"How do you know that?"

The alpha glares at me, and I flinch and look at the ground. I know by now that no one is going to beat me for speaking up, but a lifetime of conditioning is hard to overcome. Monty rests a reassuring hand on my back, and summoning my courage, I take a breath and will myself to look up and meet the alpha's eyes.

My uncle would have knocked me down for daring so much, but Alpha Dane seems to expect people to stand up to him.

"Death... leaves traces," I say, and lower my eyes again, unable to hold his gaze. "Like shadows in the air. Even if it happened long ago, the shadows linger. No one has died here in recent memory."

"You said 'something bad' happened, though. What's that about?"

I flinch at the challenge in his tone, but do my best to explain.

"Emotions leave traces, too. Like... echoes. I can hear them, sometimes."

"So, what do they say?" he growls, crossing his muscled arms over his broad chest.

I shut my eyes, reminding myself again that no one will hurt me for being what I am. Not here.

"Not... words," I whisper. "I hear... feelings."

Dane blows out a breath in frustration, but Monty smooths his hand over my shoulders before my fear can rise again.

"Kinda like how Julian senses things, maybe," Monty says, addressing his brother. "Why not have him 'read' the scene, too? Maybe he could verify what Kit's saying."

Alpha Dane frowns and turns away, surveying the site of the burned home.

The midday air is warm and scented with ash, and the sky overhead is a pale, faded blue, washed almost white by the dusty haze of late summer. A faint breeze stirs the air, lifting little bits of gray ash on gusts of fitful breath. The alpha sighs.

"Jules needs a physical object with energy attached. Burning things releases whatever energy it holds. That's how he explains it, anyway. I don't think there's enough here for him to pick up on."

"Would it hurt to try?" Monty presses. "Maybe there's something nearby—something that didn't burn. Maybe they dropped something, or touched something, or—"

"You don't think Freya or I would have found it if there was?" Dane snaps. "Or Jake, who's been over every inch of this place?"

"You didn't pick up on what Kit sensed," Monty points out gently. "Maybe Julian could—"

"I'll ask."

The alpha's tone carries a clear warning that says the matter is closed, and any Wolf in his right mind would let it lie, but Monty seems ready to argue his point.

Fortunately, the others rejoin us then, forestalling any conflict as they return from inspecting the place I'd felt the strongest 'echoes' of distress.

"It's where the front door woulda been," the tall, slender Wolf—Monty's sister—says with a shrug.

Dane rubs his hand over his chin. "Makes sense. If someone forced Mom and Dad from the house, or if whoever did this came to the door, and they opened it, it's where they would have felt the first, or strongest, shock."

"You think they were taken somewhere else?" the strange, blue-eyed man asks. Supposedly, he's the pretty, plump Hunter woman's Mate, but I can't tell if he's Pack or not. He smells different.

"Yeah." Alpha Dane nods. "Like you said, if they'd escaped of their own free will, they'd have showed up by now. If they're not here—" he gestures at the ashy remains of the house, "—then that means wherever they are, someone's keeping them against their will."

"You're assuming they're alive," Jake Nash states.

The alpha's eyes briefly flash from amber to red.

"Yes, I'm assuming they're alive," he says, and turns to the ones called Freya and Martin. "Come on. Let's get out of here. There's nothing more to see, and I wanna visit the sheriff's office and see if they'll let me read the official report."

"They will," the blue-eyed man said, nodding. "Sheriff Page is a friend of mine. I'll call ahead and put in a good word for you. But like I said before, they're ready to write it off as a tragic accident. I don't reckon you'll find much useful. Besides," he adds cautiously, "I've gone over it myself, several times. For Sasha's sake, if for nothing else."

Dane nods. "Thanks, Nash, but I still want to see it for myself."

The other man nods. "I'd do the same, in your place."

The alpha relaxes, appeased, and turns to his sister and brother. "Freya, Martin—you two wanna come with?"

"Sure," Freya says. "Count me in."

"Martin?" Dane prompts again.

The other Hunter is absorbed with something on his phone, and doesn't look up until Freya elbows him in the ribs. Then he nearly drops the device in surprise.

"Sorry, what?" he asks, looking up and seeing that all eyes are on him.

"I asked if you wanted to come to the Sheriff's office," Dane repeats evenly. "Look over the reports. They know you there, right? From researching your books?"

"Oh! Yeah, they do. But no, I can't come," Martin says quickly. "It'd be a waste of time, anyway—they'd never let me see files for an open case. Besides, my editor wants my corrected manuscript by the end of the week, so I need to get some work done this afternoon. Oh, and Elena wants to meet everyone." He waves his phone to show what had his attention before. "So you're all invited for dinner—which, of course, I've got to cook. The glamorous life of a stay-at-home dad and crime novelist, you know." He laughs nervously.

Freya frowns at him. "Have you explained to your 'editor' that your parents' house burned down and that they're missing?" she asks, brows raised.

Martin fidgets and slips his phone in his back pocket. "I don't make the publishing schedule, Frey. I just stick to it so they don't drop my series. It's kind of my life."

