“That’s because we aren’t,” he answered, anger growing in his face, though it wasn’t in his slow speech. “But they’re down, and since Aretha has pups in her, I want an ultrasound. And be careful. They’re riled up and likely to be unpredictable.”

“An ultrasound?” came an indignant voice. “Who the hell is this?”

“This here is Brett,” he drawled, shifting his cap farther back and squinting at the sun. We hit a bump, and I clutched at a support post. “Who the hell is this?”

There was no answer except static, and I snickered, glad I wasn’t the only one in trouble. “So,” I said when Brett gave the mike to the driver and settled back. “Are you a survivalist group or a wolf research station?”

“Both.” He shifted his brown eyes between Jenks and me. The large pixy had his head bowed over his knees, ignoring everyone in his effort to keep his hand to his wound.

I pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth, wishing I had on more than my black tights. I looked like a thief, and the men surrounding me were getting their money’s worth. They were in baggy camouflage, and from what I could see, each had a Celtic knot tattooed in the arch of their ears that matched the emblems on their hats. Huh.

Most packs had a tattoo that all members subscribed to, but they usually put them in a more traditional place. Weres loved body decoration, standing in stark contrast to vamps, who shunned getting ink even if a parlor would give them any. It seemed that pain was part of the mystique, and since vamps could turn pain into pleasure, it was a rare artist who would work on vamps, living or dead. But Weres indulged themselves freely, and the best artists could run on four feet as well as two. I was glad David hadn’t brought up the idea of a pack tattoo.

Jenks was starting to hyperventilate, and I put a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Jenks,” I soothed, growing anxious when the light brightened and we slowed, easing into a pleasant-looking compound. There was a lake nearby, with a mishmash of small cabins and larger homes surrounding it, well-tended dirt paths everywhere. “I’ll get you something as soon as we stop.”

“You will?” he said, tilting his head to meet my eyes. “You’ll fix it?”

I nearly laughed at his panicked expression until I remembered it was a pixy wife’s ancestral duty to keep her mate alive and no one else’s—and Matalina wasn’t here.

“Matalina won’t mind,” I said, then wondered. “Will she?”

His eighteen-year-old features scrunched into relief. “No. I didn’t want to assume—”

“Good Lord, Jenks,” I said, weight shifting when we stopped. “It’s no big deal.”