That's good," I croaked, suddenly understanding just exactly what his first words to me had meant.
Samuel had wanted to die, and his wolf had stopped him.
Which was good, but left us with a nasty problem.
There is a very good reason that the Marrok kills any werewolves who allow the wolf to lead and the man to follow.
Very good reasons--like preventing-mass-slaughter sorts of reasons.
But if Samuel's wolf didn't want them to die, I decided it was better he was in charge.
For a while.
Since he didn't seem to want to kill me yet.
Samuel was old.
I don't know exactly how old, but sometime before the Mayflower at least.
Maybe that would allow his wolf to control himself without Samuel's help.
Maybe.
"Okay, Sam.
No calls to Bran." I watched out of the corner of my eye as he tilted his head, surveying me.
"I can pretend to be human until we get to your car.
I thought that would be best, so I held this shape." I swallowed.
"What have you done with Samuel? Is he all right?" Pale ice blue eyes examined me thoughtfully.
"Samuel? I'm pretty certain he'd forgotten I could do this: it has been so long since we battled for control.
He let me out to play when he chose, and I left it to him." He was quiet a moment or two, then he said, almost shyly.
"You know when I'm here.
You call me Sam." He was right.
I hadn't realized it until he said it.
"Sam," I asked again, trying not to sound demanding, "what have you done with Samuel?" "He's here, but I cannot let him out.
If I do, he'll never let me get the upper hand again--and then we will die." "Cannot" sounded like "never." "Never" was bad.
"Never" would get him killed as surely as suicide--and maybe .
.
.
probably a lot of other people along the way.
"If not Bran, what about Charles's mate, Anna? She's Omega; shouldn't she be able to help?" Omega wolves, as I understand them, are like Valium for werewolves.
Samuel's sister-in-law, Anna, is the only one I've ever met--I'd never heard of them before that.