

This time he does meet my eyes, with a scowl. But he doesn’t say, “no”.

“Okay, then Keely—lead on.”

Her eyes light up and she exclaims, “Cool!

“Do you think I can get some chips with mine?”

Chapter 5

I hear footsteps approaching the door and I scootch me and Morey out of the way just as it swings open. Dugan steps inside and takes in the room. Cold, autumn air sweeps in past him, causing the fire to flap, then blaze. Orlaith plunks down on the hearth, her back close to the heat, and Dugan’s mate crosses the room to sit down beside her. She drapes her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Met the rest of the family, have you?” Dugan asks with a smirk, and winks at his granddaughter as she snuggles into her grandmother. Morey’s paws hold my hand down on his belly, but he stops licking to stare at his grandfather.

I smile sheepishly and nod when Dugan’s eyes return to me.

“Arm fixed, I see.” he adds.

“Yes, Sir, thank you.” Shit. I need her name. “Your mate” would just be an admission.

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to her, “in all of the excitement, I must not have caught your name.”

She grins. “It’s ‘Tieve’.”

I nod, “Thank you,” and return to Dugan. “Yes, Tieve’s ointment was a miracle. I probably couldn’t have fixed it without her help.”

He smiles and reaches down to offer me his hand—more a command than a question. I extricate my fingers from Morey’s grasp—who snorts and rolls to stand, then runs over to bump up against Dugan’s leg—and accept his help up.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he asks, as I reach my feet.

“Sir?”

“It’s lunch time. We hunt in the afternoon. You and your cousin will join us.”

“Oh, Sir, that’s quite an honour!”

He smiles and claps me on the back. “Good! Then it’s settled. Tieve—”

Shit. A hunt would be wonderful, I can’t believe he’s offering! But we can’t stay. We’d lose hours—at least.

Yeah. And you don’t trust Brennan to behave.

Shit.

“But, Sir . . . “

“Hmmm?” he asks.

“Sir, we would be deeply honoured to join you in a hunt,” I begin again, and slow to give myself time to pick words carefully, “and I can’t express how much your offer means, Sir . . . ”

He waves his hand impatiently. “But?”

I suppress a smile at his guess. “But, Sir . . . our business with Carrigan is rather urgent . . . and it is of vital interest to my family.”

“Vital?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Shit. I’m saying too much.

I take a deep breath. “Sir, you and your family have been very kind, and I am deeply grateful to you for your help. Please be certain, Sir—we mean you no insult. But we have to get to Carrigan’s as soon as possible. I hope you can forgive our haste.”

He watches me closely, and I try to stay relaxed—relaxed, yet sincere. Finally, he says, “Understood, son. I wouldn’t want one of mine talking out of turn to another First, either.

I smile and nod once in thanks.

“But the next time you visit, we hunt together. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Thank you, Sir.”

He steps back and leans his head out the door.

“Keely! In here, girl!”

He gets close and rests his hands on my shoulders, then, quietly says, “Now, Tiergan, I need you do me a favour.”

A favour?

“Keely’s my youngest. She’s a smart girl—strong, too. I want you to take her with you. You’ll need someone to introduce you to Torrin, anyway.”

Keely arrives—ten stone, just about full-grown, light grey over brown fur, tail high in the air—and he turns his head to her. “Go get dressed, girl. I need you to take young Tiergan here to Torrin’s.” Her tail begins to wag furiously, and she darts under the table and past the hearth into the back of the house.

He returns his attention to me.

“She’s been nagging me no-end to let her see more of the world, and you’ll be seeing a good part of it, on the way to Carrigan’s. Will you take her with you?”

“Sir?” All the way?

Shit.

“Oh, leave the poor boy alone, Dugan,” Tieve adds from her spot on the hearth. “Can’t you see he already has enough t’ worry about?”

He ignores her and presses me again. “Tiergan, take her with you.” Raising his eyebrows and leaning in, he adds, “I’ll owe you one.”

Fuck. I’ve turned down his invitation already, and he’s graciously accepted my apology. I can’t very well refuse him this. But she’s probably going to be as bad as Conlan. Worse, because I won’t be able to smack her into line. And if she screws up anything with Carrigan . . . .

But he’s asked, and we can use all the friends we can get. And if he trusts her to go . . . .

