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The next battle might not end in their favor. Especially if it happened sooner rather than later.
3
Misti bristled with anger. Jed. She had never abhorred the werewolf. After all, who could blame him for wishing to advance his rank in the pack? From an early age, Misti had understood that her marriage would be brokered by her father. Her marriage was doomed to be as loveless as his had been. It’s as if us Red Nightwalkers are made more for hatred rather than love.
The thought sickened her, or maybe it was the stench of the werewolves they had killed as they approached the battlefield once more. The darkness had helped to hide most of the destruction, but with the birth of a new day, the carnage was visible for all to see. Chunks of flesh, rivers of blood, maybe even a little gray matter…
“Should we burn them?” Anders asked from behind her.
“Maybe.”
It would make no difference. Jed knew, and he would tell. Even without proof of the dead bodies, Father would not relent. He would not rest until he had her head and her heart.
“I’ll tend to it.”
She gave him a curt nod and set about searching the wolf paw prints. To her relief, she found no signs of a werewolf spy. Although Jed handles that himself.
But when she turned back toward Anders, the stench of burning flesh and hair roiling in the air, she did spy a set of prints leading back away from the fight.
He stood beside her suddenly, his breathing the only sound to give away his approach. “Should we try and follow the tracks?”
“It makes no difference now.” Her body felt weary, oh so weary. All she wanted to do was curl into a ball and die.
But no. She would never give Father the satisfaction. Even if my dying by my own hands instead of through his or his men would vex him horribly.
Anders’s hand brushed against hers, and she gripped it. He had taken a beating during the battle. So had she, although her injuries were more internal.
“There’s nowhere we can go to even try and hide. They’ll always find us,” she murmured.
He twisted them around, and they watched the black plume of the fire. Together, they walked toward it. Anders had been busy during her tracking; he had dug a slight impression in the dirt, as well as a deeper, almost moat-like hole around it, to help ensure the fire was contained. The bodies had been dragged onto the impression, one stacked on another. Already, the werewolves were indistinguishable.
After a long moment, Anders squeezed her hand. “I thought no one knew where I was. Even so, I never stayed anywhere for longer than six months. Most shorter. But they knew where I was all along. They tracked me. How else could my father have so easily sent word to me when he finally was moved to do so? You’re right.”
“There must be something we can do.”
His lips quirked and fell into a slight smile, half frown. “Our fathers would prefer we die.”
She scowled at him. “I will not be made a martyr. I will not be a trophy for him.”
“I know,” he said simply.
He does not wish to die either, she realized, but he’s resigned himself to it.
“Two against so many,” he muttered. “Might as well be two against the world.”
Another battle would result in their deaths. Whether her father sent another pack or if his father found them next, it made no matter. Either side would send more than ten, and ten had almost been more than they could handle.
It all seemed so clear to Misti suddenly. She dropped his hand, turned toward him, and seized his shoulders. “We need more numbers.”
“Because werewolves grow on trees.” He rolled his eyes.
“Not on trees.” Her face felt hot, almost too warm, as an emotion other than despair or fright sequestered her in its might—that of excitement. “But in the rolling hills.”
His frown did not lessen her budding jubilation. “I don’t follow.”
“The Wild Shades,” she blurted out. “They have no love for the Red Nightwalkers or the Shadowed Stars.”
“Oh, in that case, they will bend of their back to be willing to fight alongside us tooth and claw.”
