Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson Read online

  Charles gave him a stiff nod, looked at Kara, and flinched almost imperceptibly. If Bran decided Kara must die, Asil would have to defeat Charles before Bran in order to save Kara. And even if he managed it, that would leave him in charge, not just of a pack, but of all the packs in this part of the world.

  Not acceptable. Asil was done with responsibility.

  Kara would have to change on her own.

  He looked around the barn, where strangers gathered. His eyes lingered on a group of wolves whose leader was staring at Kara with a little too much anger. This would be the wolf who would challenge Kara’s fitness, and the unwitting tool for Hatchard Cole who had once been Conrad Hatch. This wolf’s face was familiar; eventually his name would work its way out of Asil’s memories.

  Perhaps Asil could take him out before he opened his mouth.

  The outer doors shut with a hollow boom, and Bran let his power flush through the building, bringing with it absolute silence. His pack, well used to his ways, knew it was a sign that the show was on—the strangers, unused to the sheer enormity of the Marrok’s effect on their wolves, were silenced by the display.

  “Take a seat, please,” Bran asked them simply.

  The milling crowd resolved itself into an orderly audience. There were more people than the hay bales could seat. The wolves who couldn’t find seating on the hay simply sat on the wooden-plank floor. Even knowing that Bran did not mean him, Asil had to lock his knees to stay upright. Kara sat, then leaned harder against his leg as she craned her neck to look at Bran as he walked soberly into the center of the room, facing his audience.

  “Today, I come before you to render justice,” he said. “For this reason, I have asked you and your candidates to gather here today. So that those who wish to be wolves can see what that truly means. These gentlemen were found hunting as wolves in my territory without my permission.” He paused to let them think about that, leaving the silence for exactly long enough.

  Bran’s timing was almost as good as Asil’s.

  “The penalty for hunting without invitation upon my lands is one thing,” he said. “That their prey was one of mine upon my lands is another.”

  He strolled past the three kneeling men without looking at them. He turned like any good actor, into the audience rather than away from them. He took time to let his eyes meet, however briefly, the gaze of all the wolves in the room. Asil watched Bran’s attention drive the eyes of everyone—human or not—to the ground. The effect was almost eerie.

  Then he turned his focus to the trespassers. “Eric,” he said. “Were you under orders?”

  The werewolf addressed bit his lip until it bled in an effort not to speak.

  “Eric?” Bran’s voice was gentle, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t compelling.

  “Yes.”

  “Cole’s orders?”

  Eric’s skin flushed down his cheekbones as he ground his teeth. “Yes.”

  “Hatchard Cole is their Alpha,” Bran said. “He chose to stay in Alaska and sent these three with Eric’s brother, who is a candidate.” He paused. “Eric’s wife is in Alaska under the protection of Hatchard Cole.”

  Asil did not point out that, hostage or not, Eric had been quite willing to hunt down a thirteen-year-old girl and hurt her. He was pretty certain that if he had not heard her, Kara would have been hurt worse, even if they had not killed her.

  But he trusted Bran. Really. The bastard wouldn’t get away with anything.

  Eric opened his mouth to say something, but Bran beat him to it. “He was sent here originally to tell me that Cole is taking over all of Alaska, and I could give my permission, or he’d just take it. When Cole wasn’t happy with my reply, he told his wolves to make trouble.”

  Bran smiled. “What he doesn’t know is that there are eight packs in Alaska, not three.” He checked his watch. “Excuse me. What he did not know until right about now—is that there are eight packs in Alaska. It is a big state. Silver Pete and the rest of the Alphas are reminding him that he is due so much of it, and no more.”

  No one said a word, but Asil could feel the frisson of excitement travel through the barn. Silver Pete might not be as big a legend as Asil, himself, was, but his name was still known. He was also supposed to have died a hundred years ago.

  Bran tilted his head and listened to the electric silence. He breathed in and out twice. When he spoke, his voice dropped into a husky bass. The way the audience flinched back, Asil was pretty sure that he’d let his wolf out enough they could see it in his eyes. “If Asil had not stopped these idiots before they hurt Kara worse, I would have killed these men and Cole as well. I owe it to Asil that I have options.”

  He took a step back and turned subtly, focusing the attention back upon the werewolves Asil had brought here. “I think these men need a change of pack.” His voice was thoughtful. He switched from addressing the audience to the men on their knees. “We’ll keep you here a month or so to explain proper manners. Then I’ll move you someplace suitable. Your brother, Eric, I think should wait until next year before he seeks to be Changed. If he still would like to Change, when tempers are cooler, he may ask again. I need not tell you that if you attempt to Change him on your own, your life is forfeit.”

  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.

  “I didn’t see you here,” Asil said after a moment when Devon didn’t say anything.

  “The rose will help her,” Devon told him. “Especially if she believes what you told her.”

  Devon hadn’t been in the pole barn when he’d whispered to Kara.

  “Belief,” said Devon, “is the most powerful magic of all.”

  “Yes,” agreed Asil. It was hard to recognize his old friend in this too-gaunt and nervous stranger. “So I hope.”

  “But music is what really helps me,” Devon told him. “When I have a bad day, I go to the greenhouse. When I have a very bad day, I come here, and Bran plays for me.”

  “Music?” asked Asil, startled.

  “You had that one song you used to play.” Bran had musical instruments scattered all over the house. An acoustic guitar was balanced on a floor stand. Devon picked it up and held it out in a hand that vibrated with his tension. “Do you remember? To make your roses grow. She is so scared. She needs you to help her grow.”

