Burn Bright

CHAPTER 8

“She put us together just to be annoying,” Sage told Charles, sounding not in the least annoyed.

They had taken her SUV because she refused to drive his truck. Her SUV was pretty upscale for the rough roads—she was a Realtor, selling high-priced Montana dreams to very rich people who wanted to get away from the city. When he’d told her that the road was too rough for her overly civilized SUV, she’d laughed and told him she’d rather replace her vehicle than put those scratches on his beloved truck.

He’d rather she not scratch his truck up, either. If she was planning on doing that, then taking her car made good sense.

“Leah?” asked Charles, though he knew quite well which “she” Sage was talking about.

She nodded. She gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you put a stop to it? Everyone knows that she can’t order you around. No one would have been surprised—not even Leah, I don’t think. So why did you let her do it?”

Charles eyed Sage, evaluating what answer to give.

Like his stepmother, she liked to wear nice clothes. Part of the reason for that was her job, and part of it was she wore them like armor. She didn’t wear soft things, colors and fabrics to make her look sweet. The clothes she wore gave her visual power. Here, they declared to the world, is a strong woman.

To him, they said something a little different. Here, they said, is a woman who needs armor, a shield to hide behind. Here is a woman who is afraid but puts her chin up and whistles in the dark.

He remembered what she’d looked like when Bran had brought her here, the look in her eyes the same as Anna’s eyes when they’d first met.

“Leah is my father’s mate,” he told Sage. “As long as she does nothing that will harm the pack, it is not my place to object.”

Sage raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief before returning her attention to the road. Sage didn’t look at him with fear in her eyes anymore. He liked her. She was smart, funny, and wise. Someone he could trust to have his back.

He relaxed into the too-cushiony seat and gave her all of his truth instead of bits and pieces as he might have another of his pack mates.

“Though Asil and I are not friends, he likes Anna. He will give his life to make her safe. She likes him, too, and is comfortable in his company.”

“You left your mate with Asil because she likes him?” Sage asked archly. “Charlie, I’d never have thought it of you.”

She was the only one who ever got to call him that. Because the first time she’d said it, she’d been bruised and scared. When his father had introduced him to her, she’d raised her face to look him in the eyes, terror making her shake. Then she’d said, with hopeless defiance, “Hello, hello, Charlie.”

He took a better hold on the door as she turned her tame car off the road as he directed. The track they traveled on had tall grass that brushed the underside of her car. He half expected that they were going to be running back on four feet.

“I left my mate with Asil because neither of them is capable of betraying a trust,” Charles told her. “And, as much as she dislikes me, no one could ever say that Leah works against the pack’s best interest. As long as that is true, I will follow her as I follow my father.”

Sage laughed when he said that. “Yes. We’ve all heard the battleground of your obedience to Bran.” She laughed harder. “Or Leah. The funniest part of that statement, though, is that you actually believe it.”

It was the truth, he thought, a little indignantly. But he seldom argued with people other than his da or Anna, so he let it go. She’d slowed down, so he released his hold on her car and folded his arms impassively. He stood by his word: he’d follow Leah exactly as well as he followed his da.

She glanced at him. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s another question, then. Why did you bring that thing along?”

“That thing” was the witch gun.

“Some of the wildlings we are going to visit have interesting backgrounds,” he told her. “All of them are old. I want to know if any of them have heard of something like this.”

She pulled into a flat meadow and stopped in front of a ranch-style house that would have looked more appropriate on a city street than in the middle of the woods. His home was a ranch-style, too. But in this setting, the little gray house looked like a house cat in a tiger’s den.

He knew these wildlings well enough to have put the probability of their being his traitor pretty low. Long-term deception wasn’t so much beyond them as beneath them. Cowardly.

He got out of the car, and as soon as he did so, he felt eyes on the back of his neck. He let Brother Wolf do the work of finding their watchers.

Long-term deception was cowardly, but ambushing your allies was just fine.

“Behind us,” Sage said, having walked around the front of the car—and then returned to his side.

She wasn’t afraid, not exactly. She smelled of stress, worry even. She probably should have been afraid. She was also wrong.

They weren’t behind them—though that was an interesting ploy. He wondered if they actually were able to use the pack magic to manipulate the wind, as Bran could, or if it was a trick of the geography that they’d learned to take advantage of. With wildlings—especially with these wildlings—it could be either one.

