of hundreds of quiet pads fading into the forest.
A figure on two legs emerges from the mist. He is dressed in leaves and carries a sprouting stem. In my relief, I call to my wolves to tell them to come back. It is the Grenemann, the Green Man come to protect his forest, to protect us, wolves, the protectors of the woods.
I bound toward him, toward the figure dressed in green and brown, carrying a stick. Toward the man in camouflage with a gun.
His eyes are pine dark, streaked with the green of bright-summer leaves.
My eyes snap open, my heart beating. It takes me a moment to recognize the scent of dried birch and cold water, to hear the small breezes sweeping through the aspens. To see Constantine across from me, one hand warm and sleep-slack under mine.
He has put towels over me.
I slide my hand free. He twitches but doesn’t wake. I begin the painful process of sitting up. The rib isn’t broken so it’s pointless to go to Tristan only to hear him say “It’s a flesh wound” and offer me a Tic Tac. Not that I think he’d be so brazen, but one never knows.
The walk back to my cabin is slow. I step cautiously around obstacles I would have leapt over and walk terrain I would normally run. I keep the towel wrapped tight around me so that wolves drawn by their curiosity to the smell of blood don’t see the extent of their Alpha’s injury.
In my cabin, I peel away the towel and the wound opens again. I look for a black T-shirt and start the slow process of getting dressed. One Salty Bitch, it says, though I really don’t feel like it.
I contemplate my hair band, but I would really need both hands for that. Instead, I finger comb with my left hand, loosening the sleep-crushed hair and double-checking for burrs. I feel the fang mark on my cheek.
When I walk, I am careful not to favor my right side.
The Pack quiets as soon as I climb stiffly up the stairs. There’s no disguising that I’ve been hurt, but as long as I pretend the injury doesn’t matter, my wolves will too.
In the mudroom, I lean against the wall. Bending is excruciatingly painful and there’s no point to it, so I scrape off each shoe with the toe of the other. When I open the heavy main door, the muscles around my torso contract and my ribs ache.
We are all playing our roles. The Pack bends over their bowls of buckwheat and plates of eggs while I walk on. Head up, back straight. Jaw tight. My right hand trembles as I reach for the coffee cup. My left is steadier. Best to use the left.
“Sit down,” Sigegeat whispers to someone behind me. I know who it is without looking, and sure enough, Constantine says, “She’s hurt.”
More wolves start wrestling at the table, meaning it’s time for me to take charge.
When I turn, picking up an oatcake so it will look casual and unconcerned, I catch his green eyes staring at me, like I knew I would. He is still standing despite the combined efforts of Sigegeat, Inge, and Järv trying to force him to sit down. My lids flutter down for a moment and I shake my head, hoping that he isn’t so human that I have to put everything into words.
I rub the back of my hand, trying to wipe away the trace warmth of his palm supporting it. Finally, Constantine sits down, angrily yanking his arms away, and I manage a controlled descent without showing how much it hurts. I reach for the butter and the remnants of last summer’s mulberry jam.
A wolf snarls.
Skirmishes are a common enough occurrence, but I have to be careful. It may be the usual posturing over hierarchy or fucking rights, but wolves will act out if they fear the Alpha is weak. They need to feel I am in control and can’t help but test the issue if they are unsure.
I watch the Pack carefully. Luckily, it’s nothing but a minor tussle over dominance between the Gamma mate and the Delta of the 13th. Esme, their Alpha, jumps in quickly, banging them around until they come back to the table looking sheepish, their heads cocked to the side. Waiting for Esme to mark them so that they know, whatever their pettinesses, they belong to something bigger.
Had I not been watching so carefully, though, I might not