Screw it.

“We’d be honoured, Sir, to have your daughter along.”

“Thank you,” I say, though it hardly seems adequate for the pain she’s saved me. “I don’t think I could have fixed it without—”

She waves me silent with her hand again. “Think nothing of it, youngun. We keep the old ways here, and Dugan has deemed you welcome.”

A high-pitched yip interrupts me as I open my mouth to ask. Startled, I turn in my chair.

FUCK!

There, beside the large hearth, is a tiny grey clump of fur and legs I cannot be near. Our eyes connect and he realizes he doesn’t know me. He drops his head and shows his tiny teeth, and growls.

In one tiny instant, in those tiny eyes, I watch all the goodwill they’ve extended us evaporate into nothing. I dart my eyes over to Dugan’s mate and as quickly as I can—but without any sudden movements—back up and out of my chair, away from him, towards the door. It’s still ajar. If only I can make it . . . . My hands up, I beg, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . . . please forgive me, I had no idea—”

I steel myself for the vicious assault I’m sure will come. She won’t be rational, she can’t be—old instincts, I’ve threatened her infant.

But she bursts out laughing, instead.

“Orlaith!” she calls toward the back of the room, “come and get your little brother. He’s scaring our guest.”

She turns back to me, still laughing. “Be still, youngun. He’s small, but he’s a yearling. You wouldn’t have made it through the door, otherwise.”

Oh, shit. I laugh out a breath and suck in a few new ones. “I guess I’m still a little jumpy.”

“A little?”

We share a laugh as a young girl, perhaps three years old, steps around the hearth and picks up the pup. She looks at me, eyes steady, no sign of fear, and asks, “Who are you?”

Funny that I should be warier than her. I look over to Dugan’s mate. She nods.

“My name’s Tiergan. You’re Orlaith?”

She nods, as the little puppy squirms in her arms, and tries to lick her face. She tilts her head to one side, and says, “You want to hold him?”

I can’t help but smile—of course I do. I haven’t held a puppy since Conlan, and I was still a puppy myself. But she doesn’t realize what she’s offering. I shake my head.

“Go on, if you want to,” Dugan’s mate says.

I look over to her and she smiles encouragingly, and directs me towards her daughter—no, granddaughter, more likely—with her arm.

“You’re sure?”

She nods.

Orlaith crosses the dirt floor, holding the squirming puppy out for me to take and I step forward and drop to one knee to meet her.

I hold out my hand to the little guy and he sniffs at it nervously a few times, then seems to decide I’m okay—he licks my fingers with his tiny little pink tongue. It feels soft against my skin. I giggle, and smile into Orlaith’s eyes as she drops him into my hands.

“Thank you for offering,” I say to her. She eyes me quietly, and steps back.

“His name’s Morey.”

I pull him in towards my chest, and he squirms around in my hands. He thumps his little paws up against my chest, and cranes up to my face. “Well met, young Morey,” I say, and he sniffs at my breath, then starts licking at my chin. It tickles and I pull him a bit away, rearranging him in my arms against my chest.

“He is a bit small for a yearling,” I say to Dugan’s mate, and rub his little head.

“Aye. He was sick for a while.” She frowns for a moment, then continues: “We thought we were going to lose him, but he pulled through. He’s starting to grow again, but he’ll probably always be a bit small.”

I feel his wet nose against my right bicep, and I look down to find him craning for the wound. I cautiously move my elbow a bit closer to him and let him sniff at it. He sneezes once, then starts to lick at the sheen of still-forming scab.

“No, no, little one,” I say, as I pull him away from it. I hold him up and look into his eyes. “It’s a bit sore for that. Thank you, though.”

He sneezes again, and tries to lick my face again. I giggle and put him down on the ground. He wriggles around my feet, and tries to climb up my leg again. I reach down and rub him behind the ears and he drops down onto the ground and rolls over. He squirms quietly, licking and batting at my hand as I rub his tummy.

I look up to Dugan’s mate with a huge smile on my face.

She smiles back.

I stumble into the house, my arm burning like it’s on fire. The muscles want to tighten, to lock down into protection against the pain, but I refuse to let them.

They are idiots.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I breathe sharply as a wave crashes over me. “Definitely stupid! Definitely stupid. Definitely stupid.”