“We bring a word and a warning,” Charles said, without raising his voice. “Hester and Jonesy are dead at the enemy’s hands. An enemy that included a helicopter and teams with werewolves willing to attack the Marrok’s wolves. They hit Hester’s place with the intention of taking her captive. They had her caged. When we freed her, they killed her on purpose.”

He turned, as if to get back into the SUV, and a man dropped out of a tree twenty feet in front of the car.

He was, like Bran, the kind of person who would fade into a crowd even without using pack magic. He wasn’t tall or short, good-looking or ugly. There was nothing particularly memorable about his face at all. Except for his eyes. His eyes were white, wolf’s eyes, and they were predatory.

“Bran’s gone,” the man said, his English very British. “Now Hester is dead because you aren’t capable, Charles Marroksson, of protecting the pack.”

He had already known about the attack on Hester. It wasn’t surprising. These wolves had closer contact with others in the pack than most of his da’s wildlings because one of them regularly participated in pack hunts and had a few friends in the regular pack. If it weren’t for his brothers, he’d probably be out in the world, a safe-ish, sane-ish member of a normal pack.

There were three of them, brothers all, a set of twins and their younger sibling. If the stable twin hadn’t been with them, Charles suspected Bran would have had the other two executed for reasons of public safety.

“You think you could do better?” Charles said very softly. The wind didn’t favor him. He couldn’t tell which of the brothers he was talking to other than it was one of the twins.

The other twin dropped down to the ground from a higher branch in a different tree. His landing was loud—louder than it needed to be to cover for their third, as yet unseen, brother.

“We could hardly do worse,” he said. And, confident that his twin had an eye on Charles, he looked at Sage and smiled. “Hey, pretty lady. You’ll make a fine prize.”

Despite herself, despite the years between Sage as she was now and the beaten woman she’d been when she came to them, when she said, “Try me,” her voice was tense, and she took a step closer to Charles.

The second twin laughed, a full-throated, merry sound. “Oh, I intend to, yes. Don’t we, Geir?”

The other twin smiled. “Yes.”

Geir was the sanest of the three.

Charles had no intention of believing them about which of them was which, of course, not when they were being so careful to stay downwind, where his nose couldn’t make the distinction. He took a slow step away from Sage, putting her between him and the twins.

She stiffened at the unexpected move. She’d asked for his protection by stepping into his personal space. His movement was a denial. But he couldn’t help her perception—or worry about it too much.

He was too busy spinning to catch hold of the axe that Ofaeti, the third of the Viking brothers, tried to stick in his back. He grabbed it by the haft, one hand on top, the other at the end, Ofaeti’s hands caught between his. The Viking wasn’t expecting it, so Charles was able to swing the big man around, off balance. Charles snapped a quick kick into his knee, which gave with a crack.

And right then, right at that moment, Charles felt Anna call him.

“Sage,” he said. “Get in the car and stay out of this.”

Strictly speaking, a fight for dominance was supposed to be one-on-one. For that reason, he wanted Sage completely out of it. And maybe he’d seen that look of betrayal on her face and wanted to remove any doubt in her mind that he had kept her safety at the forefront of his decisions.

Unlike his Anna, Sage would follow orders. He put her out of his considerations—except as a noncombatant to be protected.

Ofaeti had released his hold on the axe when his knee broke. Charles tossed it up and caught it in a proper grip. It was a good axe, heavy and weighted for fighting rather than cutting down trees.

The twins, Geir and Fenrir (Charles was pretty sure that wasn’t the name he was born with but a name he’d earned), had sprinted forward when Ofaeti attacked, but seeing Charles with the axe in his hand and Ofaeti out of the fight (more or less), they slowed to a more cautious pace.

Charles? If you aren’t busy, I could use some advice.

Charles heard a soft sound behind him and, without looking, swept the flat side of the axe to his right about hip height like a backward swing of a baseball bat.

Now, said Brother Wolf in satisfaction as behind them the ground accepted a probably-not-dead body with a hollow thump, Ofaeti is no longer a factor.

Charles smiled in amusement—and the simple joy of battle. The Viking brothers had been fighting for longer than Charles had been alive, but they did not have Brother Wolf as a partner nor had they had Bran Cornick and Charles’s uncle Buffalo Singer as teachers.

