iron in my hand, and though it offends me I wield it as a spear, for the huntress must take what weapons she can and the quarry now is a thing of my kind.
A burst of sunlight. One of the younger gods turns his eyes to the world a moment. It does not concern me. The corpse-witch-thing tried to steal my power, the queen-and-king of ice-and-shadow has corrupted my wolves. They shall both pay with life and bone and pain.
He is still quick, even in light, but I am quicker. He is cunning, but I am more cunning, and he is hampered by thoughts and ideas and dreams while I know only the true and the pure and the free and what is.
Flames come, but they barely char. Deep in the pale fire is a death-sickness that tries to drain my strength but that knows not what strength I possess. A traitor-wolf falls on me from behind and I catch it with one hand. The arm is weakened, a wound from another world—bone and flesh respond.
The fire comes once more. Though he lacks instinct he understands distraction. I cast the animal aside and turn again on the corpse-witch. The sunlight fades—perhaps when I am done here I shall eat the heart of the seeress, that her light might be preserved and strengthen me—and the vampire moves with a quickness that would astound a lesser hunter.
I strike. The iron spear does not harm the corpse or disperse his cold blue fire, but the power of my rival fades at once. The storm ceases. The wind-servants vanish. The wolves still lurk but the hunt turns in my favour.
The corpse hesitates. Too much of mind and not enough of heart or viscera in him. The hesitation is fatal and I spring, bearing him down, my hands digging into his throat and his face. And all is blood and joy and the kill.
He slips from my grasp. He still has the tricks of the walking dead, and he is as darkness a moment. The night is generous to his kind. The white wolves turn and flee back to the woods and I find myself alone on tamed grass and melting snow. The prophetess lies bleeding, and I advance on her. Blood should not be wasted. Nor flesh. Nor life. I run my tongue along my teeth, sharp in anticipation.
One wolf has not fled. Not corrupted like the others. Large and golden and beautiful. Once she would have been mine, but that was long ago and there have been such betrayals since. She stands above the little priestess and snarls. She knows me for what I am, though I wear my daughter’s skin.
I lunge for her, taking her by the neck as I would any errant hound and she turns in my grasp and claws at me. Other beasts are coming now from the hill above—more wolves, though many are hurt and some fallen. I am stronger than the golden creature, but she has a fire and a frenzy to her that I cannot help but admire.
Teeth close about my legs and I fall. The golden wolf changes and becomes something smaller, weaker, less wonderful and more frail. Her packmates are around me. They underestimate—
“Tara?”
My child speaks through our mouth.
“Kate. We won. Now get it together.”
She assaults me where I am weak. In words and thoughts. My daughter fights for control and digs our hands into the soil. The wolves circle, and I feel the wild calling to me.
I felt the wild calling to me. The wolves were circling. My hands were dug into the soil, but I was myself again. Mostly. I could still taste blood and Sofia was still looking much more edible than I was comfortable with. “It’s okay,” I tried. The dowager marchioness—the silver-furred wolf with the cold blue eyes—was giving me a sceptical look that was surprisingly nuanced coming from a canine. “She’s gone. Mostly.”
My arm was killing me again, as now was my leg which the pack had needed to maul pretty badly to bring my mother down. That was the downside of having a near-unstoppable killing machine a thought’s breadth from your innermost soul. Really handy for taking out your enemies. Really unconcerned about collateral damage.
Tara helped me to my feet and I knew I was in major trouble health-wise because the only thing I wanted her to do to me right then was put me somewhere warm and dose me up with painkillers. Another of the wolves