The Thing About Weres

“Yes,” I snapped.

“The Fae wants to take you to the Black Mage,” Trowbridge said to Ralph, talking fast. “It’s probably the true reason he lured me back through the gates.”

Lured? True reason?

“The wolf you’re trying to choke is a Raha’ell.” That seemed to mean something to the Royal Amulet, because he loosened his choke hold enough to let Anu, beast of Merenwyn and general ass-licker, heave a grateful pant. “You know their reputation,” Trowbridge continued. “If I tell it to protect you, it will, with its life.”

Bowler-hat inquired in a bored voice, “Do you really think I need an amulet to open the Safe Passage?”

To which Trowbridge said, “Yeah, I do.”

Ralph chose fur over Fae. His chain lengthened in a blur of gold, until he swung, all princely and brightly jeweled, from the neck of the little brown wolf.

“Traitor,” I mouthed.

Another wolf crept out of the woods, and then, behind that one, more.

Trowbridge gave me one last regretful look, then he stood. His fingers fumbled with the rough twine ties— seriously, twine?—of his trousers, as he strolled to the dead center of the old cow pasture. Once there, he turned to face me and, one more time, to impart something to me with his eyes.

I did the same.

He exhaled, and shook his head in reproof. Then, “Just wait for me.”

What the hell did he think I’d been doing?

He dropped the twine, and his trousers slipped down his lean legs to puddle at his bare feet. With typical Were lack of respect for modesty, he coolly stepped out of them, and stood, proud, naked, and tall. A wolf whined as he tilted up his jaw to the moon’s silver glow. He made a noise between a grunt and a hum—the same happy mmph he moaned when my hands found the right spot on his body—then fell to his knees in a slow, controlled glide.

But as soon as cartilage met turf, he began to change.

From man to wolf.

From that which I almost recognized to that to which I’d never been formally introduced.

It takes—I know, I’ve timed it—anywhere between five to fifteen minutes for a Were to shed his mortal hide. It took Bridge less than a breathless forty-five seconds.

When it was done, his wolf lay on its side for another ten seconds, panting lightly, then it rolled to its feet. It was, in the monochrome of night, all shades of white and gray. Its face was lean and angular, with darkly rimmed tilted eyes set in a white mask. Its legs were long, ending in ludicrously large fat paws.

By any bitch’s standard, Trowbridge-the-wolf was a handsome fellow.

The gray wolf stepped away from the remnants of his change, and performed an all-body shake, before he turned—just a little bit—to slant a sideways glance toward the woods.

“Stay very still.” The Fae peeled off his backpack. “Everything depends on the next five minutes.”

I spared Bowler Boy a look of pure annoyance, then turned back to watch the show.

Not a dog whine was wrested from the wolves casting judgment from the forest. Indifferent to them and patently uncaring of the Danvers coterie, Trowbridge spent a minute or two investigating the shoes and clothing dotting the landscape. When he reached the pile that Fatso had hurriedly abandoned, he lifted his leg.

I flinched as the Fae retrieved a stiletto from his boot. Silver. Long. Cold-blooded killer, I thought uneasily. And then I wondered, just how valued was I, if my mate had no qualms about leaving me unprotected?

Those are the type of questions that make my stomach hurt.

I will not show fear. But part of me kept my peripheral vision on Bowler-hat, while the other prodded my Fae. Are you with me? I silently asked. Or are you still enamored of the Fae that left you tethered to a tree?

I felt the promise of her revenge warm my belly.

Trowbridge wandered over to where Cordelia and the boys were finishing their transformation—a difficult process for all three because the transitions were complicated by their need to heal—but he didn’t greet them, probably because the change was a private thing. The hair bristled on his back and shoulders as he spent some time sorting out the scents still clinging to their chains. With a huff of disgust, he stalked away from them, stiff- legged.

Then, a short run to work out the kinks. Past the Danvers wolf. A turn to chase something I couldn’t see—a moth perhaps—before his cantering pursuit softened into a lazy lope along the edge of the forest. His head whipped between the scents trapped in the grasses and those that rode a current of Were-fragrant air. With supreme indifference to watchers in the shadows, he trotted to the center of the field. There he stood, almost as if saying, “Take a good long look, boys. I’m back.”

The Danvers wolf’s lip curled to display fang. He stalked toward Trowbridge’s gray wolf, hostility evident in his raised tail.

Trowbridge’s ears flicked slightly forward, but that was the extent of his show. His wolf stood steady, confident. No growl. Just a confident display of dominance. Topped, of course, by the unearthly Trowbridge light growing from the power of all those comets spinning faster and faster around his dark pupils. The black wolf froze. Then Trowbridge did what he had bade me never to do.

He flared for the wolves.

Trowbridge light, blue and electric, shone from his eyes.

Alpha strong.

Alpha pure.

The Danvers male fought it, of course—he was after all a sodding Danvers. Papa George growled, and lifted his lip, and bristled like an outraged porcupine, but he was facing a searchlight of blue.

Some part of him—deep in his black heart—wanted to fall on his belly, to bow to this other wolf. Maybe even needed it, too.

It’s imprinted in their DNA—either lead or follow.

Trowbridge’s stand was an utterly strange and wonderful display of power and confidence. Dominance through magic, will, and birthright. There was no anger in it, no obvious urge to hurt or frighten.

In three pitiful seconds, the challenger went from a hackles-raised stalk to an ingratiating cringe. Body lowered, ears back, tail doing a hopeful wag, he approached his Alpha.

Hopeful. That I’d never seen. When I’d fixed the Danvers wolf with my light, he’d been resentful under my power, biding time for the moment of his release.

Trowbridge’s wolf stood easy as the black wolf licked his Alpha’s mouth; calm as the others cautiously approached. He let out a bark, which meant what? Welcome? All’s right with the world? Immediately, the sharp stink of their anxiety eased, and another layer of scent overlaid the one melting away … happy excitement. Relief as if the six months before had all been a bad dream. Their joy was heartfelt—finally, a leader—punctuated by happy yips, much tail wagging, and some oddly touching gambols of pure happiness.

During it all, their Alpha stood steady and calm, head high, mouth slightly open, accepting his due.

A few canine heads turned my way.

Trowbridge’s wolf growled a low warning to the rabble, before he loped over to me. Tail up, jaws open in a grin. Before I had a chance to hold him off, he claimed me with a paw. His massive face came in for a nuzzle. A long tongue licking away the tear that had dried on my jaw. I don’t know why it softened me. His tongue was rough, and he’d been around fish at some point in his recent history. But it did. I felt … like he was breaking ground for me, letting me in, and each pungent dog kiss amounted to a public declaration, This is my mate.

Still, I mumbled, “I’m not a dog.”

But his fur was thick and each strand glistened, silver-tipped under the benevolent moon. And my wolf … oh my wolf. She was up on all four feet and she was trembling. My Fae rolled her eyes as I threaded my fingers through his dense pelt.

Trowbridge-the-wolf made a noise that I took as one of deep approval.

I leaned my head against his throat to better hear its rumble.

A moment of welling peacefulness, broken in two, when from our left, the little brown wolf uttered a yip—a canine’s “Hey!”—as it began running in our direction. One hundred sixty-four amber eyes turned toward the