She gave up the fight and let exhaustion, emotional and physical, overtake her, watching Charles with a gray numbness that approached disinterest. The silvery sword, which was not a long sword, looked more like a knife in his hand from this distance. It had been forged by the Dark Smith of Drontheim, and it had killed a son of the god Lugh.

The exhaustion-born numbness was swept away by the sudden certainty that she still had a role to play.

In her dream, Buffalo Singer had told her that this was her battle. Watching the great fae sword in Charles’s hands, she finally understood what those words meant. Bitterness engulfed her and gave her the power to get to her feet.

If Buffalo Singer ever came to her in a dream again, she would make sure he regretted it.

* * *

AS IF IT understood the weapon Charles bore, the Singer had withdrawn under the water. Left without a target, Charles came to a wary stop three or four body lengths from the lake.

He could feel his da pouring power into the dying wolf behind him, using the hunting song and the pack bonds to keep Tag with them. Other than his da’s cursing of stubborn werewolves, the dawn held a waiting quiet.

There was a bright silvery edge to the sky, but where they stood the rain still poured. Charles was glad the pilot had gotten the helicopter down safely, because the storm was once again filling with the electric quality that told him the lightning was preparing for another round.

Charles felt a great calm sink into him. It wasn’t the kind of calm that Anna gave him. It was the calm of battle, when all was at the ready and he would either live or die. It was Brother Wolf’s favorite place to be.

Without warning, the tentacle whipped out of the water directly in front of him, snaking forward to slap down on him.

Charles moved aside. He was very tired, and he moved more quickly on four feet than on two. But he was fast enough. He buried the sword, driving it through the tough skin until it was haft deep.

The Singer screamed once more, the tentacle knocked into Charles, and he lost his grip on the sword.

He landed in a crouch. With no forethought at all, he raised up a hand and shouted … something. It didn’t feel like he needed a word—just the cry, the sound of his voice.

And a bolt of lightning struck the sword in the center of the old blue stone at the top of the pommel. And the balls of lightning that spun off improbably in all directions knocked Charles off his feet again.

The tentacle, the entire visible upper skin crisped black and smelling like burnt fish, lay limp on the slime-covered mud.