Wild Sign

CHAPTER 13

Nothing emerged from the pit. After a moment, they all—well, they didn’t relax, that was for damned sure. But they regrouped.

“Should we leave?” Tag asked. “Come back with more firepower?”

“It has the witches,” Anna said. “And all the power they can muster from hell’s own assisted living facility. Are we sure we want to give them time to get here?”

Charles didn’t say anything, just tested the ground with his feet as if making sure it wasn’t likely to open up into a pit anytime soon. Anna didn’t find that reassuring.

Instead of waiting for an answer from Charles, Tag nodded, as if Anna’s comment had been enough. He started stripping out of his clothing in preparation for shifting to wolf.

“We have no choice,” said Leah hollowly. “He won’t let us leave. He can’t afford to.”

“Do you have any insights about what we’ll be facing?” Charles asked Leah.

She looked like she hadn’t heard him. Anna gave her a few seconds and then told Charles what she knew.

“It messes with your memories.” Everyone already knew that, but Anna had very recent personal experience. “The first time it attacked me, it took me back to one of the most traumatic times in my life and removed all of my memories from that time until this. I felt like it replaced who I am now with that earlier version of me. It was very disconcerting. I don’t know how you can guard yourself against that.”

“He tried to do that to me as we left the cave,” Leah said unexpectedly. “But he had trouble with the wolf in me. I think that might mean that the hunting song may shield us—at least a little.”

The hunting song was an effect of the pack bonds, connecting all of the wolves who had a common goal into a tighter team, allowing them to share knowledge, power, and strategy in real time until the object of the hunt was achieved.

Anna glanced at Charles. “It can mess with your short-term memory, too. I lost about fifteen minutes the first time we drove to our hotel.”

“You didn’t tell me,” he said softly, and she knew she’d hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It felt like just a glitch. Over and done.” She looked at Tag and Leah, because they didn’t have time to waste with her guilt. “It might cause you to falter. Maybe if you know it’s coming, you can push through it.”

“Did you see the Singer? What does it look like?” Charles asked. “Best-case scenario, we bring this down to a physical fight, because that is where our weapons lie.”

Anna looked at Leah, who was resolutely not looking at Anna or Charles.

“Uh,” Anna said. “I never saw it. But from what I overheard . . . and I know this sounds really stupid out here—but I think that it is some kind of cave squid. Or cave octopus.”

Tag froze. “Cthulhu? We’re fighting Cthulhu? Up in these mountains?”

His incredulity forced Leah to speak. “I saw him,” she told them in a low voice. “Before I found Anna in the caves. I couldn’t be sure of his size because it was dark and some of his body was underwater—and at the time I needed him not to be aware of me. She’s right about the tentacles. I also think he’s huge.”

“Cthulhu,” said Tag happily, discarding the last of his clothes. Apparently his incredulity had not signified reluctance. His eyes were wolf eyes and slightly unfocused in a way that, under other circumstances, would have made Anna nervous.

Charles turned to look at the pit. His head tilted and Brother Wolf said intently, “Listen.”

Leah frowned and then drew in a breath. “The pit is filling with water. Smells like salt water. Ocean water.”

No one asked aloud where the salt water was coming from, but Anna figured that they were all thinking about it—and what that said about the thing they were facing.

“Cthulhu,” chortled Tag as a popping sound signaled the start of his change. “I get to fight Cthulhu. Asil is going to be so jealous.” His smile, like his eyes, looked a little wild.

“Cthulhu,” Anna murmured, because that was an interesting observation.

“It’s not Cthulhu,” Charles said dryly. “That’s a character from a book.”

Well, yes. Anna thought that actually might be the point.

“Leah?” Anna asked. “Did it have tentacles when you were here? Before?”

“I don’t remember,” Leah said. Then she held up a hand, asking them to wait. She turned her face into the rain for a moment, closing her eyes. When she opened her eyes, she said, “No. The Singer looked like one of us—human, I mean. He was”—she shook her head—“he looked like someone you could trust. I don’t know where the tentacles came from.”

“I think I do,” said Anna grimly. “Do you remember when Zander said the people who settled Wild Sign gave it form?”

“Yes,” Leah said.

Charles’s eyes became suddenly intent. “That bookshelf,” he said.

“The big yurt in Wild Sign has a bookshelf of Lovecraft-themed books,” Anna told the others. “Not just cheap paperbacks or that all-in-one leather-bound collection you can buy for twenty bucks around Christmas. Original editions of Lovecraft and Chambers. Nineteen-thirties editions of Weird Tales. I think one of the first Wild Sign people was a Lovecraft fan. And that’s why we have a cave squid. Or possibly a cave octopus.”

