Page 8 of Fat Enemy Mate

I’ve been telling myself for days that I have time and can make it to the city, but I have to face facts. If I can’t move after resting here and find some water at least, I won’t be able to move at all.

That will be it.

I force myself to breathe. I will not die in this hut. I make a loose plan: rest until my migraine settles, rest my ankle, and maybe make some kind of splint, and then I’m going to keep going. There are three matches and some kindling. At least I can get warm, and if I can chase the cold out of my bones, I might still stand a chance.

I focus on the only thing I can control: the stove.

The wood pile is pathetic, but it’s dry and will light easily. I crouch down in front of the stove door and focus on building the small fire the way my father taught me, striking the matches and watching the flames take hold slowly and then grow. It’s like he’s here, looking over my shoulder and urging me not to give up. The thought brings fresh tears to my eyes. Knowing I’m relatively safe, I let them fall, feeling a wave of grief wash over me.

I close the stove door and lower myself to the floor, watching the fire grow through the grate. I add a few more smaller splints, one at a time. The room around me starts to warm. I can see it in the way the air around the stove shimmers, and I can smell the burning wood. But I cannot feel it.

That’s the bit that scares me.

I’m right in front of a stove that’s pumping out visible heat, but I can’t feel it, not really. My hands feel numb. My face feels numb. I realize that even though the pain in my ankle isn’t as noticeable, it's not because it’s suddenly recovered, but because I’m losing feeling.

That can’t be good.

I pull the blanket from the bunk and wrap it around me, ignoring the smell, and sit there, waiting to see if my body is going to respond to the heat or continue to fade away.

After an hour or so, I realize that I can’t tell if it’s working or not, but I feel exhausted. I don’t even feel hungry anymore; I just feel tired and flat. The bunk weighs nothing, and I drag it closer to the stove before climbing onto it and pulling the blanket over myself. I know I shouldn’t sleep or the ward could fade and I wouldn’t notice; I tell myself I’ll just rest my eyes and perhaps feel better for it. I try to ignore the little voice at the back of my mind that tells me it knows I’m giving up.

I close my eyes.

I can hear the fire popping distantly, and I can sense the ward is still up. I am too cold to feel the warmth and too tired to feel afraid anymore, so I let myself drift.

I think about my cabin. I think about the porch in summer and the way the light fell on the kitchen table in the morning. The way my dad would make us breakfast and the cup he used for his coffee. I let the warmth of those memories warm me more than the stove ever could, and for a moment, I’m there, and everything is right in the world.

I let my body rest, not knowing if it will get back up.

Chapter 5 - Wilf

I tell myself I’m just sweeping the western line before heading home.

That’s my official line and has been since the meeting let out at four. The first team was already back from the first sweep while I wrapped up with Luna and Nick. Connor was heading out with six betas to work the valley road beading up north, Bryan and Ethan are running the smaller eastern stretch, and Thomas is with a few of the newer wolves doing another sweep of the deer track from where I made the kills this morning, and heading out west. The talismans are at the pack hall, sitting on Nick’s desk, where no one wants to touch them, and I don’t blame them. Luna has already been on the phone with her witch friend, Anya, and the woman is driving up tomorrow to help Luna figure out what the rogues are up to. No one is taking any chances when it comes to Cheslems’ love of dark magic.

So, the talismans are being handled, the rogues are being looked for, the forest is being swept, and I have been told to go home.

But I’m not at home.

The afternoon has long since faded into evening by the time I’m on the ridge and letting my wolf run. I’ve taken the line that I know the patrol covered this morning, but I also know it’s a hard area to search and worth a second look. I told Connor I’d run the trail on my way home, and he didn’t say anything, which I took as permission.

The human trail I picked up this morning has long since gone cold. Twelve hours is a long time out here, and all that’s left is the suggestion of a trail rather than a genuine path. I work it the way you have to work a faded scent, which is solely low tothe ground, casting wide on either side, and pausing a lot. I lose it completely several times and circle back to find it. By the time the sun dips behind the ridge, I’ve lost it completely.

I almost give up. I’m not even sure why I’m chasing this particular ghost. The female has probably gotten off the mountain and is heading back to wherever she lives. I don’t need to be out here. The patrols are strong, and the sweeping plan is solid; if there are any more rogues out here, they’ll find them. They can handle this; I helped train them after all; I know how good they are.

I keep going anyway, working further along the trail, feeling my wolf urging me on. I tell myself that he’s just spoiling for another fight, but he pushes back with worry about the female. I shake that thought off immediately and push on, focusing on the sweep, the rogues, and only following the female's trail in case it also leads to those hunting her. That is what I tell myself as I crest the ridge and then dip back down onto one of the trails. I tell myself I will do one loop and then head home because it’s been a long day and I don’t need to be doing this. I push my wolf harder, trying to run off the frustration that has been simmering all day.

I almost miss the hut altogether.

The hut network is an open secret out here, and I’ve found a few over the years; I even holed up in one myself during a snowstorm. But I didn’t know there was one near this outcrop until the scent of human mixed with the faintest whiff of rosemary hits me. There’s no rosemary growing this high, but I know they use it in the huts because it does genuinely confuse our wolves; right now, the scent of human is only making the rosemary stand out more. There’s something else, too: the faint hum of magic that has faded but is still hovering in the atmosphere. I follow the scent up and slightly west, off thepath, and follow the outcrop down and round, the smell getting stronger as I go.

The huts all look different, and this one is one of the best I’ve seen. It’s not even a hut; it’s a cave built out under the outcrop and covered with overgrown foliage and moss. Someone could walk straight past a hundred times and not even see it; the door itself is a masterpiece of concealment and takes me time to find the handle because it’s so hidden. I only know to look for it at all because my wolf is riding the human scent so hard, and it congregates in one spot. I know without any doubt that the female is here.

The door is locked, but as I test it, I already know it will give. There are clothes hanging from the top of the frame, which I realize is the source of the rosemary. The magic is stronger here, but still far too faint to be of any use. The huts have ward stones, but if this one was activated, it’s long since faded. If the female is still here, she must know she’s vulnerable to any passing wolf. If I could find her, the rogues could too if they’re still looking.

I shift outside and unstrap the patrol pouch from my leg as the shift is happening. The folded shorts are almost nothing inside, just a thin pair that every man on patrol has started carrying because we’ve all been caught out before. It was Connor’s idea, and I thought it was pretty unnecessary because shifters don’t give much of a shit about things like that, but for some reason, the thought of busting in on this human female makes me think the shorts are a good idea, so I pull them on. I’m about to bust the obviously inferior lock when I pause for a moment and knock instead.

“I’m not one of the rogues, but I’m coming in if you don’t open the door.” I try to keep my voice neutral, not as impatient. When there’s no reply, I knock again. “I’m coming in.”