He’s older than I’d expected—black hair, now mostly grey, and a weathered face. Mid-fifties, maybe. Neck down, though, he could be me, ten years older.

Garvey tries to lick at my hands again, but I pull them behind me, out of his reach.

There’s no way around it: what I’ve done is inexcusable, and Faolan’s going to kill me, when he finds out. If Torrin doesn’t do it first.

The whiskey hasn’t worn off much, and my brain feels as thick as soup.

I avoid his eyes as I respond. “I’m sorry, Sir.” I say it carefully, slowly, just in case. My words all sound distinct to me, but I can’t be certain. “My name is Tiergan, one of Faolan’s. I came here with Keely, one of Dugan’s, to ask for passage across your lands.”

I feel him react, and glance up, just for an instant. His eyebrow is raised.

“Rather unorthodox, wouldn’t you say? Running out here to do it?” His voice is almost flat—but, there’s an edge on it. Not anger. Amusement, maybe? Could it be? “Drunk on my best whiskey,” he adds, ominously, “if I’m not mistaken.”

My crazy hope fizzles. Shit—I must be drunker than I thought, to misread him so much.

“It is as you say,” I reply—again, to his mouth, “and I have no excuse, Sir.” And I really don’t. I’ve fucked us up.

But any explanation’s got to be better than none. I take a deep breath, and chance the truth.

“I got some . . . bad news, on the phone, Sir, while we were waiting for you . . . and I acted stupidly. I’m very sorry, Sir. I realize you can’t let this pass, but I . . . I beg you not to punish my whole family for my mistake. Please, Sir, you can do whatever you want with me—but my cousin, Brennan . . . please allow him to continue through.”

I chance to look up, hoping to communicate my sincerity, then quickly drop my head to wait.

“Through to where, exactly?” he asks, after a moment, still impossibly without anger.

Hesitantly, I look up to meet his eyes. I can’t read him, but he seems calm.

To his right, one of the younger-acting dogs lies down and curls up, yawning. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

“We are on our way to Carrigan’s, Sir.”

“Carrigan?” he says, and looks intently to the right for a moment. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, it’s been a long time . . . .

“So, what was your news?”

“Sir?” I ask, and start shivering again. I really shouldn’t have come out here.

For so many reasons.

“That drove you to my drink, and into my woods?”

“Oh,” I say, and drop my gaze. My eyes start to burn, a little. “Just, ah . . . ”—I look up again, and force a smile, but it doesn’t want to last—“somebody I care about . . . she, um . . . . ” What? She what? She left me? She didn’t. I left her. And Faolan’s just doing what he said he would.

Fuck.

“Don’t worry about it, son,” he says. “I get the idea.”

“Sir?” I ask again, like an idiot.

“Come on, we should get you inside. Or at least out of that skin.” He chuckles and reaches out to pull me away from the tree. “You seem sober enough. Can you run?”

“S-sir?”

“You know, if you keep calling me that, we are going to have a problem. The name’s Torrin. Now let’s get going, okay—even I’m getting cold out here.”

“You’re not . . . an-g-gry?”

He snickers. “Son . . . I’m not thrilled you’re here. I’ve told Dugan more than once, that as far as I’m concerned, you guys can go wherever the fuck you want. It’s a free country. All this territory bullshit is just that, and I’d just as soon not deal with it. It’s a pain in my ass, you know?

“But you’re here now, and hey”—he nods to Garvey, who has turned around beside me, his tail thumping raspily across something behind us—“Garvey likes you, so that’s something.

He smiles again, briefly, then grows serious. “Look, don’t worry about the whiskey. Hell, if you hadn’t had it, Sky would have, so, what the hell, right? And as for running in my woods, well, I bought them for running in, okay? It’s cool.

“Now, can we go?” He smiles, and it spreads mischievously up to his eyes. “Or are you going to try some more to talk me into being mad at you?” He laughs heartily and waves his hand to his dogs as he steps away from me. They crowd around him, tails wagging again, while I start rubbing my arms with my hands, for warmth.

I can’t believe it. No consequences? None? At all?

Who the hell is this guy?

I watch as he touches each of the dogs in turn. They jostle up against each other, vying for his attention, and a few of them even playing with each other. They all seem to have forgotten about me. Well, except for the dangerous-looking setter—she’s still watching me, standing apart from her packmates. But even she has dropped the air of threat.

