Something’s dodgy about him. He’s acting like he’s the boss of their party, but I see nothing in the magical spectrum that would explain why six vampires were taking his orders. I turn off the sight as I get closer, and he’s dressed strangely too. Not a commando outfit or any sort of modern warrior gear; he’s wearing a suit with a brightly colored scarf thing around his neck.

I see the moment where he counts four wolves coming and understands that this is the end for him and in the next instant his grim determination to take somebody with him. I’m too far away to do anything; all I can do is pray he won’t be successful. The first big wolf leaps at him; he raises that gun of his, crying out in defiance, and shoots it point-blank down the wolf’s throat. The bullet explodes through the back of the head and the big wolf goes down, completely still. In the next instant Greta takes the man down and ends him before he can take another shot. Sam and Ty get in there and help tear him apart, even though he’s dead now and there are still three vampires standing.

I can help with that part, so I do, not wanting any other wolves to get hurt. One by one, I unbind the surrounded vampires, then finish off the fallen ones. None of them will rise again. But this doesn’t calm those younger werewolves down like I think it will. They are still far beyond the horizon of calm, and when they spot me standing there naked with a pumping heart and meat on my bones, they come after me to have a bite.

“Bollocks,” I say. I could handle a few of them, maybe, but not nine, and not without hurting them seriously. I can’t fly away as a kite with me torn shoulder muscles, but bears can climb trees much better than wolves. Maybe I can climb high enough to keep me out of reach of their jaws. I shape-shift and muster what speed I can for the nearest ponderosa. The brass on me claws should help me climb three-legged.

Once I reach the tree, it’s grand for a couple of seconds. I get up maybe five feet off the ground, but me arse is still low-hanging fruit for the pack. Claws and teeth sink in; I shake a couple loose, but one will simply not let go, and I have to haul him or her up with me. Without the claws anchoring me to the tree and the strength it lends, I wouldn’t have been able to do it, and I make a mental note to buy Creidhne a beer.

Once I get me arms and chest around a branch high enough off the ground to be safe, I have to figure out how to get rid of the wolf attached to me arse. The simplest solution, which I use, is to shape-shift back to human. Part of that expansive backside just flows right over and between those teeth, and suddenly there’s not enough purchase for him to hold on. The wolf falls but takes a mouthful of me backside with him. The wee pack of young wolves collects around the base. They leap up to reach me but can’t quite make it.

Safe for the moment—if ye don’t count me chewed arse—I call to them.

“Greta! Sam! Ty! It’s Owen! Can ye get everybody calmed down so we can talk?”

I’m not sure how much of that penetrates, if anything. Greta says it’s tough to process spoken language when she’s a wolf—the pack tends to communicate via their own link. And when they’re far gone into the animal side, like during a full moon or when the anger is running high, the human is pretty much gone. Right now we’re at a half moon, so we should be fine, except the anger is about as raw as a wound ye rub with salt and lemon juice. Looking over at where the big wolf fell, I understand why. The final shift is over, and that is indeed Hal Hauk lying there with the back of his head missing. Maybe that was a silver bullet the human used and maybe not. Tough to survive a head wound like that, either way.

The rest of the wolves all race to the bottom of the tree and surround the base, snarling and snapping at me. I just keep hollerin’ at Greta, Sam, and Ty, hoping something will get through. It’s grim and desperate shite, yelling at them and getting barks and growls in return, but keeping their attention here is better than letting them tear off through the woods so close to the city. They could wind up killing people out for an evening stroll—or, worse, go back into the house and see if they can get after what’s in the basement. And me heart drops down to me guts as I realize how Greta’s going to take this: Hal will be the second pack leader she’s lost because of something Siodhachan did. Gunnar Magnusson was the one who turned her, but Hal was there when he did; she’s known him since her old days in Iceland. I have little doubt that were Siodhachan here right now, she would try to kill him. And I fear that may be where she stands regarding him from now on, nothing to be done about it.

It’s Sam who gets control first. His form begins to shudder, and then his bones slide and pop under the skin and most of the hair falls out, and his howls turn into hoarse screaming as his vocal tissues transform. Ty goes next, and the two of them start to exert their influence on the rest of the pack, calming them down. But Greta is having none of it. She leaves the tree and returns to Hal’s body, snuffles a couple of times, and then throws back her head and howls. Maybe if it was just an ordinary wolf doing its ordinary thing I wouldn’t care, but because I know who it is and why she’s howling it’s the most terrible, lonely thing I’ve ever heard in me life. Part of me wants to join in, because we’d been having a laugh together not ten minutes ago. This had gotten so cocked up so fecking fast.

Sam and Ty let her do her thing while they get all the other wolves either shifted or in the process of shifting—it’s rough, because they’re riled and haven’t all torn into something, but the leaders’ commands have a powerful influence on them. Then they turn their attention to Greta, calling her name and no doubt trying to reach her on the pack level too. But she shakes her head, rips out a few ragged barks, and takes off uphill, disappearing into the trees.

I could chase after her, but I don’t see the point. She has a lot of anger to work out, and she’s going in the right direction to do it without hurting anyone. Putting meself forward as a target for that anger would be dangerous as well as foolish. She’ll come back when she’s ready—and I’m aware that it might not be for days.

In the meantime, we have a fecking mess to manage. I drop down from the tree and nod at Sam and Ty, who have blood on their faces. We walk together to where the human’s body lays sprawled and mutilated. If Sam and Ty feel sick at being responsible for the torn flesh and the blood on their mouths—in their mouths—they make no indication of it.

Ty asks, “Are the kids safe in the basement?”

“Aye. None of them were hurt.”

“Good,” Sam says. “So who the hell was this?”

“I have an idea,” I reply, “but I don’t know for sure. He looks like someone Siodhachan told me about. Might be the guy who put him in the hospital in Toronto.”

I squat down and pat through the shreds of his coat until I discover an Austrian passport. “Werner Drasche,” I read aloud. “Yeah. This is the guy. Supposed to be the lover of the really old vampire, Theophilus.”

“Why is he here?”

“I don’t think he’ll be fecking telling us.”

“He lost the privilege of conversation when he started shooting.” Sam crouches down and picks up Drasche’s gun, checking the ammo. “Damn.” He drops it as if stung. “He’s got silver. The others don’t.”