The wind grew stronger the higher up Adam climbed, but he’d been expecting that. He had grabbed a pair of safety glasses from the SUV because the driving snow did a pretty good job of sandblasting his eyes. But the second time he had to stop to clear them on the way to the roof, he put them in his pocket. His eyes would just have to deal.
Once at the top of the ladder, he examined the environment he’d be working in. He’d chosen to climb up the back of the building where the wind had blown the roof mostly clear. His initial plan had been to walk up this side of the roof and tie off to one of the chimneys that Liam had assured him were in superb shape and very sturdy.
From his current vantage point, though, he realized that plan needed some tweaking. He’d seen slides in playgrounds that looked less slick than this roof. Walking wasn’t going to work.
He knew there was a grin on his face as he charged up the roof—hopefully where the joist two-by-fours supported the aluminum from underneath. He reached the nearest chimney and roped himself up without incident. He let out a sharp whistle, so Liam knew he was free to go run herd on the ground-bound snow shovel personnel.
Snow shoveling in a blizzard when the metal underneath his feet was slick and set steeper than forty degrees was much more entertaining than the ordinary sort. Especially when, finished with the less snow-packed south-facing side, he turned his attention to the front, where the ice dam had kept the snow in place. The first load he shoveled off the roof landed either on top of someone or on a path someone had just cleared, from the swearing that drifted up to him.
“Sorry,” he called down, not really meaning it.
Adam had done his share of mountain climbing. The last time had been about twenty years ago, but he didn’t have any trouble remembering how it worked. The goblins’ equipment was a little lighter and more user-friendly than what he’d used, but that could have been as much due to price point as it was to a couple of decades of technological advancements.
Three stories in the air, the wind was more than brutal. After a few minutes of working on the north side, Adam put his safety glasses back on and pulled his balaclava over his face for good measure. He imagined Mercy making comments about bank robbers.
It wasn’t a quick job. There was a lot of roof, a lot of snow, and a stubborn ridge of ice. He had to temper the force he used when he was separating the ice from the metal roof so his hardened steel shovel didn’t go right through the aluminum.
After a bit the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, but by that time the work had warmed his muscles so he didn’t much notice. Werewolves were built for winter, even in human shape. He found clearing the roof deeply satisfying. An old soldier learned to relish a task with clear objectives.
Eventually, even with the bite of the wind and the occasional face-plant when his boots slipped, he lost himself in the work. The snowball caught him by surprise when it hit the back of his neck.
He jerked around, but there was no one on the roof with him. The trajectory had been wrong to come from the ground—it would have had to come over the ridge of the roof. He looked at the nearest trees suspiciously, though it would take a werewolf to make a snowball fly that far. No one lurked in the trees.
When nothing more happened, he looked down to take the next scrape—and saw an arrow drawn in the pristine snow he’d been about to shovel. The arrow had not been there when the snowball hit him. He would have noticed.
He inhaled, but he didn’t smell anyone. Though there was one person here he wouldn’t smell, wasn’t there?
“What’s up, Jack?” Adam asked, his gaze following the direction of the arrow until he saw something big moving out there in the woods. It was maybe a quarter of a mile away as the crow flies.
He pulled his safety glasses off and tipped his head to protect his eyes from the wind.
Without knowing exactly how far away it was, he couldn’t judge the size with accuracy—except that along the edges of the lake on the northeast side there were a series of picnic benches where, in better weather, guests could eat. One of those picnic tables was directly between Adam and the whatever it was—bear? It was the wrong shape for a bear, but closer to that than a moose. The picnic table, which was closer, was less than half the size of the creature. Grizzly, Adam thought. Or something with a grizzly size and shape.
Despite the distance, he breathed in, his wolf itching to identify the predator who had entered his territory, no matter how temporary that territory was. Adam agreed with the wolf, especially as the creature waited just along the path Mercy would be taking back from the ranch.
He stared at the distant creature for a few breaths. Thought about why Jack would be worried about a grizzly that far away from the lodge. Then he reached for Mercy through their bond.
It was his habit not to spy on his wife; he knew how she felt about it. Mostly he was content just to know that she was out there, somewhere. Instantly he could tell that she was close—and that was all he could pick up. She wasn’t blocking him, and there was nothing wrong with their bond. Maybe, he thought, as his pulse picked up with the call to action, whatever was interfering with their bond was the same thing that interfered with his sat phone. Hrímnir’s storm eliminating communication, maybe. Magic could be literal like that.
Mercy should be on her way back from the horses by now. He’d lost track of time, but he’d been up here awhile. And if she traveled cross-country, which would be faster than the road, he reckoned that her path would cross right where that beast was.
It—and it didn’t move like any bear he’d ever seen—was waiting for Mercy.
Although this conviction came without facts to back it up, Adam had survived this long by not questioning his odd convictions. Instincts. And something had driven Jack to make sure Adam noticed the creature lying in wait.
Adam dropped the glasses, ignoring how they tumbled off the edge of the roof. He rid himself of his safety line by the simple expedient of breaking the carabiner that attached his harness to the rope. Free, he ran down the freshly cleared roof, picking up speed from the steep pitch.
Discipline kept the wolf from emerging as he leapt off the edge of the roof. Clearing the mess of the lodge’s front gardens with a few feet to spare, he landed on his feet and rolled to protect his joints. They would heal if he damaged them, of course, but he needed them to get to Mercy.
He was conscious of Peter’s shout as Adam started sprinting through the deep snow. Without the thirty-odd feet of elevation, he couldn’t see the creature—and he’d never seen Mercy at all. But he knew where it was. He’d have to run around the edge of the lake.
He thought about traversing the lake. This side—he was on the far side of the lodge from the hot springs—was frozen solid, scored by drifts of snow. He might cut the distance by a third if he ran on the ice.
But werewolves can’t swim. If he fell through, he would never make it in time to help Mercy. He vaulted over assorted raised flower beds and fences until he was running along something that might be a path that edged the lake, where there were no trees or shrubs to hinder him. Like the rest of the ground, though, it was full of treacherous drifts that he had to break through or jump.
The wolf’s paws would be faster than his clumsy human feet that had no claws to dig into the snow. That knowledge burned in the magic in his blood. But he couldn’t afford the time it would take him to shift.
Someone from the lodge was running behind him, calling questions. But Adam’s wolf had risen in his heart, and he was unable to understand the human words. Adam didn’t slow himself down by looking behind him.