The twins separated, trying to make him defend both of his sides at the same time. He let them do it because it would make no difference to his game. He was only a little hampered because he’d prefer not to kill either of them. His da had put them in his hands to protect, and they had not done anything (yet) that would force his hand.

Fenrir closed first, aiming a kick at Charles’s thigh. Charles stepped into it, and Fenrir’s kick slid up his thigh and into his hip, its force spent before it did any harm. Charles grabbed that leg under the knee and hit Fenrir in the belly with his other hand. The force of it bent the other wolf over, and Charles tucked Fenrir’s head under his free arm, then pulled them both over backward in a suplex.

Fenrir’s fall was outside of his control, and his spine came down across the stump Charles had been aiming him at. It broke with a loud snap, and Fenrir let out a whine.

Charles was free of Fenrir and rolling to his feet before Geir’s sword struck and missed. The second strike Charles caught on the axe.

Charles? Anna’s voice was small. I really need your help, or I’m pretty sure that some of us aren’t going to make it out of this.

A moment, he told her. And he quit playing because his wife needed him. He broke the sword with a swing of his axe and caught Geir’s eyes—only then realizing it was Fenrir, not Geir. He’d rather it really had been Fenrir lying with a broken back.

Hopefully, Geir would survive.

“Enough,” Charles said. “I do not have time for this. We are done. Submit.”

The old wolf fought the compulsion, sweat dripping down his face and dampening his shirt. But his fist opened and the blade dropped to the ground as he dropped to his knees, tilting his chin for Charles’s pleasure.

Brother Wolf was tempted to give him the coup de grâce. This one had kept him preoccupied when he needed to be attending his mate. Charles hit him on the side of the head with the blunt end of the axe instead. Enough to keep him out for a few minutes, not hard enough to kill him.

If it had been Geir, he could have counted on him to honor the submission as a cease-fire. But Fenrir wasn’t the kind of wolf he could trust that far.

Anna? he sent along the bond between them. What can I—

And he was sucked into a cartoon. He recognized it vaguely as the rendition of a fairy tale. The sky was dark, and the colors were bruise-like: purple, deep blues, deep grays, and black. The ground was squishy under his feet, which made him vaguely uneasy, but not as uneasy as the reek of black witchcraft. He looked around but didn’t see anything except the towering forest of thorn-encrusted vines.

“Anna?” He couldn’t see her, but he could feel that she was near and that she was worried.

“Charles!” she called. “I’m here, trapped in the stupid plants. I can’t get out.”

He waded through the sticky, sloggy ground, and when he reached the forest of vines, it opened reluctantly before him. It would have kept him from Anna if it could have, but their bond and his magic was too strong here, where such things had more meaning. But the vines closed behind with a wash of malice and dark whispers.

In a very small clearing, his mate stood contemplating the vines with her arms crossed over her chest, her back to him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It’s witchcraft,” she said, without looking away from the vines. “I don’t know what to do with witchcraft.”

He approached her and became aware that her clothing was ragged and there were bloody scratches up and down her arms and on her cheek. She was frowning fiercely.

“Is the cartoon yours?” he asked.

She looked up at him then. “Oh good, you’re here,” she said, as if she only now saw him, though she’d answered his question. It was that kind of place. “Cartoon?”

She turned around slowly, looking around. She shook her head and laughed. “I think I’ve built this as a metaphor. But I’m not sure who is really in charge here. This”—she waved her arms to indicate the whole scene—“is a conglomeration of my powers, Wellesley’s magic, and that.” On the last word, she pointed at the briar-vine hedge. “That is black magic, witchcraft. And I don’t know how it got here or how to break it.”

He surveyed the hedge a little more thoroughly. The first thing he noticed was that the plants bore only a vague resemblance to any plant he’d ever seen—but this wasn’t reality. He’d had some experience with this kind of magical dreaming, though his adventures usually looked a little more like the real world and less like a Disneyland adventure.

“So is there a sleeping princess trapped behind the thorns?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s Wellesley’s wolf.”

Interesting, said Brother Wolf. We never sensed any witchcraft about him. Is it new?

“I don’t think so,” Anna said. “I think it’s been here a long time. Asil said there might have been a witch involved in the business in Tennessee.”