She scoffs. "May I remind you, Martin Hunter, that you write about catching criminals. Some of us actually do that. That's my life, and I put it on hold to come here and deal with more important things."

"That's easy for you to say," Martin sneers. "You don't have a family, or a mate. You don't have kids to think about, and you never will, Freya, because you're not a real—"

"Martin. Enough."

The alpha's voice is a deep growl like distant thunder, and his eyes blaze red. Everyone falls silent at the sound, and no one moves; even the air seems to go still.

I hold my breath and stare. Alpha Obadiah doesn't have that kind of power in his voice; even Ferrault doesn't have it. Dane Hunter is a different kind of alpha, alright.

Martin stares at the ground, face flushed with shame and head bowed in submission—as I've seen none of the Hunters exhibit so far. Dane releases whatever hold he has on him, and then Martin takes a breath and turns to Freya first.

"Freya... I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. You know me—you know I'd never... I'm just stressed out of my mind, I guess." He raises a shaking hand and brushes it over his short, densely curled hair. "I'm so sorry."

She regards him coolly. "I get it. A cornered wolf bites where it can. Still hurts."

He nods. "I know. And you're right, of course. Mom and Dad are more important than... deadlines."

"Martin's right, too, though," Jake breaks in, scuffing a booted foot in the dust as five pairs of eyes turn on him. "'Bout the Sheriff's office, I mean. I understand you want to see the evidence for yourself—as you should—but if you want my advice, your time would be better served elsewhere. Like investigating the suspects."

"There are suspects?" Monty asks, his hand still on my back, grounding me through the warmth of his touch.

Jake nods. "In my book, anyway. You want my advice? Start with those rogue Wolves your parents were letting squat on their territory. I told 'em no good would come of it, but they insisted it was only 'common decency' to let folk in need of a home make one here, long as they don't cause no trouble. Well, trouble's come, sure enough, and my bet is they brought it."

"Rogue Wolves? What rogue Wolves?" Dane asks, his voice no longer carrying Alpha authority, but still sharp enough to catch a Wolf's—or a fox's—ear.

"Well, the bunch down in that Gypsy camp by the river," Jake says, hands in his pockets.

Martin flushes again and frowns at him. "'Gypsy' is an outdated, pejorative term for the Romani people." he says, and then looks towards Dane. "They're not 'gypsies,' anyway. They're Outcasts."

"Outcasts?" The alpha's thick, arched brows climb towards his hair, making his forehead crinkle. "From what Pack?"

The corner of Jake's thin mouth twists with the dry husk of a smile. "The Mortaines, of course. Who else?"

~ ☾ ~

The world goes dark; at that name, something in me snaps, and I have no choice but to run.

My fears rise sharp and fast, and my human form just can't hold me anymore.

So I turn fox, slip from my clothes, and run.

I run for the woods; for the safety of trees. Behind me comes the pad of heavier paws, spurring my panic to greater heights.

They'd use my like this, my family: practice for the Hunt, they said. Obadiah and his children, my half sisters and brothers, all pursuing me in a mock chase to the death.

Even knowing they wouldn't kill me, my fear was real; because after six or eight, or twelve hours, someone always caught me, and the one who caught me would always hurt me, somehow.

That fear reignites now, and the Wild overtakes my mind as I flee.

But I don't know this land. I don't know every hollow log and every rocky alcove; every abandoned burrow and hidden ravine. Here, I'm running blind.

And the padded footsteps at my back fall heavy and fast, closing ground, spurring my panic to frenzied terror.

My whole consciousness is in my senses—sight, smell, and sound—seeking safety; in the rush of air through my lungs, and pulse of blood through my heart.

I am fast—fast as an arrow darting through the trees—but my pursuer is tireless. And then at last...

At the edge of a small clearing, I tire, and stumble, and then it is done.

It is almost a relief to be caught; to give up, and give in; the end comes—night falls.

I close my eyes; and yet the creature that has caught me in its jaws is a gentle one. It lies and holds me down beneath heavy paws, and licks my face and fur, and whines soft and low in its throat.

Eventually, my heart slows, and the red haze of panic clears from my mind.

Monty lies over me, his enormous Wolf-form dwarfing my little fox one, but his soft brown eyes are filled with nothing but concern. Once I'm calm, he stands, circles me with a wag of his long, fluffy tail, and then goes to lie at the base of a nearby tree—an enormous old pine with a carpet of soft brown needles at its base.

After a moment, I get to my feet, and pad over unsteadily to join him, lying down tucked against his side. He rests his head on one massive paw and shuts his eyes, blowing out his breath through his nose, exhausted but content.

He doesn't have to say anything, or do anything. Somehow it's clearer in our animal forms; I know, as I lie curled in the warmth of his long fur, that I am completely safe, and that nothing can harm me here.

I know that Monty feels it, too.

There's a word for it—this mutual belonging—but I don't dare say it, yet. I'm a fox, after all, not a Wolf. Not a proper Wolf, as the Mortaines would say.

I don't deserve it. I don't deserve him. And yet...

And yet I am quietly certain that Monty Hunter is my true heart's Mate.