“He was mine,” the witch snarled, one hand wrapped around her belly.

For some reason, Brother Wolf thought it was important to make Anna’s case. To show that they had justice on their side. So Charles said, “No.”

Charles couldn’t see justice making any inroads on the intentions of the pair of older witches who were chanting—softly, as if they thought that he, a werewolf, wouldn’t notice them gathering power. Perhaps they didn’t care what Charles knew.

“He was mine,” Cathy Hardesty’s voice was raw. “He was the father of the child I carry.”

“That did not make the Singer yours,” Charles said, despite the knowledge that Anna would be a better intermediary. Brother Wolf was adamant. “You belong—belonged—to it, not the other way around. It was on our lands. Its walker carried my Alpha’s mate’s blood and was accountable for his crimes to my family. This land has been in my family’s name for two centuries. His death was spoken for long ago by my family.”

The magic the witches were conjuring increased in strength, and Charles had just about decided he needed to do something about that when it died as if it had been a candle flame smothered by a snuffer. One of the witches stifled a cry of pain.

A man strode out of the trees—and Charles was sure that there had not been a man anywhere near this place. This man smelled quite human and he moved that way, though obviously he was at home in the woods.

This is why you needed me to speak, Charles said. Why didn’t you tell me the Sasquatch was here?

Brother Wolf was smug.

“Felt a disturbance,” said Ford. “And under the circumstances, I thought I should come check.” He looked at the ground the pair of older witches were standing on, and then away. He knew what the wet ashes were.

Sasquatches were the guardians of the forest. Tag had been worried about their physical strength, Charles knew. But when they were acting for justice in their territory, they had other power that was much more impressive. They could, for instance, make it impossible for these witches to work their magic.

Normally, Sasquatches would not concern themselves in a fight between witches and werewolves—unless possibly they considered one or the other as part of their territory. He didn’t know why Ford was doing so now.

We killed the Singer, Brother Wolf said. He owes us a debt.

Indeed, Charles and Anna had just rid the forest of a disruptive force—he paused and thought about the events surrounding the death of the Singer and had an interesting idea.

“I believe,” Charles told the witches softly, “you were told that you were trespassing. If I were you, I would leave—and not come back.”