“Not Cthulhu,” said Charles slowly, “but inspired by those tales.”

There was a short, appalled silence punctuated by the sounds of Tag’s ongoing change.

“It could be worse,” Anna said. “At least it’s not the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

Charles grinned suddenly. “A pop culture reference I know.” He looked at Leah, his smile lingering around the edges of his mouth and eyes. “Anything you can add?”

“If he could sing, we would be in a lot more trouble,” she said. “But Sherwood ripped out his tongue.” There was satisfaction in her voice, but Anna felt a sudden stab of concern. Leah looked tired and cold—and about fifteen pounds underweight. Running from Montana had burned calories.

“Zander implied that the Singer had not healed from that,” Leah continued. “I don’t know if that means he can’t still attack us with music, but he can’t sing.”

She scuffed her bare foot in the dirt and gave them a grim smile. “And that’s all well and good. But what I don’t know is how to kill him so that he stays dead. I don’t know that he is something that can be killed.”

“Asil told me that the only way to kill something immortal is to remind it what death is,” Charles said. “Da is bringing the sword that killed Jonesy—an immortal fae. The Dark Smith’s weapons carry the memories of the deaths that they have brought.”

Leah rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “Good. All we have to do is stay alive until he gets here. I wonder what’s taking the Singer so long.” She frowned thoughtfully—as if, Anna thought, she might have a clue about what that was. But instead of telling them, she looked toward the pit, where the sound of rushing water had quieted now that the water was deeper. “Don’t let him pull you into the water.”

Werewolves couldn’t swim.

Tag stood up on four legs—huge, even for a werewolf, his thick, shaggy coat a shade more orange than his hair. Leah stretched her neck and began her change, and only then did Anna realize she’d been waiting for Tag.

Charles saw her look. “When there are so few of us, and there is opportunity, we try not to have all of the wolves shift at the same time. That way no one can attack us when all of us are hampered with the change.”

They waited, Anna tucked against Charles’s side, as rain poured over their heads and lightning cracked in a brilliant show that would have rivaled a Fourth of July display. When Anna counted the distance between lightning and thunder, she could only count to two. She hoped nothing caught fire—because one thing she could think of that would make this fight even harder would be if they were trying to do it in the middle of a freaking forest fire.

Eventually Leah, like Tag, stood on all four feet. The rain had already drenched her gold-and-silver coat, darkening it to gray. The combination of weight loss and wet fur made Leah look small, an effect not helped by the hunch of her shoulders.

Anna let go of Charles and untied her boots, because Leah’s shift was finished. The pit was now a dark pool filled to the brim, its surface rippling with the driving rain.

CHARLES KEPT AN eye on the newly formed lake as he waited for Anna to change. The water was inky black, even when the lightning struck, briefly illuminating the whole forest as if it were daytime. It might have been an effect of the night sky or the turbidity caused by the rapid fill of water. Or something else.

There was so much magic in the ground under his feet that he felt blinded. A thousand forest spirits could be tugging at his hands and he would not know it because his senses were already overwhelmed.

It was a testament to the power of the creature they faced. Charles did not find it reassuring.

Sherwood had not been able to kill the Singer, and Charles did not think that the four of them were as formidable an opponent as Sherwood had been all by himself, not against something like the Singer. Perhaps in a purely physical fight, it would have been different. But if the Singer was—to steal Anna’s term—a creepy primordial god, he did not think that a physical fight was how it would die.

He hoped Da got here soon, but found himself doubtful he would be in time to help. Time was running out—Brother Wolf could sense the nearness of battle. Without his da, without the sword, Charles did not think they were going to win this fight. Pessimism was not going to be useful, however, so Charles gave his worries to Brother Wolf, who was adept at keeping their secrets away from the pack, even in the throes of the hunting song.

As if in response to Brother Wolf’s assessment of the nearing conflict, Charles felt the pack bonds shift. Between one breath and the next his senses expanded, and he, Anna, Leah, and Tag were caught up in the mad exhilaration of the opening moments of the hunt. Anna was not quite finished with her change when the song took them, so their combined magic pushed into her, rushing the last moments painfully fast. Charles changed. And when his change was complete, he was in charge of the hunt.