Garvey snorts at my side, and bumps up against me.

“Well?” Torrin asks, turning again to me.

I nod. “Th-thank you, Sir.

“I mean T-Torrin.”

“Yeah, yeah—don’t mention it. Seriously—don’t mention it. Now, let’s go.”

I nod again, and we change.

Torrin barks back at me once, then runs off into the trees. His pack swarm quickly after, except for the setter, who steps over to sniff at me a few times, and Garvey, who seems determined to stick to me like glue. The setter and I make some kind of peace, and then he takes off after the rest.

Garvey trots forward a few steps, then stops.

I snort. Fucking dog.

But if it hadn’t been for him, I’d have . . . .

I shake my head, but the fog won’t clear. And worse, something new is growing there. Or maybe it was there all along.

Fuck it. Whatever.

I step over to Garvey and briefly nuzzle the side of my face against his. His tail thumps a few times into mine.

Fucking dog.

I shake my head again, and launch into the trees, with Garvey close on my heels.

The baying of dogs chases me from dream into waking and I snap my eyes open to fading twilight, but too late. They’re closing from all sides—nearly a dozen of them, from the sound—and only seconds away. And I’m alone—Garvey is nowhere to be seen.

I haul myself to my feet, my back scraping against the tree as I rise, and cast about for a way out, but to no avail: from every direction, I can hear them crashing through underbrush. All of them coming toward me.

I steel myself for a fight I can’t win.

A large setter bounds in from the left and stops short, his bark dropping to a low, deep growl. An enormous wolfhound—ten stone if he’s an ounce—steps into the clearing from the right. He doesn’t make a sound, but, then, he doesn’t need to. His size and his stiff, flat tail are making all the threat he needs.

“Hey, boy,” I say calmly, quietly, to the setter, then nod to the wolfhound, holding my hands up non-aggressively. My shoulders want to tense, but I strain to keep them down, relaxed. “Easy. You guys wouldn’t happen to know Garvey, would you?”

Another setter enters opposite. Not the physical threat the wolfhound is, but there’s something far more aggressive about her. And I can’t see it clearly in the fading twilight, but I can smell it—a dark, slick stain on her muzzle. Blood—still wet. Our eyes meet and she watches me cooly as the other two stalk in another step. I glance to either side, then back to her. She barks once—not at me—and almost instantly the noise in the underbrush turns even more sharply in my direction.

Maybe, if it was just the other two, I could convince them to commit and roll out between them, but this other one . . . she’s way too smart, there’s no way she falls for it. There’s no way I get out of this without going through her—and she won’t be even remotely easy.

“Garvey?” I call—a little more loudly than I should, but as calmly as I can manage. I shift my weight, ever so slightly.

There’s suddenly another presence to my right. The first setter reacts instantly—all his attention goes in that direction—and the wolfhound’s attention flickers behind him. The other setter doesn’t even flinch.

But neither does she attack. I watch her for a moment longer, then steal a glance toward my new doom.

One grey wolf. Not much bigger than me, but utterly calm and ready.

Two more large dogs spill in around him, and run over to join the wolfhound at my right. They stiffen, and show teeth.

I check positions again, but nobody—not even the dangerous one—has taken advantage of the distraction. Watching the setter as best I can in my peripheral, I turn again to the wolf.

He pauses over the spot where I fell and sniffs the ground, almost casually.

Suddenly, to my great relief, Garvey bounds into the clearing from behind the wolf, his tail wagging energetically. He barks to me as he pushes through the growing crowd of growling dogs—who react with confusion—and runs up to thrust his head into my hands.

“Shit, Garvey,” I say, almost under my breath. He licks my hand.

The wolf steps casually through the crowd as two more dogs run in from the left and stop. The dangerous setter holds her ground, watching me intently, without so much as a moment’s distraction.

I rub Garvey’s head and wait as the wolf approaches. The others grow quiet and tense—ready to end me at even the slightest threat, waiting for the verdict.

He stops at my feet and sniffs me carefully, but without apparent malice. Garvey—apparently unaware of the gravity of the situation—bumps his flank against the wolf and licks playfully at his muzzle.

The wolf steps back and changes.

“Who are you,” he asks, without emotion, “and what are you doing on my land?”

