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“I don't fucking have to be on anybody's fucking side,” Randall says.

“We're wasting our time,” Tavian says to me. “He's obviously guilty of something.”

Randall laughs. “You going to try and kung fu my ass?”

“Kung fu is Chinese,” Tavian sneers. “I'm Japanese.”

“What, karate then?” Randall says. “Huh?”

Tavian's eyes glitter with rage.

“Come on,” Randall says. “Or do you only fight guys your own size?”

Tavian bares his teeth. “I fight assholes of all sizes.”

“Stop it!” I say. “We're not here to fight.”

Both guys glare at me, then go back to glaring at each other.

High-pitched cries, somewhere in the forest nearby, make my chest tighten. It's horrible, almost like a human baby in pain.

“What's that?” Tavian says, his eyes still on the werewolf.

“Oh, shit,” Randall says. “Where are the pups?”

We all glance around. The baby sits nearby, still sucking on the hedgehog toy, his blue eyes huge. Jeez, the poor kid has probably heard so much foul language. I don't see any sign of the werepuppy, and the cries escalate.

Randall barks, “Get out of here!” and sprints toward the sound.

Tavian and I share a glance.

I say, “Should we—?”

“Yeah.”

We run after Randall, keeping a safe distance. He kneels with his back to us, bending over something. What's he doing?

I stalk closer, tense and ready to transform. Oh no.

The werepuppy yanks, writhes, and rolls, straining against the iron jaws of a wolf trap clamped on her tiny leg. Blood smears the leaves. A thick chain anchors the trap to a tree. Randall tries to calm her.

“It's okay!” he says, his voice raw. “It's going to be all right.”

He strokes the werepuppy's head, and she snaps at his hand. He narrowly avoids being bitten, but continues to pet behind her ears. Her yelps die to quiet whimpers. Chin trembling, the werepuppy lies down by the trap.

My stomach churns. I walk numbly to them. “Randall?”

He whirls on us, his hair bristling into fur. It flattens only a little when he sees us. “I said get out of here!”

“We—we might be able to help.”

The werepuppy's head wobbles, then lowers to the ground. This can't be happening. She can't be … dying.

Randall curses through clenched teeth. “Okay. We have to pry it open.”

The trap looks grotesquely huge in comparison to the werepuppy. It's obviously meant for adult werewolves.

“How?” Tavian says, his face ashy.

Randall glances between us and jabs a finger at me. “You weigh more than the little guy. Come here. See the metal tabs on either side? They're connected to the springs. We need to push them down. A foot on each tab.”

I nod, and part of me wonders how he knows this. I gingerly set my toes on one of the tabs.

Randall shakes his head. “You have to put all your weight on it.” He stomps on the other tab. The werepuppy yelps shrilly, twisting in the trap.

“Do it quick,” Randall says.

I put my foot on the tab and press all my weight onto it. The springs squeal, and the jaws of the trap open a fraction of an inch.

“More,” Randall says. “Don't take your foot off.”

The werepuppy's yelps escalate, but I ram my foot on the tab. The trap springs open. Randall swoops down and grabs the werepuppy by the scruff of her neck. The trap clangs shut, slick with blood.

“Is she okay?” I force myself to look away from the werepuppy's mangled leg.

The werepuppy's yelps become more like human whimpers. She changes into a black-haired baby girl. Randall cradles her awkwardly. Without fur to hide the baby's wound, I can see the odd angle of her leg, the broken bone. My stomach clenches.

“Let me call 911.” Tavian fumbles with his cell phone.

“No!” Randall gets a panicky glint in his eyes, then shoves the baby into my arms. “Don't drop her, and don't move. I'll be right back.”

“Whoa, wait!” Tavian says, but he's ignored as Randall sprints into the forest.

The baby's shrill cries hurt my ears. I clutch her close, trying to comfort her, and her wails become broken sobs. She grips my hair with a pudgy little fist and buries her face against my chest. I try to keep her blood off my shirt.

Tavian chants curses under his breath. “We should call 911.”

“I don't know.” My voice sounds surprisingly calm, considering how much I'm shaking. “I don't think so.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Is she … ?”

Tavian cranes his neck to look at the baby. “She's still awake. I think.” He touches the baby's head gingerly. She makes a stifled sob.

