Sergeant Martin stepped between the sisters and knelt down in front of Angelina. He took the can of soda from her hand and poured out some of its contents. Red stains suddenly appeared on the snow. “Cream soda,” the sergeant said. “That would explain the blood. Or, what we thought was blood.”

People all around chuckled in relief.

“We were running and I fell,” Angelina offered. “Narinder helped me up.”

“And that covers the tracks in the snow…even the scarf in the branches.” But there was still one thing most people—including the sergeant—wanted to know. “Why didn’t you tell your sister where you were going?”

The crowd grew silent, awaiting an answer.

“I tried to,” she said, a bit of a teasing tone to her voice. “But she was too busy kissing some boy in the corner to notice me tugging on her sleeve…so I left.”

The crowd erupted in raucous laughter, as much in relief over Angelina being safe as in response to the funny thing she’d said. Noble and Tora laughed as well. Of course they were glad that Angelina was safe, but more importantly they were relieved the girl hadn’t been eaten by wolves. If the wolf story had been true, there would soon have been bands of men roaming the forests killing anything with four legs. Although it made Maria Abruzzo look like a fool, this was the best possible outcome for the pack.

“What are you two laughing at?” Maria said through clenched teeth, pointing a finger at them that was sharp as a dagger.

“We’re happy your sister’s all right, that’s all,” Noble said.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” she said.

“No, Maria,” Tora said. “That’s not it at all. We just—”

“Liar!” She paused a moment, her entire body seething with anger. “I know you’re laughing at me…and I’ll get even with you, Tora Brock. Then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

Tora was about to say something, but Noble put up his hand, cutting her off. “Don’t bother,” he said. “She’s not talking sense right now.”

“Maria!” a loud voice called.

Maria Abruzzo’s body stiffened, as if she’d just been shot.

A moment later her father was there standing over her. He was a big, powerful man, with a thick shock of black hair, a bushy mustache and beard, and hands so big they looked like they’d been carved out of granite.

“Yes, Father,” Maria said, her voice suddenly soft and meek.

“You were supposed to look after your sister.”

“I did! I mean, I was, but—”

“Enough!” Mr. Abruzzo said, silencing Maria with a single word. “We’ll talk about it when we get home.”