The Thing About Weres

A long cable of my magic was now wrapped around the trunk of the maple to my left.

The little brown wolf nudged Trowbridge’s knee and issued a whine of distress. Bowler-hat bent his head —why? To pray? To focus? Then with a deep inhale, he began winding my magic around his hand like a rope, over and over his knuckles, winching the Fae portal—all wreathing mist and purple-pink lights—across the pond with every rotation of his large fist.

Geez, this thieving Fae hadn’t needed to use any verbal commands like “Attach” or “Stick” or even a “Go get ’em, Tiger.” My full-blooded Fae mum had needed phrases to inform her magic of her wishes. “Dance,” she’d say to the water in the pond. And it would dance.

This was some Fae, for all his dandified ways.

“Hurry,” said Trowbridge.

Knox tried to ghost past me, intent on making an exit before the Alpha of Creemore gave him an ass- thumping. Which just ticked me. “My mate’s back,” I called out to his retreating back. “He’s going to kick your bony ass.”

It happened so quickly. Knox was there, halfway to his getaway, and then he was back—right in front of me—close enough that I could have licked the sweat off his upper lip. Ralph tensed on my head, as I shrank against my tree. “You really are mates.”

I lifted a proud chin. “Told you so.”

The NAW’s man leaned in closer. What? To whisper an insult? Then his shoulder flexed as he punched me in the gut.

It hurt.

“If I wasn’t tied up at the moment,” I said through my teeth, “I’d make you pay for that. Guess I’ll have to leave it up to Trowbridge to make you sorry.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, with a savage smile. “If you die, he will, too. Checkmate, bitch.”

Checkmate? For a few seconds, I didn’t feel any major pain—my brain wasn’t registering my body’s cry. Instead, I wasted two seconds puzzling over “checkmate” and another couple taking in a lungful of air to scream, “Trowbridge!”

Knox sprinted across the field, his focus on the path that led in the opposite direction of all those dangerous wolves waiting in the forest, away from the threat of the angry mate, and the strange Fae. He ran, all out, for the front of the house where his truck was waiting.

He ran for his life a little late, I thought with savage satisfaction.

Knox shouldn’t have flown across that field—he must have known better than to run from another wolf—but his arrogance had made him think he was bulletproof. Stupid and shortsighted. In the time Knox had rustled enough bile to punch a girl—one tied to a freakin’ tree—and flee, the portal had landed with its cargo. The little brown wolf perceived game sprinting toward escape, scented in that way that spoke of wounds and weakness. She had four legs, Knox had two; it wasn’t an even race. She flew after her quarry, leash whipping behind her. Her teeth caught the fabric of his jeans. The Were pivoted, leg kicking out, ready to hurt. She dodged, and then suddenly—spine twisting, jaws open—spun back at him. Snap. Her jaws clamped down on his arm.

Take that, Were in Black.

But he flung her off like she was a kid whining for attention and the little brown wolf became the little brown flying wolf. Her body cut through the air. She hit the ground with a spine-rattling jolt and a pathetic yelp.

Trowbridge and the Fae went thundering past me—nice of you all to stop by—my mate’s long ropes of hair flying behind him, the blond’s a sheaf of wheat, as they tore across the field. Halfway across the pasture, the gold chain twined around their wrists fell away. The portal travelers matched momentum for a few more ground-eating strides before the Fae realized he was no longer bound and stopped running.

My man kept going, two hundred pounds of male in hot pursuit.

Knox made into the tree line near the start of the path, but then he stopped, knee-deep in the vegetation, to shout, “I’m from the NAW!”

“I don’t care,” Trowbridge snarled. “You stink of sun-potion and my mate’s blood.”

“You can’t touch me.” And then Knox—perhaps realizing that he couldn’t outrun Trowbridge—did the dumbest thing.

He tried to stare down a true Alpha.

I saw Trowbridge’s back stiffen, and the muscles on his neck tightened. What transpired between them— what exchange of power and submission flew between them before Knox turned to run again—I’ll never know.

I’m feeling odd.

I lost my distance vision between one blink and another. The hurt in my belly was blossoming and unpleasantly—almost urgently—heating.

No, I really don’t feel right.

The stomach blow was hurting beyond all reason, as if Knox’s punch had been the match set to a pile of dry kindling ready to burn in my belly. Worse than heartburn. Its flames were growing; its burn spread outward.

Pain. Down there. Below my boobs. I bent my head. Goddess, Goddess, Goddess! There was a handle sticking out of my gut. My breath caught in my chest—frozen between an inhale and an exhale—as I tried to reconcile myself to the sight. That can’t be good. You can’t live with a knife in your gut. I want it out. Somebody’s got to take it out.

“Help,” I said, in a faint voice. I swallowed—the knife jerked—and called again, but this time far louder. “Help!”

Tiny feet tap-danced on my scalp. A prickle of gold at my hairline, and Ralph dived off my head, zip-lining down to the end of his rope of gold to inspect the damage. A second before, I’d wanted someone—anyone—to pull it from my body, but now I was filled with fear. Fear that the slightest brush of touch would cause terrible pain. Don’t touch it, I thought, seesawing with fright. Instead, he swung below my bra—a bleat of red in the center of his amulet flashing like a cop’s gotcha lights—and then he hung, oddly still, studying the black handle that trembled with each of my shallow breaths. Something warm and wet trickled down my stomach.

Fae smell like flowers when they bleed. Sweet peas were in bloom as my blood leaked from a terrible, horrible hole.

My Were howled inside me.

Someone’s got to pull the knife out.

I opened my mouth to say that. As I did, I heard a scream, guttural and harsh, coming from the house. Was it me? No. I didn’t scream. Not even when Knox pushed that thing into me. Not me. Someone else. It didn’t matter who it was. Life had narrowed. To this tree. This pendant. That knife. Oh Goddess, look at the knife go up and down as I breathe.

I was burning up, turning into a candle of pain, wordless in its flame.

Ralph eased himself down to my skin. Too close to the bad spot. Move away from it! The Royal Amulet shifted quickly to find a better place, one right over my racing heart, and then he slowly lowered his pendant to my chest until his core was pressed flat to my skin. Prism colors swirled inside his stone.

He was trying to heal me, just as Merry used to.

A little late, but I love you anyhow, Ralph.

A shadow moved just beyond the edge of our narrow, dark world. Trowbridge? Fear fluttered at my throat as the wrong man stepped close. Long blond hair, not black. A dandy’s hat, a clean- shaven jaw.

Not my mate.

The Fae’s eyes were shadowed by his bowler, his mouth pulled into a pensive frown. His long white fingers reached for the blade— Don’t touch that knife. I sucked in a ragged breath and opened my lips to beg, to entreat, to plead. Anything to stop him from touching the handle. The blade. My wound. But