I run harder, tearing the soil with each step, spraying little chunks of the dark black earth and old leaves into the air behind. I hear them smack wetly into tree trunks, onto dead leaves. Behind.

That son of a bitch.

That mother FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!

Who the FUCK does he think he is?

I bank hard around a tree, and then another, down, toward the river, toward the wet-smelling air. There should be a steep climb on the other side. I hope. A nasty, vicious, impossible-to-take-at-a-run climb. Something I can go straight up. Straight up at this speed. Straight up at this speed if it kills me.

That son of a bitch.

I hear Garvey bark, but only faintly. When did he fall so far behind? I look quickly back as I launch over a wide pit—the nearly-rotted carcass of the uprooted tree that created it lying off to the left—but I can’t see him any more. I look forward again and land with beautiful, controlled force.

Faster. Recklessly fast. Suicidally fast.

I like the sound of that. I laugh at the idea as I smash through a narrow gap between two trees.

Fuck it. Nobody can touch me when I run.

Faster.

The whiskey is starting to hit—not much, not enough, but finally, there, in the back of my head, at the base of my skull. Warmth and softness. Melting in. I can feel it in my legs, too. Just a tiny disconnect between action and perception. I’m moving, but just a little bit ahead of my body. I let it in, and focus past it, through it. It’s my periphery, I’m the centre. Sharp inhale; front, front, back together; exhale. Harder. Again. Up, over. Land, and off again. Through.

Nobody can touch me when I run. Not even my asshole brother. That son of a bitch. And after what I did for him.

FUCK!

Don’t I deserve just the tiniest bit of respect?

Don’t I?

Behind my back. Behind my fucking BACK! Like I’m a fucking pup. Like I didn’t just . . . .

FUCK!

Like I didn’t just . . . .

That son of a bitch.

Yeah, well, fuck him.

I change my mind. I jump and twist in the air, landing hind-feet-first and push off to the right, away from the smell of water, along the valley, away from the house, away from Brennan and his backstabbing little lies.

Has he been laughing at me all fucking day?

All fucking day!

Yeah, well, fuck him, too.

I smash through another gap, and tear moss and rotten bark off a lying trunk as I scramble over. The ground rises sharply ahead, but I push forward. I’m not done yet. Not even by half. Not even if I puke my guts up after from running so hard.

Yeah, because running is what you do best.

Shut the fuck up, asshole.

Yeah, whatever.

Son of a bitch.

My breath is growing ragged in my chest, but I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I can run forever.

Forever.

The whiskey is asserting itself, like a wave washing over me—like a soft, fuzzy, heaviness, spilling down from the top of my skull.

I almost trip on a branch. Almost. But it’ll take more than that.

Yeah, six more. Good thing you already drank them.

Laughter wells up—giddy, maniacal laughter. But only a hairsbreadth from something else.

And my stomach doesn’t like me any more.

Somewhere far behind, Garvey barks again. It’s a deep sound, but sad. Like I’ve abandoned him. And I guess I feel bad about it. It’s not his fault he’s just a dog.

But the something else is growing. I can feel it, like a bad taste, like a bad smell, somewhere back there in my brain. Disgust.

Or pain.

I crash over another downed tree, and over another depression, but my landing isn’t quite right. I’m starting to slow, too, in spite of myself. The world isn’t reacting to me quite as fast as it usually does. Or, perhaps, it is me that isn’t reacting quite as fast. But everything is starting to feel just a tiny bit out of sync. Like I’m dreaming this.

If only that were the true.

Where am I going? Shouldn’t I know where I’m going?

Son of a bitch.

That’s such a weird thing for me to say. That’s such a human thing for me to say.

I can’t do this any more. The alcohol . . . . I can’t stay in this form. Not with this much whiskey in my stomach. I know it. I knew it when I drank it, when I changed. I knew what would happen.

Fuck, I wanted it.

But my feet keep running. In spite of my jagged breaths. In spite of my aching muscles.

In spite of the growing fog in my head.

Come on, Tiergan, you have to stop. You have to change back. Before this goes too far.

That was way too much to drink, you idiot.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

Yes, you do.

No, I don’t.

Yes, you do.

No, I don’t. I fucking don’t!

I did what I did for my family, goddamnit! I did what I did because I had to! I did what I did because I had no other choice!