He had not been sure it would be him. Leah had more experience—and more involvement with the Singer. As his father’s mate, she outranked him in the pack. His da thought that leadership went to the wolf the majority of the participants wanted in charge. Charles wasn’t sure that was true. He often felt that pack magic—and, by extension, the hunting song—had its own intelligence.

His body still, he processed the information flooding into him, knowing that once the fight started, instinct would guide them more than thought. But for now, he assessed his pack.

Tag’s eagerness for battle overlaid the song. They all felt the addict-level strength of his need to give in to his berserker. Charles lent Tag some of Anna’s Omega-born quiet and felt him settle.

Charles considered the method of the Singer’s attacks and how Anna explained it had affected her. Tag, he thought, would be least affected among them. The berserker was difficult to distract.

Tag’s amused agreement sang through the hunting bonds, because the flow of information went both ways.

Leah . . . Charles had probably been in a thousand hunts with Leah, though none so dire and none with so few wolves. He was in the habit of keeping as far from her as he could, both physically and in the bonds themselves. Given his success in avoiding her, he suspected Leah did the same. He’d never been in a hunt with her in which he took the lead position.

And still he had expectations based on his previous experience. Through the pack bonds, Leah had always felt like a lethal, whip-quick weapon—cold, controlled, and deadly. He had expected that this time, too—but if he had not known better, he would have thought she was a different person entirely.

Leah’s surface displayed only ripples of her wide, deep, and violent emotions, but the hunting song gave Charles deeper insight; he knew the power of her rage. She would do anything to see the Singer dead. It was a craving so deep it felt like obsession.

But Charles also knew that she had used most of her reserves getting from Montana to here. Any other werewolf of his acquaintance would have been down for the count already. She needed a day’s rest and a lot of food before she would be back up to reasonable fighting trim. Food and rest she wouldn’t get.

He had no doubt that Leah would keep going until she dropped—but he was afraid she was close to her limit. Exhaustion would slow her. What he knew, the hunting song knew. The pack understood Leah’s current limitations, understood they made her vulnerable.

He would keep her at the edges of the battle when he could, if he could. It was impossible to really determine tactics before the Singer emerged. They knew something of its magic—though the power still rising from the ground worried Charles. And they had only a vague idea of the Singer’s physical being—as he thought that, Leah’s glimpse of it filtered through their bonds.

Anna’s bright presence lit the hunting song with purpose and calm. It wasn’t like her usual Omega effect—Anna was still embarrassed about the time that a hunt had ended not in a kill but in all of the wolves lying in a meadow, basking in the sun. She had a lot more control now, but that didn’t mean she had the predatory need to kill that the rest of them did. Not normally. But, like Leah, Anna’s presence felt different. She felt . . .

Deadly, said Brother Wolf.

Charles could feel the surprised agreement of the others. Like Charles, they weren’t used to seeing Anna in a killing mood.

She felt like Da. Implacable will directed toward the death of the Singer. In her own way, Anna’s drive was as deep as Leah’s.

She is very unhappy about the people of Wild Sign, Brother Wolf whispered to him, so the others could not hear.

Brother Wolf was the only one who knew that Charles didn’t think they would live through this. Charles did his best to keep it that way. He would not hurt his pack’s morale going into this arena. Instead, he let Leah’s and Anna’s determination and Tag’s fierce joy in the fight ring through the bonds and set the stage for their battle.

And still they waited.

Leah, Charles understood, thought she knew why they waited. But when he asked, she did not tell him. He had to trust her. They both were surprised to find that he did.

They were patient, his pack, as hunters need to be. They waited unmoving, a dozen feet from the edge of the saltwater lake, coats settling against skin under the pouring rain. The lightning storm came and went, but the unrelenting precipitation never decreased. Charles utilized all four sets of eyes as they watched the surface of the water for something more than the disturbance of the weather.

Tag saw the edge of a solid body breaking the surface, a quiet announcement that the star of their battle was here. Charles never did figure out how the Singer knew where they were—he never caught a glimpse of an eye or any other organ of perception.

But there was no question that it saw them somehow.

The tentacle that broke the surface was as big around as a Volkswagen bug, and it stretched a distance of nearly twenty-five feet to slam down on the ground where Leah had been standing. Unsuccessful, it did not pause. Moving with vicious speed, it disappeared back beneath the roiling waters as quickly as it had come, leaving long strands of mucus to mark where it had been.

The whole attack had been incredibly quick. Charles assimilated the observations of the pack.

