“I don’t want to be a werewolf,” she muttered, the scent of her fear filling the truck. She wiped her cheek with her hand. He couldn’t comfort her because his wolf was still angry.
He gave her a bitter smile she didn’t see because she wasn’t looking at him. “Neither do I.”
She didn’t come the next night. Asil waited as long as he dared, then called Bran.
“She’s here,” Bran said. “I helped her change, and it was harder than the last time I did it.”
He didn’t ask, but Asil told him anyway. “I scared her. She snapped at me, and my wolf was unhappy.”
“She’s dominant,” Bran said. “Too dominant for old wolves like us to be able to let things slide. I’ll talk to her.”
“No,” Asil told him. “She needs to be afraid. If she goes on First Hunt, it might make her safer if she is afraid.” Too much fear might cause the new wolves to hunt her, but not enough fear and she’d put herself in harm’s way. She needed not to go on First Hunt. But that was not why he had scared her. “She is safer if she is afraid of me. I almost hurt her, Bran.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.” It had been too close. And all she had done was show a little disrespect.
“She is safe with you, Asil.”
He laughed. “No one is safe with me. No one.” He hung up the phone—something, he told his wolf fiercely, that was much more disrespectful than Kara had been yesterday.
It snowed that night, dumping six inches before morning. Asil waited until it stopped around noon to go out and shovel it. He heard the howls of hunting wolves and frowned. All of the people in Aspen Creek—not that there were many of them—knew about the werewolves. But to hunt like that was still taking too many chances. Besides, he frowned, werewolves were not hounds, they did not need to make noise when they hunted.
And then he heard her; wolf or human, he knew her voice. Kara yipped, a high-pitched, terrified sound. Those bastards weren’t hunting deer. He dropped the shovel and ran, wishing he was on four paws, wishing his human body was faster, wishing the snow had not fallen so deeply. He howled, the cry sounding odd coming from his human throat, but it would carry, telling Kara he was on his way.
Who would dare? he thought with shock that slowed him not in the least. Who would dare hunt one of the Marrok’s pack in his own territory? Idiots, he decided grimly. It wasn’t an accident that Charles was feared as much as he was. That other werewolves thought of the Marrok as some magical wolf far removed from them—because it wasn’t in a werewolf’s nature to tamely bow to authority just because it was presented to them. Most especially it wasn’t in an Alpha werewolf’s nature. And sometimes Bran’s chosen means of presenting himself as a quiet, thoughtful, and intelligent leader became something of a liability.
Every few years, when the idiots had forgotten too much, or new idiots were born—the Marrok had to remind them why they obeyed him and not the other way around. Usually, Bran was sharp enough to make sure that the idiots didn’t hurt anyone but themselves along the way.
Asil’s body knew these woods, he’d spent nearly fifteen years here, and his feet knew every rock and hole within miles of his house. He was pretty sure he knew where the howls had been coming from. If Kara was leading them here, she’d take the most direct path—and after a week and more of coming to his greenhouse every day, she should know the most direct path.
The idiots were still making noise, so either they hadn’t caught her yet, or they were playing with her. Asil jumped a creek bed hidden under the snow and a thin sheet of ice and, with the trail flat and straight before him, stretched out and ran. He thought he’d hit top speed when Kara yipped in pain. He found another gear and moved faster.
They were loud, which was foolish and arrogant in these woods. Arrogance was a fine trait—but not when combined with stupidity.
Even as his wolf raged that one in his care had been hurt, his human brain was picking at the motivation. Everyone knew whose woods these were. Everyone knew that wolves who did not belong to the Marrok’s pack were not allowed to hunt here unless they were invited. Everyone here would know about Kara—she was unique, a child Changed who survived when no child survived a werewolf attack. Everyone knew she belonged to the Marrok, even though they did not know that she belonged to Asil—the Moor.
For fifteen years, Asil had tuned out gossip that came by him. He was no longer an Alpha, he had come here to die—what did he care about other werewolves?
There was a narrow gully up ahead, where prey could be trapped. From the sounds of it, that’s where his prey was. He quit worrying about why and began thinking about what he planned to do. He left the trail and ran up the side of the mountain so he could come at the gully from the side.
Kara growled fiercely, and his heart ached at the fear in her voice. Someone would pay for the fear in her voice.
He would kill them all.
No, Asil thought. He would let Bran kill them all. Because if he started killing, he did not trust himself to stop—and Kara was at risk. He would let the monster out someday, but not when it risked the death of someone in his charge.
He caught a glimpse of his quarry, mostly hidden by the drop in the terrain, and leaped in among them. He took them totally by surprise, three werewolves that his eyes didn’t know, though his nose told him that he’d met at least one of them before. Kara, blood streaming from a shallow cut along her ribs, yipped in terror and tried to jump in front of him. To protect him.
It hurt his pride even as it charmed him.
The strangers recovered their wits, such as they were, and turned to face him. Showing their fangs and snapping them together in an attempt to frighten him. They thought him helpless in his human skin.
“What are you?” he asked them in disgust. “Crocodiles?” He showed them his teeth as he let his power sweep over them, the power of an ancient wolf who had led his own pack for many centuries. The force of it rumbled in his voice as he said, “Down.”
All of the wolves dropped to the ground, including Kara.
But calling upon his power was a mistake. To call upon his dominance was to bring his wolf to the fore, and his wolf was savagely angry. He roared, tearing the tissues of his throat with the sound. He tasted his own blood before the werewolf healed the violence he’d done to himself.
It was Kara who saved him. She whined piteously, her wolf sensing his rage and not understanding that it wasn’t her at fault.
The wolf hesitated—and Asil locked the beast down with gentle finality. Not yet. He would not give in just yet. He wanted to see what this child of the wolf would grow into.
“Pobrecita,” he said to her tenderly. “Not you.” He lifted her to her feet. “You I am not angry with.” She pressed her unwounded side desperately tight to his leg. She was shaking and panting in fear. Not of him, he hoped.
“It is all right now,” he told her. “You are safe.”
One of the wolves lunged to his feet, snarling. She flinched, and Asil drove him back down to the snow-covered ground with his gaze. The man beneath the wolf’s pelt might want to attack, but his wolf was outclassed and knew it.
As long as they were in their wolf forms, they could not attack him. Asil glanced at Kara, who was fair game—though he thought that she would not be vulnerable for long. She had a backbone, that girl. He thought of the way she’d gotten between him and the other wolves because she mistakenly assumed that because he was in his human form, he might be outgunned. No, she was born to be a protector, she just needed to grow up.
For now, though, it was for him to protect her. So he did to the strangers what he had not done to Kara and used his power to drag them into their human bodies. The change would hurt—a lot—and then they would get cold on the walk to his car. He did not care at all about their sufferings.