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Authors: Patricia Briggs
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Surviving the change was a battlefield, and this woman who lay at his feet needed to remember how to fight.
He waited until Anna left the room.
“What do—” began the woman’s mate. He might have been talking to Hosteen or to Charles. It didn’t matter to Brother Wolf.
He sank his teeth into her thigh, tasting old blood and, faintly, detergent from her clothes. He shook his head to tear flesh and let his saliva flow into the damaged tissue. He had not Changed many people—his job was to kill. More often than he’d like, it was to kill in the most gruesome manner possible to discourage others from following the choices that had led to his victims’ deaths. This was better.
Inexperienced or not, he knew how it worked, had stood witness to hundreds of Changes and nearly that many deaths in the days that followed. He knew what not to do. He didn’t bite her near her head or heart. She needed both to function for the Change to take place. The thigh was meaty with lots of little blood vessels to take his magic and spread it through her body.
Her mate cried out and would have tried to interfere, but Hosteen, who had Changed a lot more people than Charles had, stopped him with an arm around his shoulders. He dragged his grandson away from Brother Wolf and his charge, out of the bathroom and into the laundry room where they could watch from a distance.
“If you want this,” Hosteen said heavily, “and if you don’t want to join her in death or Change, then leave the wolf to his work. He won’t allow your interference, not now. She won’t hurt long, one way or another.”
Brother Wolf did not like Hosteen—though he knew that Charles did. They did not always share the same opinions, even though they shared their existence. Though what Hosteen told the woman’s mate was not meant to be comforting, it was truthful.
Brother Wolf released her leg and considered. She needed to be dying from a werewolf bite—not blood loss. His next bite was to her soft belly. He let himself taste the sweetness of her flesh, let the flavor of it stimulate his saliva glands—and then he did something he’d seen his father do once.
He slashed his own leg and bled into the wound, letting the pack magic seep in, binding them together: temporary pack. It was an awkward feeling; he wanted to make her his. His to protect, to lead, to live with: to make her family. But Charles did not want to lead a pack. Brother Wolf rejoiced in the understanding that they belonged to the Marrok and felt no need to rule his own pack. It was not his place to bring a wolf into the Marrok’s pack. So he let this magic lie uneasily and temporarily between them.
Then he reached with the extra senses that were his because he was the Marrok’s son, and therefore witchborn as his father was witchborn, and found the connection created by his blood and hers. He asked the dying woman,
What do you live for?
Kage was fighting his grandfather now, fighting to stop what he’d begun without really understanding what it meant to be Changed. Had he thought it would be without pain or cost?
Mine,
the dying woman said.
His ears flattened in pleasure because he heard more than words. She meant those she considered hers. Her children, her mate—
hers
. Here was a woman who would be dominant. Maybe more dominant than Hosteen. And wouldn’t that get in the old wolf’s craw?
Will you fight for them?
he asked her, inviting her to hear her husband’s angry voice.
Yes.
Not a simple answer but a warrior’s battle cry.
While her response was still vibrating through him, he bit the calf of the leg he had not already bitten, letting his teeth slice through flesh and scrape bone.
Then fight!
he roared at her with so much more power than sound could have conveyed—sending energy down the temporary bond he’d made between them, energy that grabbed her and held her to her dying flesh and
made
her live.
Only once had he seen his father force the Change on someone this
He waited until Anna left the room.
“What do—” began the woman’s mate. He might have been talking to Hosteen or to Charles. It didn’t matter to Brother Wolf.
He sank his teeth into her thigh, tasting old blood and, faintly, detergent from her clothes. He shook his head to tear flesh and let his saliva flow into the damaged tissue. He had not Changed many people—his job was to kill. More often than he’d like, it was to kill in the most gruesome manner possible to discourage others from following the choices that had led to his victims’ deaths. This was better.
Inexperienced or not, he knew how it worked, had stood witness to hundreds of Changes and nearly that many deaths in the days that followed. He knew what not to do. He didn’t bite her near her head or heart. She needed both to function for the Change to take place. The thigh was meaty with lots of little blood vessels to take his magic and spread it through her body.
Her mate cried out and would have tried to interfere, but Hosteen, who had Changed a lot more people than Charles had, stopped him with an arm around his shoulders. He dragged his grandson away from Brother Wolf and his charge, out of the bathroom and into the laundry room where they could watch from a distance.
“If you want this,” Hosteen said heavily, “and if you don’t want to join her in death or Change, then leave the wolf to his work. He won’t allow your interference, not now. She won’t hurt long, one way or another.”
Brother Wolf did not like Hosteen—though he knew that Charles did. They did not always share the same opinions, even though they shared their existence. Though what Hosteen told the woman’s mate was not meant to be comforting, it was truthful.
Brother Wolf released her leg and considered. She needed to be dying from a werewolf bite—not blood loss. His next bite was to her soft belly. He let himself taste the sweetness of her flesh, let the flavor of it stimulate his saliva glands—and then he did something he’d seen his father do once.
He slashed his own leg and bled into the wound, letting the pack magic seep in, binding them together: temporary pack. It was an awkward feeling; he wanted to make her his. His to protect, to lead, to live with: to make her family. But Charles did not want to lead a pack. Brother Wolf rejoiced in the understanding that they belonged to the Marrok and felt no need to rule his own pack. It was not his place to bring a wolf into the Marrok’s pack. So he let this magic lie uneasily and temporarily between them.
Then he reached with the extra senses that were his because he was the Marrok’s son, and therefore witchborn as his father was witchborn, and found the connection created by his blood and hers. He asked the dying woman,
What do you live for?
Kage was fighting his grandfather now, fighting to stop what he’d begun without really understanding what it meant to be Changed. Had he thought it would be without pain or cost?
Mine,
the dying woman said.
His ears flattened in pleasure because he heard more than words. She meant those she considered hers. Her children, her mate—
hers
. Here was a woman who would be dominant. Maybe more dominant than Hosteen. And wouldn’t that get in the old wolf’s craw?
Will you fight for them?
he asked her, inviting her to hear her husband’s angry voice.
Yes.
Not a simple answer but a warrior’s battle cry.
While her response was still vibrating through him, he bit the calf of the leg he had not already bitten, letting his teeth slice through flesh and scrape bone.
Then fight!
he roared at her with so much more power than sound could have conveyed—sending energy down the temporary bond he’d made between them, energy that grabbed her and held her to her dying flesh and
made
her live.
Only once had he seen his father force the Change on someone this
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