Wolf at the Door (Wolf Winter #3) - T.A. Moore Page 0,140

then another, and the prophets fell.

WOLVES SPRAWLED on the stained concrete and leaned against the walls. They panted, tongues torn to raw ribbons, and their sides heaved under dull, staring coats. It was no light thing to be ridden by the dead.

Not—the bird tucked its head down to tidy the feathers on its wings—for the living at least.

“Nick.”

The bird stretched both its wings out as far as they would go, the muscles tight under its feathers, and then snapped them back into its sides. It folded itself down, tucked into a ball of soft darkness inside itself, and let Nick pull his skin back on.

Nick staggered as being human again caught him by surprise and his body felt long, strange, and naked. Gregor caught his elbow before he could trip over his own feet and steadied him until Nick could do it himself.

“Did you know what they were going to do?” Gregor asked harshly. When Nick didn’t answer, Gregor squeezed his shoulder hard enough to hurt to get his attention. “Nick. What did they do?”

“The wolves took what belonged to us, belonged to us in a way nothing else could. Our skins, our magic, our meat,” the horned Sannock answered for Nick. Something horrid lurked under his voice, pinned down by the shape of words. It made Nick shiver with an atavistic dread of the things in the shadows that he’d spent most of his life trying to convince himself were his own imagination. “So we took what the wolves had offered the gods. Empty vessels, empty enough.”

“And now?” Gregor asked. He pulled Nick back a step to put him behind Gregor’s shoulder. “Or did you really expect us to believe this made us even? Our people slaughtered yours, wiped them off the face of the island. I wouldn’t rest till the heather grew through our bones.”

The horned Sannock showed blunt white teeth. They were meant for an herbivore’s mouth, but shreds of skin were caught between them. “You played a shell game with the gods, wolf. They threw themselves at a door your prophets opened and had it slammed in their face. Your death is only when you start to pay us back.”

In the back of Nick’s head, he could feel the bird’s disquiet as it clacked its beak on the sour taste of that warning. The gods would not, it knew, look any kinder on them than the wolves. If anything, the opposite would be true, but it was too late for second thoughts.

Or, Nick supposed dryly, first thoughts. The bird’s black humor sparked in acknowledgment, but they both admitted there hadn’t been much choice in the moment. There hadn’t been any choice ever, even if the wolves would never accept him now.

Not that he thought there had been much chance of that to start with. Nick could live with that, as long as it turned out to be worth it. He nudged Gregor.

“The gods can wait,” he said and then looked at the Sannock. It was odd to see them so solid and anchored. “The baby can’t. Where’s my grandmother?”

The Sannock stared at him pensively. “What is that to us? We walk again.” He stamped his foot—almost hoof—and the rest of the Sannock in their stolen bodies whistled or laughed as they joined in. They sounded almost drunk, heady on the solidity of it all. “Why should we risk that for you? Why should we court her vengeance when once and twice you’ve failed to end her?”

It was Nick’s turn to tighten his grip on Gregor’s shoulder before Gregor could say anything.

“You think she’ll let this go?” he asked. The Sannock rolled its eyes. Nick stepped forward. On some level he was aware he was naked, his vulnerable parts bare to the elements. He put that to the back of his head to freak about later. “Rose, my gran, she’s never forgiven, forgotten, or let anything rest. If she can’t control you, then she’ll destroy you whether you help us or not.”

The Sannock turned its back. Another—only its gray pebble eyes and bark fingers transformed from its human form—shook its head.

“We don’t fear her,” it fluted, three voices woven into one. It ignored the horned man’s snarl as it bowed its head. “Death has been on our tongue for centuries. But imagine, little carrion crow, what terrible thing we might actually fear. Then fear it too. Your grandmother treads dark water.”

Gregor pulled away from Nick. “You killed all the prophets, and you’re wearing her human followers like