I pull in a deep breath, and let it out again, slowly, focussing on the sound, withdrawing from the pain, letting it wash past me. I need it to settle, so I can sort out what I’ve done, so I can fix it.

Dugan’s mate’s hand is on my back. She follows behind, gently guiding me towards a chair by the table.

Did I miss her name? Or was it not said?

“Sit,” she says, without emotion. I nod once, and do as I’m told.

“Just relax,” I mouth to myself, and breathe through my open mouth. “Just relax. Come on, ten.

“Nine.

“Eight.

“Seven.

“Six.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, let it go—five.

“Please, just . . . let it, go.

“Four.”

It’s not working!

And she’s at my side again. I look up to her face.

“Now,” she says, and holds up a small jar. “This is gonna hurt, at first. But it will numb the pain.”

“No, no, don’t!” I breathe, and pull away from her. The pain grinds again at the movement. “I can’t, I can’t,” I whisper, through clenched teeth. “I need to . . . to feel it . . . to fix it . . . .”

She shakes her head and reaches out to take my arm, “Don’t worry, youngun—it’s an old family recipe. For just this kinda thing.”

I shake my head, but dare not resist as she carefully lifts my arm up, onto the table. I push down hard with my leg, and focus on the tension there, to keep from tensing anything else. She dips her hand into the jar and pulls out a thick smear of oily-looking ointment. It stinks.

“You’re sure about this?” I beg, but she just waves me off with her clean hand.

“Don’t be such a pup!”

I glare at her: You fucking try stretching a wolf’s muscle over a man’s arm.

“Ready?” she asks, with a wink.

I put my other hand between my teeth and bite down as I look away.

I nod once and she lays into it.

With a red hot poker.

I drive my teeth into my finger and focus everything there. Harder I bite.

I taste blood.

And the pain in my arm starts to fade. Holy shit, it’s actually starting to fade!

I look up and she’s smiling proudly. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it.”

“What the hell is in that?” I ask, and laugh while cringing, as the pain drains away.

“None of your business, youngun! Now get to your fixing it.”

I nod and she steps away.

Slowly—carefully—I reach into the tissue, regaining awareness of the muscles and fibres in my arm. There are blockages and snags everywhere, snarled lines with jagged edges, caught into each other, tied in knots. Fuck, I made a mess of it. But I feel them now. I start to collect them, in my mind, in my being, taking each in turn. They start to slip into place, like the workings of a lock.

Finally, barely daring to breathe, I change, halfway and back.

And it’s done.

I inspect it, but the pain is mostly gone. It feels right. The skin still hasn’t healed, from where I peeled it off yesterday, and there’s still some swelling, but everything else works again.

I turn to her and smile.

I steel myself against what I know will come, and change.

The just re-injured tissues in my right foreleg-arm-elbow don’t respond to my wishes. They twist and shear, stretch and grate, across bone, across ligaments, against tendons. White lightning that doesn’t flash, that grows only brighter, louder, angrier. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from screaming out, driving my teeth together, and drag myself through.

Into screaming, blazing agony—the pain of swelling, abused; cold, sharp glass, driven deep, twisted about.

The promise of something that

will

last.

Desperately, I grab for it. Please! I beg. But its solace is closed to me now. We aren’t friends. We never were. It smacks me away with a curse and kicks at me on the ground. I grind my teeth and squeeze shut my eyes, as it shrieks through me, around me, over me, hateful and unequivocal.

But the reason for it all yells at me, too, through the violence.

Tiergan! Here!

Now!

I drag my focus away, back to the real world, back to bigger problems. Back to him.

I force my eyes open. He’s waiting, jaws still open. Ready.

“Please, Sir,” I gasp, and blink away tears. I meet his yellow gaze, and refuse to flinch. “I am Tiergan. My cousin is Brennan. We are here to arrange, passage.”

His jaws spread, a growl, rumbling deep.

“Please, Sir,” I plead. “We come from Aiden. He was supposed to call . . . .”

The pain pulses outward, inward. Pins and needles roll up my fingers and into my wrist. I hear my breathing—ragged, and uneven.

I want to clench my fist, to react to it, to tense at it.

But that would be a grave mistake.

The rumble in his chest softens, and his jaws close. He stalks forward, slowly, eyes never leaving me.

