The werewolf wiggled under the branches, and Anna followed him on her hands and knees and found herself in a dry dark cave covered with a thick pad of old tree needles that poked into whatever patch of bare skin got near them but cushioned her knees. She crawled over them and lay flat on her belly so she could see out from under the branches and look out beyond the tree.
They were a little uphill from Charles, and, she was afraid, upwind. She ought to change; as a wolf she was stronger, and she had claws and fangs instead of the fingernails that were her only weapon. When she tried though, she knew it was too soon and she wasn't going to make the change. Even the effort left her weary and trembling.
Walter settled next to her, and the warmth of his big body let her know just how cold she was. She pulled off one of her gloves and buried her hand in Walter's fur to warm it up.
* * * *
"He's talking to you?"
Charles held up a hand to keep Asil quiet. He needed to think. His father had a plan, that much was clear. But he didn't seem inclined to share it...if he could.
"What does the witch want with me?" asked Charles.
"I don't-" A funny look came over Asil's face. "Sarai thinks she will kill you, to break your father and regain power she lost when you destroyed the cabin. I think she's done this before, taken over a pack, I mean. Sarai sounds as if this is a pattern." He paused. "If I'm understanding this right, though, the others she took eventually died. Not quite. Faded until there was nothing left of them." He put his hands to his temples as if he had a headache.
Ah, thought Charles as his adrenaline rose. The ties of love are very strong. Maybe the witch was going to lose Sarai to Asil.
He set that aside for later consideration and thought about what Asil had said. "She might get a surprise if she tries to take over my father's pack," he said. "Anna thinks we're a bunch of psychotics."
Asil smiled a little. "She's right, you know."
Charles held out a hand and pulled Asil to his feet, staggering a little drunkenly as he did so. "You look a little rough. Are you hurt?"
Asil dusted the melting snow off his torn pant leg, though it was already soaked through. "No. Just a few scrapes. Mostly torn cloth." He gave Charles a thorough look. "At least I have clothes."
Charles was too tired to play that stupid one-upmanship game. "So the witch will kill me," he said, looking at his father and trying to figure out what the old wolf was up to.
"Maybe." Asil dusted the snow off his other pant leg. "Or she'll have him do it-or maybe Sarai or me. Your pain, your death, matters. Who brings it to you does not. As long as she's there to collect. But I bet she'll order your father to do it. She always liked to hurt people."
If he hadn't just been thinking about the way Asil's presence allowed Sarai to break the witch's control, he might not have understood the significance of that.
The cunning old wolf. Charles slanted an admiring glance at his father. "So that's it. What did your mother do all those years ago? Order you to kill Samuel?"
Asil frowned at him, but before he could say anything a wolf burst through the trees, carrying the witch. Charles felt the familiar coldness settle over him, as Brother Wolf settled in for a fight. His father might be an expert manipulator, but he wasn't in top form and there were too many factors out of anyone's control.
Sarai stopped well out of easy reach and kept herself between the witch and Charles as the witch slid off her back. Her protectiveness seemed to be instinctive-like a mother caring for her young.
The witch-Mary, she'd called herself, and Asil called her Mariposa, Butterfly-was smaller than he remembered, or maybe she just looked small next to Asil's mate. There was no scarf to hide her features this time. She looked young, as if the ugliness of the world had never touched her.
"Charles," she said. "Where is your woman?"
He waited, but the impulse to answer didn't sweep over him. He remembered the strangled pack bonds and a sudden, fervent hope sprang up-his father might have solved one of his problems.
"She is about," he said.
She smiled, but her eyes were cool. "Where, exactly?" He tilted his head. "Not where I left them." Brother Wolf was sure, though he didn't know how the wolf knew.
She stilled, narrowing her eyes at him. "How many wolves are in your father's pack?"
"Including you and your creature?"
Her eyes opened a little. "My, my, Asil certainly wasted no time telling you our business. Yes. By all means include us."
"Thirty-two...maybe thirty-three." There was no harm giving her information that would do her no good here and now. He just wasn't sure if he should count Samuel or not.
"Tell me why I should let you live," she said. "What can you do for me that your father cannot?"
Sarai's attention was on Asil. She, at least, was convinced that the witch had Charles under control. He wasn't going to get another, better opportunity.
One benefit of experience was that he didn't give himself away with surges of adrenaline or emotion. "You should let me live because that might be the only thing that keeps you alive."
"What do you mean?" An eyebrow raised, and she cocked her head in a way that was almost wolflike.
Did he trust his father's calculations? His father was gambling that he could break the witch's hold if she ordered Bran to kill him.
There were other things Charles could try. Maybe there would be a time when he could attack her without risking so much. All he would need was a half second when he was within touching distance and the others were not.
But he could fight now-in a day of the witch's tender care that might not be the case.
Charles looked down as if ceding authority to her, and he whispered the next words slowly; unconsciously she took a step forward, listening. "My fath-" And in the middle of the second word he launched himself at her with every ounce of speed he had left in him.
"Sarai!" The witch screamed in utter terror. If he'd been in top form it wouldn't have been enough. But he was slowed down by exhaustion and by his wounds. The wolf who had been Sarai hit him like a freight train and knocked him away from the witch before he could touch her.
He'd hoped surprise would allow him to kill the witch outright, but he was realistic. So he'd planned on the hit and let the force of the contact power his roll away from Sarai, rather than break his ribs.
Now that the fight was on, his old wounds bothered him only distantly-and mostly as a drag; one of his legs was slower, and his punches wouldn't be as effective.