Winter Lost

I ran. I am speedier than a real coyote. Quicker than most of the werewolves, too. I knew where I was going, and I sent a wild call out to Adam—though he’d have felt my fear when Garmr attacked.

The guardian of Hel was faster. His teeth closed over my haunch. I don’t know that I had ever felt such pain. I couldn’t hear or see through the searing agony of what those teeth did—but it hurt my head so badly I didn’t feel any pain from my flesh.

I tore free more easily than should have been possible. And the leg he’d savaged still worked as well as it ever had. His teeth had passed right through my body—and done much more damage to my being than if he’d chewed on me physically.

I knew, I knew, I couldn’t let him bite me again. Still running, but now adapting a zigzagging, random path like a drunken rabbit, I made myself more difficult to catch and gained some ground on him. Possibly he was just playing with me.

I shifted to human. Naked in the icy storm, I wouldn’t be able to function for long. My toes burned and the wind cut into my flesh. I reached out into the air and closed my hand on the walking stick.

Interlude

Bonners Ferry, Idaho Zane

He left Ezra and Leon at a hotel in Sandpoint when the radio announced the road was closed past Bonners Ferry. The two of them—the avenger and the caretaker—were necessary for the Great Spell, but they were also people he loved. And they were human. From the weather report—and his inability to contact Liam at the lodge—he assumed the worst. He didn’t think any human could make it through this storm.

The Suburban he’d purchased in Spokane made it to Bonners Ferry only because of the chains he had on all four wheels. When he reached the barricade, he turned around and parked at the gas station a half mile back down the road. The lot was full of semitrucks and stranded motorists.

He left the Suburban and headed into the storm.

12

Adam

Adam had tried to talk Mercy into eating before she headed out to the ranch. Liam was determined that his snow shovelers should have lunch before he put them to work. But once Mercy had decided that the horses needed tending to, waiting was not an option.

“When someone locks them up in a barn, they can’t take care of themselves,” she told him. Then, with a frown, she asked, “Are you sure you want to do that? I can just leave my coat behind.”

He’d already destroyed the straps on his pack, so her words came a little late.

“I can get another one,” he told her.

“Yes, but I know how much that one cost.”

Her coat didn’t fit in her pack—which was much smaller to accommodate her coyote. He was tired of watching Mercy shiver. His pack was replaceable, and with a sharp knife and liberal application of duct tape—which he always kept in his SUV—his larger pack could be made to work. He was just grateful he’d thought to throw the packs they carried in their other forms into the SUV at the last minute.

“I can get another one,” he repeated.

Keep it casual, Hauptman, he cautioned himself. If he smothered her, she would leave. If he smothered her and she did not leave, he would be making her weaker. Less safe. And that was unacceptable.

He measured the pack straps against her and cut off another three inches.

“Another hour wouldn’t hurt them,” he tried.

“You tend to your horses before you tend to yourself,” she said, and he recognized both the cadence and the finality. Silently, he cursed Charles and anyone else who had taught Mercy about the care and feeding of horses.

He reminded himself that Mercy would be okay if she waited until she got back to eat. She’d eaten a big breakfast. She wasn’t a werewolf; she didn’t need the calories that the rest of the pack did.

His wolf wanted to insist on going with her. He’d already done that once, and it had gotten him here. But that had been different, and for a different cause. He didn’t mistrust her ability to take care of herself—he had wanted, had needed, her to know that she came first. Before pack.

His Mercy was prickly about her independence, and it had taken a battering over the past couple of years. He didn’t want to change her; he only wanted to keep her safe. Sometimes he had to admit he couldn’t do both. He had to trust her to know her limits. She was good about asking for help when she needed it.

The ranch wasn’t that far away, and the storm had subsided a little. Her coyote was probably even better equipped for traveling through this country in the winter than his wolf was. She was light enough to run on top of the snowpack, whereas he would have to break a trail.

He might still have insisted on coming if it hadn’t been for the reconsideration he’d seen in Liam’s face when Adam hadn’t fussed about Mercy going out in the storm on her own. Mercy was safer if everyone saw that Adam respected her ability to protect herself. It made them understand she was dangerous—even though most of them wouldn’t know why.