"That's the Beta," Nash says. "He's keeping them organized."
The wolves are ghosts in the floodlights. They don't move like dogs; they flow. They trot with a loose-limbed gait that eats up the ground. They are circling the cabin, moving in and out of the shadows, testing the perimeter.
One of them pauses at the corner of the porch. He sniffs the wood where I killed the Alpha. Then he looks up at the window. I flinch, instinctively stepping back, even though I know he can't see me in the dark house.
"They're probing," Nash whispers, his hand gripping the shotgun so hard his knuckles are white. "Looking for a weakness. They won't find one. This house is cedar over stone. Oak doors. Triple-pane glass."
"Glass breaks, Nash."
"Not easily."
He walks back to the radio, frustration coming off him like heat. He keys the handset again.
"Birch Bay, this is Misty Meadows. Rhys, do you copy? Over."
Static. Hiss. Pop.
"Come on, Rhys," Nash mutters. "You're the responsible one. Pick up the damn handset."
"Rhys," I say, keeping one eye on the wolves outside. I've never met him, but I saw the invoice taped to the cinnamon rolls Hank dropped on the gravel bar—every line crossed out, the zero balance circled. "The one who documents things for the record."
"That's him," Nash says, adjusting the squelch. "He runs the dock at Birch Bay—the store, the fuel station, the bait shop, the whole show. Only Hollister who actually owns a calculator and knows how to use it. If anyone is monitoring the emergency channel at this hour, it's him."
"And Reid?"
He sighs, letting go of the handset. "If I could get Rhys, he'd have armed Hollisters on sleds in my yard within the hour. Or he could get word to Reid. The Kingfisher works all winter out of Lantern Bay—skim ice doesn't scare her. And Reid's reckless enough to run the strait in the dark."
"But we can't reach them," I say.
"No. We're on our own."
Outside, a low, mournful sound begins.
Aroooooooo.
It starts with one wolf, the Beta, likely, and is quickly joined by others. A chorus of howls rises into the night air, overlapping, harmonizing, creating a sonic wall that feels like it's vibrating the very timbers of the cabin.
"Quiet!" Nash commands, but his voice is lost in the noise.
"They're rallying," Nash says over the noise. "Telling us we're surrounded. They want panic. They want us to run."
"It's working," I mutter.
The howling stops as abruptly as it began. The silence that follows is worse. It's heavy, pregnant with intent.
Then, the scratching starts.
It comes from the front door: long, rhythmic scratches against the heavy wood.Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It sounds like a giant hand testing the lock.
"Get away from the door," Nash orders, raising the shotgun.
We back into the center of the room. The scratching continues for a minute, then stops.
Then we hear a thump on the roof.
I look up at the ceiling beams. "Nash. They can climb."