The skin on the tentacle had been a light-pink-tinged gray, mottled and darker on the upper surface than on the lower. The underside of the tentacle, which only Tag had seen, had round ridges similar to—if not exactly like—a squid’s, suction cups that would allow the Singer to attach itself to the underwater edges of the pit, giving it stability in the water.

A second tentacle struck at Tag, landing with a hollow boom that echoed like a rumble of thunder. Charles leapt on top of it. He had to dig his claws through the thick slime to give himself traction. Bearing in mind the speed the last tentacle had shown, he wasted no time biting down, burying his fangs into the tough flesh—and releasing the flesh instantly. He jumped off the moving tentacle and landed on the ground not two feet from the steep edge of the lake.

He ran, coughing up slime that seemed to grow inside his mouth. When he was a reasonable distance away, he rubbed his face in the wet grass. The slime tasted vaguely familiar—and unpleasantly fishy.

Hagfish, supplied Brother Wolf, who never forgot anything they had tasted. To the others, Brother Wolf suggested, Use your claws.

He was right, though that effectively lost them half of their attack capability. But that loss didn’t bother Charles now. His earlier grim assessments forgotten, fierce excitement lit his veins as his focus, and his pack’s focus, narrowed to the here and now. Charles was always most alive when he and Brother Wolf fought a worthy enemy.

Brother Wolf threw them into the fight with a joyous abandon, wishing that this battle, this song, might last forever, an eternal dancing with the pack against an enemy that demanded every skill they had. Tag’s berserker spirit lay over them all, but spread out so that it only gave muscles more strength, speed, and endurance instead of the suicidal madness it could become.

A different sort of limb snuck out of the water and wrapped itself around Anna. It was darker colored and round, like the snakes children made with Play-Doh, maybe six inches in diameter—but at least as long as, if not longer than, the tentacles. It tried to haul Anna into the water, pulling her off her feet with a jerk.

Charles was on the far side of two of the big tentacles and couldn’t even see what had happened, but what the others knew, he knew.

It was Tag who got to her and bit down savagely on the rubbery flesh, which was devoid of slime. Had Tag known that, the hunting song understood, he would not have done a bite-and-release. But the bite did the trick, and the arm went momentarily limp, allowing Anna to scramble out of it. She freed herself and rolled to her feet as the Singer’s limb gave a sudden twitch, then withdrew to the safety of the dark waters.

They watched for those sneaky dark limbs after that.

Unable to use their mouths on the tentacles that were the Singer’s main physical means of attack because of the slime, and unable to stay for a concerted attack because of the danger of being flung or dragged into the water, the wolves were reduced to delivering minor wounds in the hope that they would eventually weaken the creature.

They were further hampered by the mental attacks. They all understood when Leah missed a strike because she thought she was still waiting for the first attack. The hunting song offered her what it knew of the past few minutes, and she made her second strike count. Anna took the next mental attack, but Charles would not have known it bothered her without their bonds because she never slowed down, his graceful, deadly warrior. Hit and run suited her style of fighting because she was fast.

Charles had been right about Tag’s resistance to the Singer’s magic. Though the hunting song told him that the Singer attacked Tag’s memories as frequently as it did Anna’s or Leah’s, the only effect on the old wolf was the deepening hold the berserker spirit took on him. Charles had to work to make sure that it didn’t spill onto the rest of the pack. Tag knew how to use the berserker in his soul; if it attached to one of the other three, it could be a disaster.

But the larger part of the Singer’s attempt to steal memories settled onto Charles, as if the Singer was well aware that Charles spearheaded the wolves. If it had not been for Brother Wolf, Charles suspected he would have fallen.

Trust me, Brother Wolf told the twelve-year-old Charles, who found himself in wolf form trying to keep upright on slick ground in the middle of dodging an unlikely giant tentacle when just a moment before he had been on two feet and talking to his grandfather.

The only possible answer when Brother Wolf asked for trust, no matter what the circumstances, was for Charles to give it. He allowed Brother Wolf ascendance, and the wolf got them away from the danger. It was Brother Wolf who coordinated the others in Charles’s place while Charles battled in a different arena.

For the next ten minutes, by Brother Wolf’s reckoning, Charles was tossed from one reality to another with only brief sojourns in the current time. Then something changed.

A very distinctive drumbeat pulsed through the ties of the hunting song as Anna brought her steel-trap memory for music to bear. There were no lyrics—only Brother Wolf could speak through the hunting song’s bonds, a quirk Charles had been unaware of until this battle. But “We Will Rock You” didn’t need words.

