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The shift in the howl from mindless pain and fury to a distinguishable word had Alex tilting her head, stepping closer. The snow had become a blizzard, and she could just discern the outline of Barlow shimmering—there, and then gone and then there again. Was he getting taller as he died?
“Whooooooooo dares?”
The words echoed across the night as Barlow, naked and man-size, his chest a bloody mess, burst from the swirling blanket of white.
His arms stretched outward, muscles flexing, fingertips twinkling, as his head tilted back and the cords in his neck tightened. A sound of pure, animalistic rage lifted toward the moon and the silver bullet popped out of his chest, arcing through the chilly air and plopping into the
snow with a wet thunk.
Alex stood there, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling free as the hole in his skin knit together and the burn marks faded away.
No wonder Edward wanted this guy dead.
George returned with a pail in one hand and a down quilt in the other. The snow had thickened considerably and Barlow had become a shadow again an instant before George tossed the quilt at Alex, then hauled back to toss the water in his direction.
Barlow stepped out of the snow and, shocked, George let go of the pail, which flew several feet in the other direction. From the sloshing sounds, it landed upside down.
“What?” the boy began. Then, “How?” He finished with, “Huh?”
“Did you tell anyone what happened?” Barlow asked.
George shook his head. “I didn’t know if whoever shot you was still here or if the rogue was, too. I didn’t want them hurt.”
Barlow grunted, peering into the storm. “Get us some clothes,” he ordered.
The kid ran. Alex didn’t blame him. She wanted to.
Alex imagined herself, herself and began the annoyingly slow process of becoming human again. She had a few things to ask the wolf-god.
“I am still so pissed!” Barlow muttered, then he stomped closer, knelt, and set his hand on her back, which was contorting this way and that as it went from wolf to woman.
As soon as he touched her, the world spun, and by the time Alex opened her eyes, she had legs, fingers, skin. She lay in the snow, dizzy and freezing, doing her best to catch up.
“What can’t you do?” she muttered.
Barlow, who’d straightened and returned to staring at the swirling white, glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“You can move at the speed of sound.” He snorted. “Almost. You can become invisible.” He shrugged. “Change the shade of your fur.”
“Not sure about that.” He turned again to the storm.
“Well, since you can heal silver, I’m betting turning from a golden wolf to a purple one wouldn’t be any trouble for you at all.”
“Mmm,” he murmured.
“That’s all you can say? Mmm?” She got to her feet, ignoring the burn of the ice against her soles. “You just popped a silver bullet out of your chest, Julian.” Alex threw up her hands. “What the fuck?”
For an instant she considered that Barlow himself could be the werewolf that had murdered her father. He could heal silver; there wouldn’t be a mark on him from the bullet she’d fired on that long-ago night. But if Barlow were the culprit, wouldn’t Edward have mentioned that?
No, whispered a little voice. Because if he had, Alex would have shot Barlow the next time she saw him rather than allowing him to lead her to the werewolf village. And the village was what Edward was after—that and the army Barlow didn’t appear to have.
Alex’s mind whirled. Who was the bad guy? Who was manipulating whom? Who could she trust?
“I don’t know what I can do,” Julian murmured, still facing away from her. “Most everything I’ve ever tried, I’ve done.”
“Maybe that’s why someone tried to kill you.”
Barlow turned then, eyebrows lifted. “They weren’t trying to kill me, Alex, they were trying to kill you.”