“Rhea Springs?” Charles asked, frowning. “I didn’t find any signs of witches there.”

Anna raised both eyebrows and flung her arm out toward the thorn hedge and its distinctive scent of the blood and wrongness that was witchcraft.

“Point made,” he said.

“So how do I take down the hedge?” she asked him.

Blood, Brother Wolf said.

Anna held out her hands. “I bled here and—” She flushed. “I accidentally dug claws into Wellesley in the real world. The more real world, anyway. And he bled. Nothing happened to the witchcrafting.”

“This is a fairy tale,” Charles said thoughtfully.

“Yes?”

“If not blood, then maybe a kiss,” he told her.

A lot of pack magic worked with blood—but there were a few very select offerings that were symbolized by a kiss. He had an idea about how that could work for this.

He reached out and took her hand—the one still bandaged, so he was gentle about it. “I kiss you. You kiss Wellesley in the real world.”

She pulled her head back in instinctive rejection, though her hand tightened on his. “Love’s first kiss?” It sounded like a quote. “I don’t love him.”

He put his chin on the top of her head and pulled her against him. Even in the Dreamtime, it felt good. She made him smile.

“No love necessary between you and him,” he told her. “But Bran holds him as pack as he holds you and me. If I kiss you here, and you kiss him in the real world, maybe we can work a little magic, you and I.”

Then he bent down and kissed her.

ANNA DIDN’T UNDERSTAND exactly what Charles intended, but she was willing to trust him.

She blinked uncertainly, trying to be aware both in the real world and in the inner vision. It felt awkward and distinctly uncomfortable.

Asil still had Wellesley pinned to the ground but not without a great deal of effort. He saw her focus on him and smiled grimly. “Whatever it is you are trying to do, it is working. I can tell by how much easier it has become to hold him down.”

She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. And she didn’t have enough brainpower to puzzle it out right now. The angle Asil held him in was wrong to kiss Wellesley on the mouth. She could kiss his cheek, she thought, and felt a wave of relief.

On the mouth, love, said Brother Wolf, because in the not-real world Charles was kissing her and so could not speak. It is symbolic. We give our word, we communicate, we eat, we intake food through our mouths. Through his mouth, we can feed him power. Charles says that Wellesley has some abilities of his own. If we can feed him enough, he should be able to free himself.

“Can you move him around?” she asked Asil. “I have to kiss him on the mouth.” Even to herself, she sounded grumpy. She wasn’t sure that feeding him power with a kiss felt less intimate or more.

Asil paused with his whole body—and Wellesley struggled fiercely. He snapped at her hands—which she managed to keep on his face only by throwing herself forward on top of both Asil and Wellesley. She had a feeling that losing that touch right now would be bad.

Asil swore in Spanish, moved his grip a little, and jerked. Wellesley’s struggles became instantly less effective, though no less passionate.

“He’s under a spell,” she told Asil before he could say anything. “Witchcraft. Charles says I have to kiss him on the mouth.”

Incredibly, irritatingly, Asil’s own mouth, which had been tight with anger, suddenly blossomed into a grin. “Did he, now? Told you that you needed to kiss the handsome prince. All right, let me think. You can’t break your hold, right?”

Anna nodded uncertainly. “I have no idea what I’m doing here, Asil. But if it’s working, I’m wary about screwing with it.”

Wellesley snapped his teeth together again, and Asil gave her a look. “You are certain about this?”

“Brother Wolf is.”

Asil rolled his eyes—Anna was afraid that she was teaching everyone in the pack bad habits. “And Brother Wolf could never be wrong,” he muttered. “Fine. Your job is to keep your hands on him, then, while I position him for kissing. For your kissing him.” He muttered something to himself and grunted.

She couldn’t tell exactly what he did, only that Wellesley moved, Asil moved—and she did her best to keep up with them. Eventually, Asil was underneath Wellesley, and Wellesley was faceup with his mouth accessible.

“Do it quickly,” said Asil. “This is not a secure hold.”

Anna leaned over, concentrating on the feel of Charles’s mouth on hers in that other place. She pressed her lips to Wellesley’s. It felt like she’d kissed an electric fence.

Wellesley’s eyes opened, bright gold laced with chocolate, and he drank down her power until she was empty.