The Singer’s attacks on their memories lessened in effect—and then, as if it had become aware of their new inefficacy, ceased altogether. The fight continued as the rising dawn, muffled by the storm clouds and the rain, brought only faint shards of light onto the battleground.

As Charles had feared, Leah fell first. She saw it coming, but exhaustion slowed her more than she’d expected. Her right front foot slipped in a patch of mucus—the ground anywhere near the lake was becoming dangerously slick. She mistimed her dodge. One of the smaller dark arms whipped out and wrapped around her back leg, jerking her off her feet.

Charles got his jaws on the tentacle a second later and severed it in a spray of clearish fluid that seemed to be the Singer’s version of blood. But the damage was done. Leah’s leg was all but ripped off.

Charles did not see a mouth in the frothing water of the lake, but something must have surfaced, because the Singer shrieked, an ululating, ear-piercing noise that rose to the point of pain on sensitive ears. The searing agony of the sound dropped on the pack, and for a moment they were still.

Then Brother Wolf took advantage of the temporary motionlessness of the three tentacles currently onshore and opened a four-foot-long wound that was as deep as he could manage given the length of his claws and the toughness of the Singer’s rubbery skin. In apparent response, the Singer jerked all of its parts beneath the water.

Directed by the needs of the hunt, Anna grabbed Leah by the scruff of the neck with her teeth and pulled the wounded wolf well out of reach. Leah did not object to either the pain of Anna’s teeth breaking through hide and into flesh or the bump of her damaged leg on the ground. The hunting song knew that to heal such a wound would weaken the pack too much to continue the battle. So the song withdrew from Leah, leaving only three wolves in the fight.

ALONE AND SHIVERING from pain and exhaustion, Leah tried to start her change. The shift should heal most of the damage to her leg on its own. The sooner she got this done, the sooner she could get back into the fray. Nothing happened. She simply didn’t have the resources to change again without rest or food.

She cast an anxious glance at the ongoing battle. They weren’t going to win. The Singer was simply amusing himself with them. Leah couldn’t bear being the only survivor a second time.

Desperately, she reached out to her distant pack for a boost of energy to help her change. They should have been too far away for her to reach. And they were.

But Bran wasn’t.

Rich energy pulsed through her mate bond, making the change almost easy, certainly quicker than she was used to. As her body burned and stretched, she felt Bran begin to open their bond.

Buried with pain and the confusion of the shift, she reacted with utter and instinctive honesty. She shut it tight, cutting off the feed of energy, which she might not have done if she’d been more cognizant. It didn’t matter; she had enough to finish the change on her own.

When she lay faceup in the mud, the falling rain keeping her eyes closed, she heard the faint sound of an approaching helicopter. Proof that Bran was near—had she needed further confirmation.

He brought hope with him. She knew of no other being who might accomplish what Sherwood had failed to do. Charles said he was bringing Jonesy’s sword, and that was certainly a weapon that might kill a god—it had killed Jonesy, who was a son of Lugh, after all. If Bran joined them, they stood a chance.

With the wracking physical pain that was only just beginning to die down replaced by the accumulated mental wounds that could not be healed by magic, Bran Cornick was the last person in the world that Leah wanted to see. The pain of his presence might be the straw that broke her.

There was a sudden brilliant flash and a crack as lightning struck a tree on the far edge of the pit. And a second crack as one of the Singer’s small limbs, the ones that hid in the shadows, smacked out and hit Tag, knocking him on his side—and one of the huge tentacles followed, staving in the berserker’s side.

THE FIRST BLOW had not done much; Tag was a tough old wolf. But the second strike was another matter entirely.

The hunting song meant that Charles felt the sharp edge slicing Tag from nose to flank, laying him open to the bone. But it was the crushing blow of the rest of the tentacle that did the real damage, splintering bone and flattening organs.

What Charles did next wasn’t an impulse. He and Brother Wolf had been engaged in a back-channel discussion from the beginning.

Remind it what death is, Asil had said. Jonesy had told him so, and Jonesy had been the son of a Celtic god, so he should have known. Charles had been hoping for his da to arrive with Jonesy’s sword, but there was only a faint chance that he would get here before they lost this fight—a chance that had become significantly smaller now that Tag lay dying.

If he could pull magic from Leah through the pack bonds—and he wasn’t sure that wouldn’t kill her—Charles thought that they could probably save Tag. As long as they did it soon, before he or Anna sustained further damage. Between the time it would take and the drain of energy, such a decision would mean conceding the battle to the Singer.