You’re such a fucking coward.

Fuck you.

You are such a fucking coward.

Fuck you!

You are such a fucking coward.

My left front foot catches on nothing at all, and I spill forward and change. I throw my foot/hand in front of my face as I fall, and smack hard into the uneven ground. My stomach rolls, and I forcefully puke out a nasty mixture of acid and barley mash, then heave twice more before it is done.

You are such a fucking coward. You are such a fucking coward. You are such a fucking coward.

I crawl forward, away from the stench I’ve left on the ground, and curl up at the base of a tree. My skin is soaked with sweat, and the air is suddenly freezing. I pull my legs close and start shivering.

Garvey barks in the distance, and I suddenly feel sorry for him. “Here, boy!” I call, but I know I’m not doing it for him.

Because I am such a fucking coward.

Because it’s so fucking obvious to me, all of a sudden.

I didn’t end it for Faolan’s sake. Or for that of my family. Or anything noble like that at all.

I ended it because I was afraid. Because I am afraid. Of what he’ll do to me. Or of what Aiden will do to me.

Because I am such a fucking coward.

Because, deep down, I know that she’s better off without me.

And this isn’t just the alcohol talking. It doesn’t lie to me. It just makes me stop lying to myself.

Fuck, I’m cold. I wish I hadn’t left my clothes back near the house. I could really use them now.

I could change back—it would certainly be warmer.

But I’m done with this feeling. I need it gone. Now. And that means this form. It will last forever in the other.

And I’m so tired. I just want to sleep for a while. Until this is gone. Until I’m sober again.

But I’ll probably freeze to death out here.

Fuck. Way to plan ahead, Tiergan. You fucking idiot.

The world isn’t spinning, but it feels like it wants to. And I just want this to end.

I hear Garvey crashing through the forest, approaching. His breath is hard and ragged. I guess I really did push it a little hard there, for a while. Poor guy. I hope his pride isn’t too hurt by his not being able to keep up.

I giggle, this time obviously hysterically, even to me, but it quickly turns to a snarl. Not at Garvey. And not at Faolan, either—or Brennan.

I can’t blame them for what they are.

No, there’s only one person I can really have contempt for . . . . Only one person whose choices I control.

I am such a fucking coward.

“Hey, boy,” I say sadly, as Garvey comes into view. He seems both happy and reproachful as he approaches. He stops to sniff at my contribution to the local flora, before jogging over to me. I wrap my arm around this neck and pull him close.

“Do you think you could keep me warm for a while?” I ask—pathetically—like he can understand me. “I just want to sleep for a while, okay?”

He doesn’t respond, but then I guess it’s to be expected. I giggle again, as tears start to spill from my eyes, and I pull him close. “You’re a good dog,” I say, and sink back into the tree trunk. “A good dog.”

And I am such a coward.

I almost laugh out loud.

It’ll be sundown soon. This is a bad idea.

But it’s not like it’ll be the first time.

Yeah. A really bad . . . idea.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but to no effect. Useless tears continue to flow.

I’m just going to . . . just close my eyes . . . for a few minutes . . . .

Okay?

“How long have we been waiting?” Keely whines, turning from the large window.

Brennan scowls at her from his post by the door.

“I don’t know . . . ” I reply, with a little more edge than I’d intended—I soften my tone—”three minutes longer than the last time you asked?” She drops her gaze.

But I’m not really annoyed at her. It has been nearly an hour since we arrived, and it’s going to be sundown soon.

Where the fuck is Torrin?

Keely returns to the view out into the forest twilight. Even through the glass, the river chortles noticeably in the near distance.

This trip is not going as planned.

Brennan leans casually against the ornate oak trim of the entry archway, but his foot is live—pressed firmly against the wall, ready to spring—and has been since we arrived. Expecting trouble.

And I know what he’s thinking: he wants us to screw Torrin—and anybody else in our way—and proceed posthaste to Carrigan’s. And who am I kidding, I’m feeling much the same way, too.

But we already have enough enemies. We can’t afford to make more.

Fuck it.

“Brennan, give me your phone.”

“Huh?” he replies, but pushes himself off the wall.

“Your phone,” I reply, this time with exactly as much edge as I intend. “I want to call Faolan.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he walks over and hands it to me. Keely turns back from the window, suddenly interested.

