The dreaming Charles saw something else. He saw Leah’s cheeks were gaunt and her hands shook when she wasn’t paying attention. He saw the wildness of the wolf in her eyes—and a bottomless, aching, unassuageable grief too deep for tears.

He remembered his da had told him one of the children he and Sherwood had buried had been Leah’s.

In the way of dreams, Charles found himself seated on the ground, once more facing his uncle. But there was no camp, no Bran or Leah, no other people at all. The forest closed around them, dark and endless—but not dead. He could hear the birds and squirrels chittering at each other, feel the insects going about their business. Far away an eagle cried out.

Buffalo Singer’s clever, callused fingers slid a pawn over to capture Charles’s queen. He tapped the fallen piece with a finger.

“You be careful of her,” he told Charles. “If you lose her, you lose the whole game.”

Charles took a careful look at the rough-carved queen who only vaguely resembled a woman. His da had many talents, but carving wasn’t one of them.

He looked up at Buffalo Singer and asked, “Who is she?”

But his uncle merely shook his head.

Charles turned his attention to the chessboard and studied the game, trying to see where he’d made the mistake that had caused him to lose. It felt like it was important to see where he, where Charles, had gone wrong.

His uncle reached over with a bent finger and tapped Charles on the forehead. “Keep a sharp eye out. The story is about her.”

“Dinner!” called Anna cheerfully from somewhere.

His uncle looked up, a quick grin crossing his face. “I like her,” he said. “She’s feisty.”

Charles looked up into Anna’s face. “I like you, too,” he told her.

She laughed and kissed him. He liked that, too.

C H A P T E R

4

They found a trail at midday. It looked just like several others they’d found. But this one, unlike the others, carried no recent human scent.

Tag discovered a candy wrapper, battered and faded to pale colors by the sun and weather. Charles nosed the wrapper, and after a moment’s consideration, set off on the trail. There was something—maybe it just headed in the right direction—that distinguished it in Charles’s mind from the others. Maybe the spirits who lived in the forest directed him. With Charles it was hard to tell. Tag waited for Anna to follow, and he took up the rear.

Save me from protective males, thought Anna with half-irritated amusement. She was a freaking werewolf, for heaven’s sake; she could take care of herself.

We protect our most dangerous weapon, Brother Wolf assured her.