Which meant they would lose what might be their only opportunity to kill something approaching godlike powers that would bear a grudge against his family and owe allegiance to the Hardesty witches—who also bore a grudge against his family.

It would be loosing evil on the world, Brother Wolf said.

But if they chose not to save Tag, they had a different opportunity.

Charles released that knowledge to the hunting song, which was already reeling under Tag’s wounds. It was a pragmatic choice. If the pack rebelled, if Tag refused, Charles would listen.

Yes.

Tag’s wolf spirit gave eager consent. Taking one’s enemy down with one’s own death was more than acceptable to the berserker spirit, but the single word had a bit of Tag’s laughing amusement in it, too.

Anna waited. When a tentacle struck from the depths of the pit, she began a swift and brutal attack in the faint hope of keeping the Singer’s attention on her. She didn’t have to do it for long. This would not take much time.

With the Singer occupied with Anna, Charles ran to where Tag lay in the slime-covered mud. It was still Tag, not his corpse yet, though they could all feel the separation beginning.

Charles put his human hand on the horrendous wound, coating it in blood. He could not have said when he had changed back to human, only that he needed a hand for this, so that is what he had. Then he ran to the tentacle that was trying to kill his mate. This one had a long wound and Charles plunged his bloody hand into it, pressing Tag’s lifeblood into the Singer. And then he tied them together—like the first step in bringing a new member into the pack.

He felt what he had done in the pack bonds, but Tag lay between the Singer and the pack, keeping them safe. Tag had always been a protective wolf. Dying, he was no less a guardian, dragging the Singer through that final veil with him.

THE HUNTING SONG waited for Tag’s death.

Leah wasn’t a part of that anymore, but she was a pack mate, and she knew how to read the signs. It had been a ruthless decision—and something inside her told her it wasn’t going to work anyway. The Singer was too alien.

Not in body; it did not matter what body it wore. But pack magic was specific, and there had to be some affinity for Charles to find if he was going to bind the Singer to Tag.

She forced herself to her feet. Her hip hadn’t healed completely in the change, but she was satisfied that it was only outraged tissue she had to deal with. She ignored the pain.

Even through the lesser window the pack bonds gave her, she could feel Tag’s joy in achieving a glorious death. The idiot. It made her want to bite him.

THE TENTACLE WRITHED and Anna ran for safety, knowing Charles was doing the same thing on the other side. It didn’t matter; they both knew their last chance had failed. Tag was still dying, but the bond Charles had fought to forge had not taken.

Only then did she realize that the noise she was hearing was a helicopter, flying in close. The hunting song had failed to notice it sooner because Tag was dying and Anna and Charles were both numbed with exhausted failure. Three wolves were not usually enough to keep a song going, and the magic was fading.

Bran’s helicopter didn’t land in the meadow in the center of Wild Sign, the only place with a big enough clearing to put the machine on the ground. Instead, it flew over—and Anna could almost hear the sigh of relief as the hunting song renewed itself and reached out for its king.

Bran dropped out of the hovering helicopter into the forest, because it was necessary to keep the helicopter out of reach. Tied to Bran with intimate closeness, Anna felt—they all felt—the momentary pain of his impact on the ground. But Bran healed himself as soon as the damage took place—filled with the power of not only the hunting song but also his pack, his wildlings, and a huge distant well of strength that was all of the wolves who owed him allegiance.

CHARLES LET THE reins of the hunting song go with relief and a renewal of hope. Da was here; all would be well.

He is not a god, said Brother Wolf dryly, but Charles knew his wolf shared Charles’s faith.

Bran had assessed the situation before his feet hit the forest floor, and Charles knew what he needed to do as soon as his da did.

Anna waited for Bran beside Tag. Da wanted her human because he might need her hands to help save Tag, so she began her change. Charles felt the power that poured to her from the bonds of the hunt, felt her surprise at the speed of her transformation.

For his part, Charles ran toward the lake. About halfway there, he jumped into the air and raised his hand. Jonesy’s sword, tossed by his da, landed in his clasp as if it wanted to be there.

DRIVEN BY THE wishes of the Marrok, the hunting song tried to engulf Leah again. Her initial rejection was instinctive. She could not bear being that close to Bran right now, raw as she was with the pain of the memories that the Singer had returned to her—only to snatch them away again, leaving her with just the remnants of the emotional upheaval. She did not have the strength to deal with the careful distance Bran maintained between them.