SHE SWAYED IN his arms, and Charles growled. Stupid Wellesley, he thought. He could tell that Wellesley had a power akin to the gifts Charles’s mother had passed to him. The other wolf should have been able to use Anna as a conduit to the power that Charles held—the power of the Marrok’s pack.

Charles opened his mating bond as wide as he could, then opened the pack bond and drew upon it—shoving all of that power into his mate and through her. He wished he were physically with her, so he could explain, could tell Wellesley what to do instead of hoping that he saw . . .

ANNA’S SKIN WAS suddenly hot with energy that felt like Charles, felt like pack. She fed it into Wellesley as he writhed in Asil’s grip. He bit her lip, and blood welled.

Okay, she thought. Let’s see if Brother Wolf is right.

In that other place, where she was still kissing Charles, Anna reached out and grabbed a vine with her sore hand. It writhed and wriggled and struggled—but she was a werewolf, and she knew how to hold on. It burned her hand and whipped her wrist with thorns, and still she kept her grip.

She opened her eyes and saw the briarwood explode into flowers that reminded her of the flowers that had covered the valley when Jonesy died. For two breaths, the air smelled fresh and beautiful; and then she and Charles were wrapped in vines.

Thorns dug in, sharp pain followed by a dull ache. The flowers turned from bright yellow to gray, then died away. Around them, the vines tightened until she could barely breathe.

And Charles . . .

Something protected her, maybe it was Charles himself. But her mate’s body was stiff against her as the thorns dug in and sent shafts of agony that she could feel through their bond.

Feels like silver, said Brother Wolf.

They weren’t going to be strong enough, she thought.

Brother Wolf howled.

IN HIS HOTEL room, Bran paced, fighting his wolf. He’d had every intention of going to Africa. Africa had sounded as though it was far enough. But Spokane was as far as his wolf had allowed.

He picked up his phone and listened, again, to Charles’s dry rendition of Hester’s death. Of Jonesy’s cryptic note. Of the connection between their enemy and the one who had been stalking them for years.

My fault, Bran thought. It was my fault that she died. She trusted me—and I failed her.

He set the phone down carefully and started pacing again.

Hester was dead, and he was no closer to knowing who their traitor was—or at least no more certain who their traitor was. He glanced at the computer on the fake cherry desk, but he didn’t dare touch it until he calmed down. He’d pulled out the financials on Leo’s pack and the much simpler financial data on Gerry Wallace and had been going through them, again, until his wolf had had enough.

Follow the money. The enemy had a lot of funding from somewhere. That much money should leave a trace, but he couldn’t find it. Nor had the much more capable accountants that the Chicago Alpha had turned the records over to. He should have given those records to Charles instead. Charles might have been able to find something . . . which was why Bran hadn’t turned them over to him. Because he was afraid of what Charles would turn up.

“Treachery is dirty business,” he told the beast inside of him. That was his mother’s gift, the monster who lived within. She hadn’t infected him, true. But he had absolved his father of that responsibility a long time ago. Not even the Lords of Faery had been able to get the best of his mother. His father, who had been a simple farmer, had no chance once she had set her eyes upon him.

The beast roiled inside of him. Angry. Afraid.

Well enough, so was he, and worried on top of that.

Something yanked hard at the pack bonds that he’d tightened down to threads after Hester’s death. He loosened them, just a hair, ready to be angry at being so rudely disturbed—and found Brother Wolf.

ASIL HELD ON to the mad wolf as best he could, though he was pretty sure that the best thing that he could do for all of them was to break Wellesley’s neck and save everyone trouble. Yes, Wellesley was an artist of the sort to make Asil’s soul soar. Yes, Wellesley was insightful and witty—even as he struggled with the beast inside him.

But Anna was an Omega. A treasure. Asil had lost his mate, but Allah, who knew men’s hearts and how to heal them, had given Asil a second Omega to guard. He loved her—though he was not in love with her. He loved her as a man must love the well that brings water to his people in the desert. For her sake, he would give his life. For her sake, he should simply eliminate Wellesley.

For her sake, he could not do so.

He felt it when Charles opened the pack bonds and asked for power. He gave all that he could and not lose his hold on Wellesley. Attuned through the bonds, he could sense the surge of pack-and-Charles-flavored energy sweep through Anna and into Wellesley, felt the other wolf’s body shake under the onslaught of so much magic.

