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This isn't an attack. It's a test.

The kitchen circle again, laid out in the yard instead of on a table. Look how many. Look how close. Look how little effort it takes.

Kill them.

There are nine.

Kill nine.

If I do, then twelve will come. Then twenty. Then it's dawn and I'm on my knees on my own grass, and she's still standing on that step.

Sid lands on the rail by my hand. Ears flat, tail down, no swagger in him at all.

You could do that all night.

They're counting on it.

"I know," I say out loud, and Maren doesn't ask who I'm talking to.

That’s how I know it’s bad.

She comes down one step.

"No."

"You said it's open." Her voice is careful now, which is worse than scared. "Doors close."

"Not that one."

"Why not?"

"Because it'd be you doing it."

"Yes." She looks out at the nine. "That's what I said."

I've spent six months making sure nothing in this world gets to point at her and tell her what to do.

If Maren puts her hand out there and it takes something from her, I'll have been standing right here and not be able to help her.

"How many bags of salt do you have?" she asks.

"Two now."

"How many of them are out there?"

I don't answer.

"Nine." She nods slowly. "Okay. So it's me."

Everything I am wants her behind a door with my back against it. Between them and her. Always. Whatever it costs.

But, I step aside.

I stand at her shoulder with my hands open and useless and let her walk to the edge of my own porch. My wolf does not agree.

Wrong.

Quiet.