“Poor thing,” I say, and I realize how close to tears I am.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Tavian says.

I nod, because I don't trust my voice. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I try to rub it on my sleeve, but I can't. “Damn it.”

Tavian's face tightens. He reaches for me, and I turn away.

“I'm okay,” I mutter. “I just hate getting all weepy.”

He rubs away another of my tears with his thumb. “Gwen.”

Once I look at his eyes, I can't look away. Then I hear the thundering of paws. Tavian's pupils narrow into fox-like slits.

A tawny-skinned woman with wild dark hair runs toward us, with three black wolves at her heels. She's wearing ragged jeans and an inside-out T-shirt—she probably just transformed. I recognize her from Safeway, of all places.

She advances on us with fury in her face. “What did you do?”

sixteen

T
he woman snatches the baby from my arms. “Oh, God.” The baby starts to cry again.

“We rescued her from a wolf trap.” I clench my sweaty hands. “Randall went to get you.”

The black wolves slink closer to Tavian and me, fur bristling along their spines. I can't believe how huge they are. One of them meets my eyes and growls softly. Tavian hides a stick in his hand behind his back. Sunlight flashes along its length as he transforms it into a dagger, then points it at the werewolves. Can illusions kill?

“No,” the woman says, her voice low and commanding.

The wolves stop moving, their ears pricked.

“Kurt,” she says, “go back to the others and tell them to call off the hunt.”

One of the wolves makes a huffing woof and trots off the way he'd come.

“Isabella, Jessie,” the woman says, “keep an eye on the strangers. Don't let them go.” She strides toward the campsite with the still-crying baby. “And put down that stick, boy,” she calls, without looking back.

Tavian's eyes narrow. The black wolves snarl in unison, and he slowly lowers the dagger. When he drops it, it becomes a stick again.

I grab his arm. “Come on.”

We follow the woman to the campsite, herded by the wolves. It all seems surreal.

“Who are you?” I say.

“Winema,” she calls back.

“Where's the other pup—I mean, baby?”

“Safe,” Winema says.

“And Randall?” Tavian says.

She says nothing. Maybe she just feels she doesn't have to answer. She yanks open the tent flap and ducks inside. She lays the baby on a ragged blanket, then vaults back out and into the rusty bed of the pickup truck. After rummaging around, she yanks out a chipped metal first aid kit.

“I have a phone,” Tavian says, clearly uneasy. “I can call 911.”

“I'm a doctor,” Winema says. “Was. Before I was bitten.”

“Oh.”

The baby punches the air with both fists and wails, her face crimson.

“Shhh!” Winema rushes over. “It's okay, Ava.”

“Ava,” I repeat. “Is she … ?”

“She's not mine.” Winema opens the first aid kit. “Her mother abandoned her.”

Tavian furrows his brow. “How … ?”

Winema unscrews a canteen, pours water onto a rag, and cleans Ava's wound. “Her mother was bitten while she was pregnant.”

I share a glance with Tavian. I barely know anything about lycanthropy and pregnancy.

“She didn't want an abortion,” Winema continues, “so she left her baby by our pack.”

Ava continues kicking and screaming. Winema struggles with her, sighs, and gets out a syringe. She jabs it in the crook of Ava's elbow. I wince. Tears leak from the baby's eyes, but she quiets down.

“Sedative,” Winema says. “Had to.”

“Are you sure you don't want us to call 911?” Tavian says.

“I already said no. What do you think they will do? Up in Canada, they told us to take our children to the vet.”

Tavian and I share an equally appalled look.

“You both smell of magic,” Winema says. “You're not human, are you?”

“Hell no,” Tavian says. “We're Others. Fox spirit and pooka.”

“Then I'm sure you know by now that the authorities can't be counted on.”

“Yeah.” I force a laugh. “The police around here have been pretty useless.”

Winema lifts an eyebrow. “They can be more than useless.”

“How so?” Tavian asks.

“I've found it to be much more dangerous to Others once the police are involved.” She stares at us as if expecting a response.

Tavian and I share a glance, and I shrug.

Winema finishes cleaning Ava's leg and inspects it more closely. “It might have been broken, but it's healing now.”

“She's going to be okay?” I say.

Winema fixes me with a stare, her amber eyes sharp. “Physically, yes.”

I blink and look away.