  “It wasn’t on a guitar like this.” Asil knew which song he meant. “And a child is not a rose, to flower with music.”

  But Asil took the guitar anyway. He could play guitar, even if it had been a while. He was pretty sure he could even manage to work out that old song on this modern descendant of the guitarra morisca he’d originally composed it on.

  “That song,” Devon said urgently, hugging his now-empty hands against himself. “You play that one.”

  “All right, mi amigo.”

  Devon looked down. “I have to—have to change back.” He closed his eyes. “She smells like Freda,” he said. “Don’t you think? Freda liked that song.”

  “She is very like,” said Asil, who did not remember what Devon’s long-ago daughter had smelled like. But he did remember a pretty little thing who had been fond of roses and moved like a colt. Kara had that same awkward gracefulness, too. Freda had lived to be a grandmother and died centuries ago.

  The change took Devon again, slowly swallowing Asil’s old friend in the protective skin of the wolf. He did not expect that they would converse again in this lifetime.

  He let the old wolf change in peace and left, rose in one hand and guitar in the other, to do battle with fate.

  • • •

  The pole barn was silent when he returned. The wolves who had been standing were seated. Charles was back and gave him a look that told Asil that the Marrok’s son had realized that his father had sent him away to give Asil a chance to fight Bran without interference.

  Bran looked at his guitar in Asil’s hand.

  “Yes, I know,” Asil said. “Your guitar. Also, you play it better than I do. But I promised Devon I would play her a song for him.” He looked at Kara, who was lying in a miserable heap at Bran’s feet. “He told me that music helped him.” He crouched, ignoring the other people’s reactions. “Devon has not taken human form in my presence for a hundred years,” he told her. “He did tonight because he is worried about you. He thought it would help if I play a song I played to his daughter a long time ago.” He put the rose on the ground in front of her. “I want you to close your eyes, smell the rose. Remember what I told you. Listen to the music, and let Kara come out to play.”

  She gave him a long look.

  He let her hold his gaze, and said simply, “Trust me.”

  She put her nose on the flower and took a deep breath.

  There was a wave of sound from the assembled werewolves, and Asil looked up, irritated. But he lost his irritation when Devon came into the barn, all the way wolf now. He tipped his head so he didn’t look at anyone as he trotted over to Kara and dropped a blanket on top of her. He looked up to Bran without meeting his Alpha’s gaze, let his eyes trail over Charles, then Asil.

  “Thank you,” Asil murmured, spreading the blanket over Kara.

  Devon had realized that a young girl would not be comfortable being naked in front of a room filled with werewolves, most of whom were men. It had been a long time since Asil had experienced a shred of modesty.

  Devon ducked his head, hesitated, then licked Kara’s face. Then he turned and trotted out of the building, not quite running away.

  Asil sat on the ground beside Kara and strummed the guitar. He looked at Bran. “It’s out of tune.”

  “You are wasting time,” said the wolf who had had to kill his wife. “You’re just making it harder on her.”

  “I said silence.” Bran’s voice didn’t have to be loud to be effective. To Asil, Bran said, “New strings. They take a while to break in.”

  Asil tuned the high E string until he was pleased with it. He played a little of this and that, letting his fingers learn the spacing of Bran’s guitar. The one he usually played had a slightly narrower neck.

  He slid into the song a few chords at a time, his fingers finding the notes that his heart knew. He played the chorus twice before he sang the first verse.

  It was a very long and silly song, more about the sound of the words than the meaning. Each verse a medley of compliments that sounded like they were addressed to a woman, but the chorus made it clear that it was addressed to a flower instead.
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br />   He glanced around the room. He could see the people who understood Spanish because, even under the serious circumstance, they started to grin. Kara didn’t, as far as he knew, speak Spanish. But under the blanket, she’d quit shivering.

  When he finished the chorus, he sang the first verse in English, translating on the fly. When he couldn’t find a word fast enough, he used the Spanish word and kept going. It worked, adding humor. On the second verse, Bran joined him. Sometimes, Bran found a different English word than Asil did—sometimes it was a better one.

  Just before they started the second chorus, Asil leaned down, and said, “Now, chica. Try now.” He didn’t put any particular force in his voice, nothing any of their watchers could object to. If there was power in his words, it was only the power of hope.

  Kara sighed—and began to change.

  Asil was unashamed when a tear slid down his face.

  When she could speak, Kara said, “It was a magical rose. Like you said.”

  Bran’s eyebrows shot up. And several of the wolves in the audience came to their feet at her words.

  Asil lifted a haughty brow. “There is magic in a rose in winter,” he told them. “If only because it is a rose in winter.” He smiled at Kara. “But that change you accomplished yourself.”

  • • •

  A few weeks later, Asil answered a knock on his greenhouse door.

  “Bran,” he said. “How nice to see you.”

  Bran folded his arms and looked at Asil without making any attempt to come inside. “You’ve been gone for a few days.”

  Asil smiled. He stepped outside and closed the door, to keep the cold from getting inside. “I’m flattered that you noticed.”

  “Hatchard Cole’s second called me this morning. Seems Hatchard disappeared. No sign of struggle, no sign of anything. He just vanished.”

  Asil’s wolf slid out and looked at their Alpha. “Odd,” Asil said, knowing the wolf was in his voice. Knowing that Bran would hear the satisfaction he did not bother to hide.

  “I remember,” Bran said softly. “There was an Alpha in Spain who was a very bad man, two hundred years ago. He hurt a lot of people. And then one day, his second went to that Alpha’s home and his Alpha was just gone. No sign of struggle. No scent of strangers. Nothing. No one ever heard of him again.”