The scent of witchcraft, of black magic, seeped out of Wellesley’s pores. Asil wrinkled his nose. It smelled of power, of age, of death.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered irritably to himself. “And pain and misery and suffering, too, no doubt.”

He waited for the scent to ebb, for the power of the pack to sweep it away. But it wasn’t the scent that ebbed, it was the power . . .

He flung his bonds open and pushed everything he had into the tide of pack magic that was slowing to a trickle. The pack magic began to feel like the reek of witchcraft on Wellesley’s skin. He felt Charles launch a desperate appeal to the Marrok, who had abandoned them.

Asil knew that wasn’t fair. He, of all people, understood the burden of Alpha. He’d given that position up because it was such a burden. But they needed Bran, and he was not there.

Until he was.

Power, raw and huge and flavored with the magic of a hundred packs (or a thousand, Asil wasn’t in the frame of mind to count), burst through the bonds. Above him, Anna’s eyes widened, turned ice blue, and her whole body glowed with the Marrok’s magic.

ANNA SCREAMED WITH the fire that flooded her veins, the sound she made muffled by Charles’s lips. The fire slid down her arm and into her burnt hand, turning her flesh into agony.

But she held on to the vine. She held on when the whole briarwood caught fire and burned with a fury that started from her hand and met another power from within. She closed her eyes against the brightness, plastered her body against her mate’s, and held on until the vine disintegrated into gray dust.

As the last of the dust fell from her hand, Charles broke their kiss. He took a step back, holding her steady until she found her balance. Then he disappeared into the darkness that was falling in the wake of the destruction of the briar hedge. She didn’t lose him, though; she could feel his weariness through their bond.

The set from Sleeping Beauty faded, as Charles had faded, until she stood in a vast, grayish emptiness. The only thing present besides her was a gaunt golden wolf.

His fur was matted, and there were gouges that leaked blood and yellowish goo. He panted, head low, looking even more tired than she felt.

Go home, Namwign Bea, the wolf told her in Wellesley’s voice. Go home and rest.

That made very good sense, as she was tired. She took a step and crumpled. The ground rose and caught her in gentle hands. She patted it gently. “Thank you,” she murmured, and closed her eyes.

SOMEONE RUDELY WOKE her up.

“Drink this, mija. I promise it will help.”

She should have known it would be Asil, she thought grumpily. Asil didn’t respect anyone’s boundaries except his own.

Knowing that there was no use in fighting him, she drank the sweet tea he put to her lips. And she drank the second cup, too. By the third cup, she was sitting up on her own and alert enough to look around.

She was sitting on a love seat in a room made of light. One wall of the room was a great window that looked out onto the forest. The room was huge and mostly unfurnished. One corner of it was a well-appointed modern kitchen, and the love seat she was on was near that corner of the room. There was a great gaping hole in the wall next to the love seat.

Beyond the hole was the dirt-floored room where she’d helped Wellesley fight for his freedom. Wellesley’s curled-up body was still on the dirt floor.

She blinked at him a moment. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

“Finish that,” Asil said from the kitchen. He had the refrigerator open and was examining the contents. “I will make you some food.”

“Is he dead?” she asked.

Asil pulled his head out of the fridge and looked out the gaping hole where the steel door—and the steel doorframe—had been, toward their prone host.

“No,” he said. “But I expect it will take him a bit longer to recover than it will for you. Being freed from a powerful curse usually leaves the victim with a terrible hangover.” He paused thoughtfully. “Or dead. I expect he’ll appreciate the hangover.”

Anna had been wrapped in a blanket. Her face had been washed (she vaguely remembered that). She’d been pampered with three cups of sweet tea, and now Asil was stealing food for her. Wellesley had been left on the ground where he’d fallen.

“Asil,” she said slowly, “I thought you liked Wellesley.”

Asil pulled lunch-meat packets and a block of cheese from the fridge and gave her a politely surprised look. “Of course. Why would I dislike him? He figured out what you were, decided it might help him out of trouble he got himself into. He then grabbed you without leave, and if the Marrok hadn’t opened the floodgates, you would be dead. And probably so would the rest of the pack.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Wellesley without moving. “I have only been partially in control of my actions for the last . . . what is this year, anyway? Ninety years or so.”