I cringe as he moves his nose in, towards my arm, but he stops short. He sniffs at it then steps back and changes.

He’s older than I thought. And built like a tank.

“You are not one of Aiden’s,” he spits.

I shake at the force of it. “No, Sir. I’m one of Faolan’s.”

“I don’t know any Faolan. You said Aiden.” His voice drops, gravel becoming flint. “I would not lie to me, boy.”

Hasn’t Aiden called?

I shake my head and plead again. “Aiden’s our neighbour, Sir. We are travelling to Carrigan’s. We have Aiden’s leave. We came to ask yours. He was to call ahead.”

“Phone’s out.”

Oh, shit, no.

“Sir, please, I promise you, we have his leave.”

He eyes me again.

“You smell familiar, boy. Who is this Faolan?”

“He’s my brother, sir.”

“You are from the east?”

“No, Sir,” I reply and shake my head. “The city.”

“You are trying my patience, boy. Why are you here? Carrigan is north of you.”

“With Rian between, Sir. That path is now closed to us.”

His eyes widen. “Between Rian and Aiden? You are one of Kael’s!”

“Sir? Kael was my father.”

He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, cavernous laugh. He waves his hand and instantly his pack backs away. Brennan releases an audible sigh of relief, but doesn’t quite relax. Dugan looks back down to me.

“Sir?” I ask.

“What have you done to your arm, son?”

Huh? What the fuck just happened? “Sir?” I plead again, and pull slightly away from him.

He smiles at me. “I knew Kael. You have his scent. You may cross my lands.

“Now, what have you done to your arm?”

I whimper a greeting and drop tail, but it does little good. They stalk in towards us from all sides, growling to shake the Earth. I back away, but already the gap we came through is no escape—there are fangs and claws within striking distance on either side. I bump up against Brennan’s flank. His tail flickers by my head, not quite down—not quite down enough. I can feel his indecision, his growing agitation, and it scares me more than they do.

If he tries something, we’re fucked. If we aren’t already.

I crane around frantically, but there’s no way out. Every direction, there’s another gaping maw, all teeth and anger.

The biggest one stalks in, just ahead of the closing circle. I whine a warning to Brennan and thump his flank with mine. I feel his muscles respond and I yip, “Stop,” at him, without looking.

I crouch down—all the way down, stomach flat on the ground, right foreleg protesting sharply at the strain—and whimper again, before the First.

“Mercy”, I beg.

He leaps at me, jaws wide. And I freeze.

Brennan dives away as nearly twenty stone of muscle and snarl land hard on my side, knocking me away. I scream out in fear and agony as my right front leg overextends at the damaged knee, and he’s on top of me again instantly. A giant forepaw lands hard on my left flank, knocking the wind out of me, and his jaws are at my throat.

I close my eyes and from somewhere deep, everything goes oddly calm. Still.

The pain in my foreleg radiates up, vibrant and deafening. It wants to be friends. I ease myself into it. Slowly, calmly, I let it run through me, filling every fibre with its own strange, sharp reality.

Death won’t be so bad, I think, and almost laugh. I feel my body go limp.

I’m sorry Brennan. Looks like you shouldn’t have followed me, after all.

Dimly, in the distance, outside of my new world—my safe world—I feel his hot breath and cold saliva on my throat, I smell the scent of blood and entrails. His growl tries to rattle into my brain.

And I wait, floating in that fiery ocean. A tiny part of me panics at my lack of panic. I should be afraid, it tells me. I should be desperate.

I should beg.

It makes me want to smile, but I pour the emotion back into the ocean and wait.

Three seconds pass.

Five.

Ten.

The pressure on my flank lessens, and his hot, fetid breath retreats.

I open my eyes, just a crack, to see him, still standing over me, still all teeth and anger. But less then there had been.

Across the clearing, Brennan is crouched, facing off against two wolves bigger than him, and another behind. His growl is quiet and low, full of fear, but fear held in check. Nobody moves.

I look back to the First and ease myself back out, just a bit. Instantly, what was sharp and fiery becomes jagged and angry, and I wince at the pain, but it’s okay. I use it. I whimper, “change,” and make it a question.

“Mercy,” I add, though now I’m not sure who I’m asking it of.

He steps off me and back two steps, then closes his jaws halfway, and nods.