Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(100)

And I will know.

Eric jerked his head up to Bran’s, then quickly away. The men with him just shrank. Asil enjoyed the scent of fear that rose in the air. Knowing that Bran could talk in your head was a completely different thing than having him do it.

Bran nodded at Charles. Charles looked at the prisoners and smiled. Asil had practiced in a mirror, trying to get that smile. His own were very good, but he hadn’t gotten quite the same “I’d rather rip you to little pieces, but my father says I can’t—yet” effect. Asil was better at the “I’m crazy, and you are about to die.”

“Up,” Charles told them. Then he pointed to the door and followed them out.

Bran waited until the door closed behind him.

I have sent him away. This is between us, Old Wolf. Bran’s voice was a somber thread in his head. No one else reacted, so Asil assumed that Bran talked to him alone. I cannot break my own laws. Not when my friends are killing their wives, their children and grandchildren for the good of all.

“Can you give her a chance?” Asil asked aloud. “Let her try?”

Drawing this out will do nothing but make it harder.

The other wolves had begun to murmur as Bran’s failure to dismiss them implied that there was more business at hand than they’d seen so far.

Kara was starting to get worried, she looked at Asil and whined. He put a hand on her head, and tension in the room began to climb. Some of them might know what this was about—but Asil’s gesture told them that there was a disagreement between Asil and the Marrok, and it involved Kara. The Marrok’s pack, at least, would know what this might mean.

“Let me help,” Asil said.

The wolf who had been staring at Kara before Bran came into the pole barn came to his feet. “Last year on the twentieth of October, I killed my mate. For thirty years she was my wife. She asked to be Changed, and after a year as a wolf, she could not shift from one form to another without my help.”

He didn’t say anything more, nor did he have to.

A second wolf stood up. “Three children,” he said. “Three children of four I killed. One died a week after the Change because he was uncontrollably violent, and not even the Marrok could help. I killed him before Bran was forced to. One I killed when he attacked his human family. One I killed on his anniversary date because he could not control his shift.”

Kara stared at the standing men and began to shake.

A third wolf stood up—this one Asil knew. The Alpha of the Emerald City Pack was not a big man, but he didn’t need to be. “The laws are right, Bran Cornick. This is why we have always supported you.” He bowed his head, and Asil could tell that what he said hurt him. “Thirteen is not fair—we all know that. But fair is not an option when you are a werewolf. We cannot afford to ignore the laws that have allowed us to survive. You and I both remember different times, Bran. I do not want a return of those old times. Justice, for us, cannot contain mercy because we cannot afford it.”

These werewolves were honest, and as much as Asil hated to admit it, they had reason behind what they said. He could not take out his rage on them. But Hatchard Cole, Asil thought very carefully to his wolf, is a dead man. The wolf’s agreement spread to his chest in a warm wave of rage.

“It has always been acceptable,” Asil said clearly, “for wolves to receive such aid that does not involve pack bonds or magic in order to pass the test.” Neither he nor Bran could call her wolf out of her. Nor could they change themselves and hope to call her change.

“Yes,” agreed Bran.

“I’ll be right back,” Asil said. He bent down and whispered into her ear.

Bran heard him, but that didn’t matter so much.

Louder he told her, “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He started out of the room, and the first wolf who’d stood up said, “So we all wait on you?”

Asil turned and looked at him. His wolf looked, too—and his wolf thought that maybe they’d hunt someone before they tracked down Hatchard Cole. Being a dupe was one thing, eagerness for the death of a child was something entirely different.

“You are so anxious to kill her that you cannot wait ten minutes?” He didn’t bother saying anything else, just turned on his heel and strode out of the door.

Sick at heart, he trotted through the snow to the Marrok’s house. She would fail. He would fight the Marrok, but he knew how that would end. And then the Marrok would kill her. All of them would pay because Hatchard Cole was greedy.

“Unacceptable,” he said aloud. He took a deep breath. She was almost there. Another week. Maybe only another day or two, and she would make it. But they did not have that time. All he could give her was a fighting chance.

Inside the house, he went right to Bran’s study. The roses he’d brought were still in good shape, though the big black-red rose was starting to droop. That was the one he pulled out of the vase. One would work better than all of them.

“Do not fail me,” he told it sternly.

“Roses are good,” said Devon.

Asil, not used to being startled, let out an involuntary snarl, then swallowed it.

Devon stood in his human body. Every rib showed, and his muscles were stringy—almost like a very old man’s. He was shivering with nervous energy, and his eyes shifted back and forth between brown and gold every time he blinked.