From her vantage point maybe fifty feet from where Tag lay, Leah watched her mate prepare to save them all. He threw the sword he’d brought into the hands of his son, then dropped to his knees beside Tag. Because, she understood, either he or Charles could have wielded the sword—but only one of them had a chance to save Tag.

Leah was not necessary.

She gave up the fight and let exhaustion, emotional and physical, overtake her, watching Charles with a gray numbness that approached disinterest. The silvery sword, which was not a long sword, looked more like a knife in his hand from this distance. It had been forged by the Dark Smith of Drontheim, and it had killed a son of the god Lugh.

The exhaustion-born numbness was swept away by the sudden certainty that she still had a role to play.

In her dream, Buffalo Singer had told her that this was her battle. Watching the great fae sword in Charles’s hands, she finally understood what those words meant. Bitterness engulfed her and gave her the power to get to her feet.

If Buffalo Singer ever came to her in a dream again, she would make sure he regretted it.

AS IF IT understood the weapon Charles bore, the Singer had withdrawn under the water. Left without a target, Charles came to a wary stop three or four body lengths from the lake.

He could feel his da pouring power into the dying wolf behind him, using the hunting song and the pack bonds to keep Tag with them. Other than his da’s cursing of stubborn werewolves, the dawn held a waiting quiet.

There was a bright silvery edge to the sky, but where they stood the rain still poured. Charles was glad the pilot had gotten the helicopter down safely, because the storm was once again filling with the electric quality that told him the lightning was preparing for another round.

Charles felt a great calm sink into him. It wasn’t the kind of calm that Anna gave him. It was the calm of battle, when all was at the ready and he would either live or die. It was Brother Wolf’s favorite place to be.

Without warning, the tentacle whipped out of the water directly in front of him, snaking forward to slap down on him.

Charles moved aside. He was very tired, and he moved more quickly on four feet than on two. But he was fast enough. He buried the sword, driving it through the tough skin until it was haft deep.

The Singer screamed once more, the tentacle knocked into Charles, and he lost his grip on the sword.

He landed in a crouch. With no forethought at all, he raised up a hand and shouted . . . something. It didn’t feel like he needed a word—just the cry, the sound of his voice.

And a bolt of lightning struck the sword in the center of the old blue stone at the top of the pommel. And the balls of lightning that spun off improbably in all directions knocked Charles off his feet again.

The tentacle, the entire visible upper skin crisped black and smelling like burnt fish, lay limp on the slime-covered mud.

After a while, Charles staggered to his feet. He looked at the tentacle and the twice-blackened sword. Leaving it, he headed back to where his da and Anna still fought to save Tag.

“Change,” growled Da, both of his hands buried in Tag’s bloody fur.

Charles put one hand on his da’s shoulder, releasing all the power at his disposal to Bran’s use. Anna wrapped a hand around Charles’s wrist and did the same. He couldn’t remember if she’d known how to do that, or if the hunting song showed her how.

Tag fought to live now, and that had taken a good deal of effort. Da had a grip on Tag that would, Charles was worried, bind Tag’s soul to his bones if his body gave out before he was able to change and heal.

But Tag wasn’t changing. Da gathered himself for another effort, and Anna put her free hand on Tag’s forehead.

She bent down and whispered in his ear, “We have had enough death this night, you stubborn bastard. Change.”

Charles felt her draw on the power of the hunt, on Charles, and on the Marrok. She did something tricky with her own Omega power, too. “Change.”

Tag changed. It took a very long time. Long enough for the storm-drenched skies to lighten to full morning. Long enough that the rain gentled and the thunderstorm moved off.

“I can see why the FBI thought that Anna ruled us all,” said Da, sitting in the mud. The hunting song had died down to a more subtle thing, but Charles could still feel his da’s amusement trickling through it.

“Is there a reason,” Da asked delicately, “that Anna is using the hunting song to project Queen?”

“Yes.” Anna was staring at the limp tentacle. “It’s not dead. Is it?”

Da sighed. “No.”

THERE WAS ONE more flashlight inside the cave entrance. Leah turned it on and concentrated on her footing as she retraced the way she and Anna had taken earlier.

Memories of Zander flooded back. A gift, she thought bitterly, from the Singer.

Zander had been four when Sherwood came. He’d been a bright-eyed, affectionate child. Her new baby had been colicky. When she lay him belly down across her legs and patted his back to make him more comfortable, Zander would pat his tiny shoulder.