“What are you doing in our territory?” Winema says.

“
Your
territory?” Tavian says, but I cut him off.

“I've heard werewolves in the forest. And gunshots. I was worried …”

Winema's face becomes stony. “Hunters have been hounding us for weeks now. They left the wolf traps and the poison.”

My stomach squirms. “What about two young guys? With a shotgun?”

“They won't return,” Winema says in a matter-of-fact voice. “Hopefully.”

Tavian stares at her. “What did you do to them?”

Winema begins bandaging Ava's leg. The wound's healing amazingly fast. “Humans are such clumsy creatures,” she says. “The last town we stopped by, people set out poisoned steaks. What a waste of meat!”

I have to admit, it does sound dumb. But I don't like it when werewolves scoff at humans, as if they weren't humans to begin with.

“Why did you come to Klikamuks?” Tavian says.

“Yeah, why?” I say. “People here don't exactly roll out the welcome mat for Others.”

Winema laughs bitterly. “We can see that. We've pissed on wolf traps before. The pups, though, are too young to know any better.”

“Maybe you should go back to Canada,” Tavian says.

Winema's eyes burn like coals. “Do you think they want us in Canada?”

“No, but …” He flings out his arms. “It's bigger!”

“You don't know what you're talking about, boy. They drove us out of Alaska, shooting at us from airplanes. They called this aerial hunting a sport. We stayed many winters in Canada, where we thought we were safe, but people from our pack started disappearing, one by one. We found them shot to death and left to rot in the forest. We can't go home.” Winema bares her teeth. “And you can't tell us to go.”

Tavian bristles. “All right then.” He folds his arms. “Can I talk to your Alpha?”

“I
am
the Alpha,” Winema says.

“Oh,” he says.

“What are you going to do?” Winema says. “Turn us in? Betray fellow Others?”

“Fellow Others?” I glower at her. “You can't compare natural born and bloodborn.”

Her eyebrows arch. “Aren't we treated the same? We're all gicks.”

“But … that's not what I mean. We aren't the same.”

“United we stand, divided we fall. It's already Others versus humans. Others versus Others, and we don't have a chance.”

“That's ridiculous,” I say. “I'm not … I mean, I'm Other, you're Other … but …”

“But?”

I don't know what to say. I feel sick.

“Speaking of Others,” Tavian says, “what do you know about the murderer?” There's a glint in his eye. It seems he's decided to bait the werewolves.

Winema delicately bares her teeth. She has impressive fangs. “I will kill him.”

“Him?” Tavian cocks his head. “You know it's a he?”

“Why do you doubt me? Serial killers are male, ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Which is also a stereotype,” Tavian mutters.

“We know this one is a man,” Winema says. “And we believe he is one of those who took the lives of so many werewolves in Canada. Friends of the pack have told us that the killer went south, and now we are hunting the hunter.”

I frown. This doesn't quite sound like the same killer to me. “Do you know anything about the victims who weren't werewolves?”

“Ask Randall,” Winema says. “He loved one of them, the poor girl.”

Some alibi. I'm getting really tired of not hearing the truth about Randall.

“Where is he?” I say. “Can I talk to him?”

Winema glances out at the black wolves. I'd almost forgotten them. They lie like sentinels on either side of the tent.

“Isabella,” she says, “tell Randall he can come now.”

One of the wolves trots off, her head held low. Soon she—Isabella—returns, Randall following. He's wearing his dirty old clothes again and carrying the second baby in his arms. The baby squirms, then shifts back into pup form. Randall sets him down. The werepuppy piddles and romps off.

Randall won't meet Winema's gaze. Werewolf etiquette, I guess. “Ma'am.”

Winema sighs, her face tired and serious. “You did what you could.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“This girl wants to talk to you.”

Randall's shoulders stiffen. “About?”

“One of the victims. What was her name?”

“Chloe,” I say.

Randall's gaze snaps to mine, as if magnetized. “Fine.”

“You can go.” Winema waves me away, but beckons Tavian closer. “As for you …”

Tavian's eyes widen. “Me? What?”

Winema's face remains impassive. “I have some questions for you.”

“Uh, okay.”

Tavian and I look at each other, then nod. Randall stalks off, and I follow.

Randall stops at the edge of the campsite and folds his arms. He looks at me sideways. “So, Gwen, what
are
you?”

