It couldn't be that difficult, or Stefan would have told me more about how to do that.
I hoped.
Stefan? I thought as hard as I could.
Stefan! If I'd thought he'd be in any danger, I'd never have tried it, but I was pretty sure that Bernard, like Estelle, was going to try to recruit Stefan for his side in the civil war Marsilia had brewing in her seethe.
He wouldn't try anything right away, and after the way Stefan had dealt with Estelle, I wasn't worried about Bernard as long as the element of surprise wasn't a factor.
Bernard was wearing jeans, running shoes, and a semicasual button- front shirt--and he still looked like a nineteenth-century businessman.
Even though his shoes had a glow-in-the-dark swoosh on them, he wasn't someone who would blend in with the crowd.
"I'm sorry you're so stubborn," he said.
But before he could get the gun up for a final, painful-if-not-fatal shot, Stefan appeared from ...
somewhere and jerked the gun out of his hands.
He swung it by the barrel into a rock, then handed the not-so-useful remains back to Bernard.
I waded out of the water and shook off over both of them--but neither reacted.
"What do you want?" asked Stefan coolly.
I padded over to him and sat at his feet.
He looked down at me and before Bernard could answer his first question, he said, "I smell blood.
Did he hurt you?" I opened my mouth and gave him a laughing look.
I knew from experience that the couple of birdshot in my backside weren't deep, probably not even deep enough that they would need to be dug out-- fur has many advantages.
I wasn't all that happy about it, but Stefan didn't have a wolf's understanding about body language.
So I told him I was fine in a way he couldn't mistake--and my rump hurt when I wagged my tail.
He gave me a look that might, under other circumstances, have been doubtful.
"Fine," he said, then looked over at Bernard, who was twirling the broken shotgun.
"Oh," said Bernard.
"Is it my turn? You're through coddling your pretty new slave? Marsilia was certain that you were so fond of your last flock that you wouldn't have the stomach to replace them soon." Stefan was very still.
So angry he had even stopped breathing.
Bernard braced the shotgun on the ground and gripped it one-handed, butt up--leaning on it as if it were one of those short canes that Fred Astaire used to dance with.
"You should have heard them screaming your name," he said.
"Oh, I forgot, you did." He braced himself for an attack that never came.
Instead, Stefan folded his arms and relaxed.
He even started breathing again, for which I was grateful.
Have you ever sat around while someone held their breath? For a while it doesn't bother you, but eventually you start holding your breath with them, willing them to breathe.