She had loved her children as she had never loved anything else in her life. Of course, back then, she had not remembered how they had been conceived. She remembered now.

She still loved her children.

The flashlight fell on a trail of blood, following it to the man propped up against the side of the cave. The light fell on his face and she looked her fill.

The adult Zander could have been her own father’s double. Line breeding did that. The Singer could supply the spark of life—but required two human vessels to complete the act.

None of that was Zander’s fault.

His eyelids wiggled and then his eyes opened. His mouth moved and she read his lips. Mama.

This was what the Singer had been occupied with while they waited for him to attack them. Memories and music were his powers, not life and death, so keeping Zander alive had taken the Singer time and power.

“I almost told her that the bullets wouldn’t kill you,” Leah said, kicking the Glock out of his hand. He didn’t have the strength yet to use it—but she didn’t know what would happen when the Singer became aware of her here. Maybe he’d be preoccupied with Charles and the sword. “The Singer couldn’t afford to lose you yet. Those new children are not even born—and he cannot leave these caves. Not until he Becomes.”

Becomes something more, she thought. A god. A more powerful being. She thought of the damage that the Singer might cause once free of the caves, and found the determination she needed.

“I thought I could give you a chance.” She knelt beside him and put her hand on his face. Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead at the same time that she unsnapped the sheath he wore on his belt and took out the knife.

ANNA WAS WAITING for her when she came out of the cave. Like Leah, Anna wore her human shape, though she was clothed. The perceptive Omega wolf did not say anything, just walked at Leah’s shoulder. Leah raised her face to the blessed rain so that it could bathe away the evidence of the price she’d paid to kill the Singer.

Bran and Charles both stood up and left Tag to trail after her. Jonesy’s sword rose out of the blackened flesh like a cross on the top of a hill. Crosses made her think of her father, and Leah had the odd thought that she might at last make peace with that memory.

Her father had been weak. He’d believed his god had forsaken him in the wilderness—no matter that all of the choices that had led them there had been his own. It was no wonder that when faced with another god, one that required nothing more difficult than obedience, her father had not even struggled with the decision.

She jumped on top of the tentacle. The weakness in her damaged leg and her inability to use either hand made her wobble. Bran caught her elbow and steadied her. Then he let her go.

It took her a moment to realize that she was going to have to set down the knife before she could pull the sword out. It was truly stuck. Why had Charles felt it necessary to bury the damn thing? But she managed—Bran steadied her again.

Then she shoved her right hand deep into the cut the sword had made. She took a breath and then crushed her son’s heart until it quit trying to beat. She stood up and fumbled because both of her hands were slick with blood, but she managed to get the point of the sword into the cut and shoved it back in.

She jumped down—but would have fallen to her knees if Charles hadn’t held her up. He released her and she took a step, stumbling because sometime in the last few minutes her leg had gone from being painful to not working right. When Bran put his hand on her arm, she jerked it free.

“Okay,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “But we need to get back.”

“Here,” Anna said. And Leah was able to let her daughter-in-law help her, because Anna didn’t make her feel any uncomfortable or hurtful things.

They stopped when Bran quit walking. Then they all turned to look back at the lake and the cross on top of the hill.

Bran looked at Charles.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Charles said. “There’s no reason for it to work again.”

But when Bran didn’t say anything, Charles grunted. Then he raised a hand to the sky and said, in a quiet voice but one that carried power that reminded Leah of the scent of the Singer’s magic, “Now.”

Lightning struck the blade of the sword. And after that, it seemed to Leah as if nothing happened quite as it should have.

The strike should have blown the metal to pieces, she thought. Then she remembered who had built that sword.

Lightning should be instantaneous. A crack and then gone. But the blinding light lingered, emitting a buzzing sound that made the bones of her skull vibrate. She had to look away from the brilliance. Only then the thunder rolled and the ground grew so electric that it bit at Leah’s bare feet.

When the sound was gone, the forest was darker, and it felt so very quiet after the endless thunder that even the wind whistling through the trees seemed like a whisper. Leah looked toward the lake and saw the sword slowly falling over in the ashes that were all that was left of the Singer. And her son.

Leah managed to control her fall so that she simply sat where she’d been standing. But that didn’t work the way she’d expected, either. Because she kept falling until her wet cheek was pressed into the slime-covered mud, and her eyes closed.

She might have fought to stay conscious, but she thought it might be nice, just for a little bit, to quit hurting.

SHERWOOD POST SAT up in his bed and remembered his name.