Asil pointed at him with the knife he’d gotten out to cut the cheddar. “Do not blame your wolf for what you did. Your wolf only understood what she offered. It was you who decided to use her to break your curse.”

“That’s fair,” Wellesley said. “I guess I did.” He paused. “I’m not sorry. If I’d killed us both . . . us all? Anyway, if we were dead, I’d be sorry. But since we survived, I am merely very, very grateful. If I could move, I would kiss your hand, Anna.”

“You’d better get moving pretty soon,” said Asil cheerfully. “Charles is, I am certain, on his way. If you think I’m unhappy with you, you just wait until Charles explains his feelings to you.” He chopped up some cheese. “Charles is a man of few words. You are just lucky he quit carrying a club.”

“I think he has an axe,” Anna said.

Asil looked up at her. “An axe?”

She nodded. “I don’t know why, but I think he was carrying an axe when I first nudged him to see if he could help.”

Asil smiled. “Good. An axe is exactly what this calls for.”

“Asil?” she asked. “Speaking of axes . . . Where is the door? Um, and the doorframe?”

“I threw it down the hole,” he said, looking a little embarrassed for the first time. “It was in my way.”

“It was supposed to be werewolf-proof,” muttered Wellesley.

“I am not just any werewolf,” said Asil. “And if it had had a doorknob like any proper door, it would still be where you left it.”

WITH ANNA THERE to remind Asil of his manners, Wellesley was eventually helped to a chair in his kitchen and fed sandwiches at a rate that made Asil complain about his new calling as a short-order cook. Anna snagged two or three herself and noticed that Asil had eaten maybe twice that many.

There were a lot of things that she wanted to know about what had just happened, but she found herself nodding off between one swallow and the next. The next thing she knew was her mate’s voice.

“Anna?” said Charles.

“Sorry,” she murmured, without opening her eyes. “Food coma. It happens when I get sucked into cartoons and do battle with evil thorn-things.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Charles said.

You need to wake up, said Brother Wolf. So that no one dies.

And that jump-started her adrenal gland just fine. She sat up and rubbed her face. Asil, Wellesley, and Sage were in the kitchen, none of them looking very happy.

Charles was kneeling beside the couch. One hand on her face. The other hand was holding . . .

“That,” Anna said, “is a really big axe that you didn’t have this morning when you left.” And it had blood on it. Not his blood, she didn’t think. It didn’t smell like his blood.

Not ours, agreed Brother Wolf happily.

Charles grunted, then when she raised her eyebrows, he answered her implied question.

“When you contacted me the first time, I’d just stolen the axe from the Viking who attacked me and broken his leg with it.”

“I see,” she said.

“It took me a while to take out his twin brothers, or I’d have gotten back to you sooner.”

She considered that statement and decided he wasn’t trying to be funny. He looked apologetic.

“I would rather you not get hurt by Viking twins . . .” She had to say it again. “Because Viking twins are apparently a thing here. Anyway, please take care of pressing business before you answer me. If you are dead, you won’t be of any use at all.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time,” he said.

She didn’t think that he looked too scary, but then she looked over Charles’s shoulder at the others. Sage was a little pale, but her face was very calm. Wellesley looked almost dead—but he’d looked that way when she nodded off. Asil looked like a ticked-off cat cornered by a big freaking dog.

So probably the not-scary was a relatively new thing. Interesting that Brother Wolf had been the one to wake her up, possibly so she could prevent Charles from killing someone?

“Since we are all here now,” she said, “maybe Wellesley will tell us exactly what happened in”—she looked at Charles—“Rhea Springs, Tennessee, right? Because I think that’s where he picked up that interesting Sleeping Beauty curse.”

“I don’t know that it matters,” Wellesley said tiredly. “Most of the principals are dead, except for me. Even the town is gone, drowned by the TVA in the forties.”

“Call me curious,” Asil said. “I’ve seen a lot of witchcraft, but I’ve never seen a witchcraft construct that lasted that long and hid itself so well. Usually, they die once the witch dies.”

“It makes me unhappy,” said Charles, “to know that something like that existed right under my nose—right under my da’s nose—and none of us suspected anything.”

Wellesley rubbed his face. “I can see that. Where do you want me to start?”