Probably never seen a cellphone up close before.

“It’s quick-dial one,” he adds, as he returns to his post by the door.

I key in the appropriate sequence and wait for it to connect.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hello?” comes Elish’s voice from the other end of the line.

“Hey, Elish. It’s Tiergan. Faolan around?”

There’s a pause—too long—before she answers, sympathetically, “Um . . . he’s . . . out right now.”

“Out?” I reply, with a sudden and intense feeling of dread in my chest. “Where is he?”

Another long pause. The sense of dread spreads to my stomach and shoulders.

“He’s at Aiden’s.”

Son of a bitch!

“Aiden’s?” I reply, and even I can hear the desperation in my voice. But I can’t help it.

And I don’t care.

“How long’s he been there?”

Another pause.

What the fuck is it with the pausing!?!

“Most of the day . . . ” she finally replies. Again, sympathetically. “He left about an hour after you did.”

That son of a bitch! That lazy, good for nothing, mother-fucking son of a bitch!

FUCK!!!!!

“Tiergan?” Elish asks, and I realize several breaths have passed.

“Okay,” I force myself to say into the receiver. “Thanks. I’ve got to go now.”

“Tiergan,” she asks, “are you sure you’re o—”

I snap the phone shut and squeeze it tightly in my hand. Harder. And harder still.

At my feet, Garvey barks sharply and pulls his head from under my legs. My heel smacks into the wooden trim on bottom of the couch.

Keely says something, but I can’t hear the words.

I want to hit something. I want to hit something. I want to throw the phone against the wall and watch it smash. I squeeze it more tightly in my hand, but it refuses to give me even a crack.

Goddamned quality construction. Goddamned Brennan who couldn’t buy a cheap phone.

SON OF A BITCH FAOLAN!

Screw it! I twist and hurl the phone with all my might into the open fireplace. It smashes hard against the stone and shatters into a dozen pieces, that scatter about the room.

But it isn’t enough.

I need to hit something. I need to hit something NOW.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Brennan yells, running over to examine the ruin of his phone.

The muscles in my right hand start to protest from the strain as I clench them harder. Harder. Harder still. But not enough. GODDAMN IT NOT ENOUGH.

“What is it, Tiergan?” Keely asks, with concern and fear in her voice. But I don’t care.

I can’t break anything here.

I need to break something, and I can’t break anything here.

FUCK!!!!!!

I want to slam my fist into my thigh. Anything, to make this go away. But I can’t. I’m in charge here. My SON OF A BITCH brother saw to that. I can’t just let this out, I can’t.

Brennan is staring at me, pissed.

Did he know, that this was all an excuse? I’ll bet he fucking did. Son of a bitch has been laughing at me all fucking day!

My arm is shaking from the strain in my hand.

I surge up and cross the room. I feel Keely step toward me, but she hesitates before she gets too close.

I step over to the bar and pour myself a tumbler full of whiskey. I drain it—it scrapes down my throat and makes me want to puke—and pour another.

“You knew, didn’t you, you son of a bitch!” I growl, turning on Brennan with the full glass in my hand. It sloshes around, and some of the liquid spills down my hand and onto the hardwood below.

I raise the glass to my lips and drain it in three gulps. This time, it tears a strip off the back of my throat and it takes every ounce of will to keep from puking it right back up. The muscles of my face contort in protest, but I hold it in.

I consciously force myself to place the glass back on the bartop—gently—and release it unharmed.

“Know what?” he demands, feigning indignation like a pro.

And I almost believe him.

I smash my knuckles into the bartop, and the pain leaps gleefully up through my wrist.

“You son of a bitch!” I reply and stomp toward the doorway.

“Fuck you. And Faolan, too,” I growl as I step through.

“Where are you going?” he asks, as I take off down the hall.

“Out,” I yell, and drive my fist into a stone column as I turn the corner.

I hear Garvey’s nails on the floor behind me, but I don’t care. I slam the door open as I reach it and drive my feet into the ground with as much force as I can as I take off into the woods. Over the first hill, I tear my clothes from my body, and chuck them against a tree. One shoe bounces down the slope, but I don’t give a shit.

Faolan be damned. Brennan be damned.

Torrin be damned, too, for all I care.

I change, and take off into the trees. Garvey follows behind.