“Half pooka. Shapeshifter.”

He nods. “What about that twitchy little guy?”

“Fox spirit.”

He snorts. “Figures. What do you want to know?”

“Where's all that blood from?”

“Huh?” Randall glances at his arm. “Oh. That. I don't have a whole wardrobe of clothes, okay?”

I tilt my head to one side, my eyes narrow. “How did it happen?”

He rolls up his sleeve, peeling the bloody fabric from his skin. He furrows his brow, and I grimace with sympathetic pain. Tooth marks puncture his forearm. They look deep, though older than I expected. He licks his wounds.

“Oh, gross. You shouldn't do that.”

Randall bares his arm for me to see. “Cleaned it up a bit.”

“So what happened?”

His face looks like a closed door. “Winema bit me.”

“Why?”

“To stop me from giving those fucking guys with their fucking guns what they deserved.” Randall slams his fist against a nearby tree, then leans against the trunk. “God, people can be such bastards!”

I flinch, startled by his violence. He must be talking about those hunters.

“So they're not … ?”

“Dead? No, unfortunately.”

“Okay.” I exhale shakily. “Will you tell me why you had Chloe's earrings?”

Randall leans his forehead against the bark. “I kept them. After we … broke up.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

I take a deep breath. “Were you the last person who saw her at the B&B?”

Claws slide out of Randall's fingertips, then back in. “What is this, a fucking investigation? I don't have to answer you.”

I glare at him to mask my shakiness. “Who do
you
think killed Chloe?”

“I have a pretty damn good idea.” His eyes glitter with intensity. “There was this guy, see? He came to the B&B once. He asked her for directions, then started talking about the weather—how it's so cloudy and rainy here all the time, but he doesn't mind. Bullshit like that. After that, I kept glimpsing him around her. He was just … watching her. I tried to tell her.” His voice roughens. “And then she died.”

I'm caught up in the flow of his story until I catch myself. “And his name?”

Randall shakes his head and doesn't answer.

“You don't know or you won't say?”

He snorts. “Yeah.”

“Okay …”

“He's been stalking people,” he says. “So I've been stalking him.”

“But that doesn't equal murderer.” I step back under the force of Randall's glare. “I mean, you don't have any evidence.” And your alibi is a piece of crap, too. But of course I don't tell him that.

“I'm going to get some evidence,” he says in a low, intense voice. “Wait and see.”

I retreat, unsettled by his vehemence. “Okay. Thanks for answering my questions.”

“You're welcome,” Randall deadpans. “Is that all?”

What a dick. I have no idea why Chloe went for him. I hope the police nail his ass.

“You can go,” I say.

He lowers his eyelids and smooths his hair, masking his emotion with calm. “Good.”

I hurry back to the tent and find Winema sitting on a cooler, cradling a sleeping Ava. Tavian's kneeling on the ground at her feet.

“Gwen.” He stands up. “You ready to go?”

I nod, fold my arms tight, and rub the goose bumps on my arms—it isn't even cold.

Winema meets Tavian's eyes. “Remember what I said, and stay safe.”

He nods. “You too.”

I raise my eyebrows at him, but he just grabs my hand and leads me away.

When we're out of the werewolves' sight, he whispers, “What did Randall tell you?”

“That he's innocent, of course.” I repeat what Randall said, in condensed form. “His alibi has more holes than a colander.”

“Hmm,” says Tavian. “Do you think he made up the stranger who talked to Chloe?”

I stare at the ground, the patterns of pine needles crisp and much easier to focus on than the confusion in my head. “Probably.”

“But what if we're wrong? What if it's not Randall, or the werewolves?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure of anything anymore.” I grab fistfuls of my hair. “What do you think? Am I crazy?”

His mouth twitches. “Now that you mention it …”

“Tavian!”

“Gwen, I'm frustrated, too. But we won't get anywhere by yanking out hair.”

“I still feel so stupid. I just can't figure it out. And crap, I'm crying now.”

Irritated by my own weepiness, I sit on a mossy log and rummage for a tissue in my pocket. I find only a crumpled shred. Scowling, I rub the tears off my cheeks. Tavian hesitates, then sits next to me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I'm fine. Even if I am a disgusting, sniveling mess.”