Page 15

The wolf should be there beneath the human, even while she sleeps. Its scent is deep in her skin. I wait through another breath, then another, finding only the woman.

Wolves die as men now.

The hunter had spilled drink down his wrist while he spoke.

I look from her bare legs to the broken shaft.

New moon tonight. If her wolf were alive, she’d be on four legs right now, not lying here on bare ones. Whatever those men did to her, it’s bleeding onto my hand.

Clearing the forest.

The men who came for us talked that way too, before they started. I remember the first hunts.

Her hair sticks across her mouth. I draw it clear, turning my claws outward, and her next breath moves against my knuckle.

She has a soft mouth and dark brows. Even half-frozen, she’s beautiful.

I turn back to the wound. Her face tells me nothing useful, and I’ve spent too long looking at it.

Blood runs over the heel of my hand. I wipe it on the gravel.

My dead are up that slope, and if there are men past this bank I’ve already stood here too long. She’s a wolf. Her pack can come for her.

When my people needed help, the wolves kept to their own.

I get up, pulling the cloak free of my knee, and turn toward the trees.

Three steps take me off the gravel.

I stop with one foot among the pine needles.

The slope will be harder going back. I should start while my legs still hold.

My father’s hand rested between my shoulders outside the wolves’ door, and he kept me close while he asked for shelter, his voice clear enough for everyone inside to hear. I watched their faces because he was watching them, and one man looked past him into the trees while another stepped back from the doorway.

My father finished asking anyway.

Hitto.

I turn around, my ears pressed flat against my head.

She hasn’t moved. The hand she stretched toward the rocks is open. I kneel beside it and spread my cloak on the gravel.

A growl gets through my teeth while I work an arm beneath her. I’ve no strength to spare tonight, and here’s a wolf who needs all of it. I could still put her down.

I lift her onto the cloak, keeping her wounded shoulder clear.

The wood catches against its edge. I stop, ease the cloth away, and fold it around her with a space left over the shaft. Her head rests in the bend of my elbow. I tuck her cold feet inside the hem.

She weighs nothing.

Getting upright takes two attempts.

On the second, I brace a foot against a buried stone and rise slowly. Her weight pulls at my arms. I hold her closer, her injured arm supported between us, and wait for the ground to stop moving.

Then I start toward the mountain. Each step pulls under my ribs.

Her head tips when I cross a root, and I stop to settle it. She breathes against the pale fur at my shoulder.