Desert dirt puffs up under my paws as I trot obediently in the center of the pack. The scent of sunbaked earth combined with faint hints of sagebrush and creosote fills my nostrils and dust coats my tongue. I grimace, saliva pooling in my mouth and trickling down my jaws to splatter upon the ground.

Unseemly for a woman, but not a wolf.

Lord Blackwood glances back at me, brow ridges lifting in concern. I pointedly ignore his gaze, keeping my attention on the ground. Gamma I may be, but I am no man's second choice.

The cliff rises in the distance, growing larger with each passing moment. The terrain subtly shifts, with rocks rising from the ground instead of sagebrush. Jammed between these rocks are clusters of juniper trees, their woody trunks gnarled and twisting like horns. Short desert grass begins to bloom, its jagged edges catching on my fur as we climb higher, curving around the cliff.

The heat clings to me like a burr and I can feel the weight of my fur dragging me down. Goddess, what happens if I get heatstroke? What I wouldn't give for a shorter pelt right now. The only good thing about the climb is that the grass keeps the dust to a minimum. Now I can smell the juniper trees, their citrusy undertones cutting through the scent of dry earth.

I also smell the sheep.

It's faint but unmistakable: musk, feces, and urine—all wrapped up in a woolen coat. The thought of sinking my teeth into that miasma of filth makes me want to gag.

Alpha Thorne pauses and turns around. "This is where it gets tricky," he says. "We need to ascend single-file. If they sense us on the first level, they will climb—or descend. I do not recommend following them if they descend. They are surprisingly nimble and can wedge their hooves into crevices we cannot even see."

I can tell by the set of Morgana's ears and tail that she's eager to hunt and not at all interested in the alpha's warnings. She used to be cautious, I muse as Alpha Thorne continues his instructions. Now, she's too cavalier. No wonder the council wants to rein her in. I, for one, would like to know how far I can run without throwing myself off of a mile-high slab of rock.

"Let's go, then," Alpha Thorne says. He breaks into an easy lope, one that we mimic as human reasoning falls away and our wolven instincts take over. I ease behind one of the betas, while another takes up the end of the line. My tongue lolls as the sun continues to beat down relentlessly, with only a wisp of a cloud passing by.

We spiral up the cliffside in silence, Alpha Thorne dictating our course with body language alone. Watch, his right ear flicks, indicating a loose rock. Slow down. It's straightforward, cutting to the heart of the matter. None of this courtly dancing around the wolves of Daroonga are so fond of. I miss the frankness of a hunt almost as much as I miss the freedom my wolf affords me.

Short, stout juniper trees jut out from the cliffside, providing us with cover and masking our scent. My whiskers tremble, catching the faint arid breeze that sweeps up from below. I chance a look down and almost regret the decision. Even with my superior sight, I can barely see where the hunting trail began. The ground seems so far away and looks very, very hard. I can only imagine what hitting the rocks would do to my body.

Oh, goddess ...

I tear my eyes away and put my focus where it should be—on the alpha.

Watch, Alpha Thorne tells us. This isn't a look-out-for-loose-rocks warning; no, the alpha has spied our prey and he's bidding us to be on alert.

I fight the urge to lift my head and instead follow Alpha Thorne's wordless instructions as he chivies us into position. With the wind in our favor, we slowly advance, paw-pads whispering over the rocks and tufts of tough desert grass that sprouts haphazardly.

My movements slow to a crawl, placing each paw delicately down with the precision of a cat. My blood sings and the thrill of the hunt banishes any discomfort I feel from the heat. I creep upward, following the direction of the nameless male beta in front of me, and pop over the cliff edge.

Thick brush and tough bushes spread out before us, a providing ample fodder for the sheep. Dirt carried by the wind and deposited on the flat surface proves to be fertile ground. Tall juniper trees dig their roots into the soil and anchor deep into the rock. A softer, sweeter version of grass emerges here, cropped close in some areas, grown tall in others. My lip curls as my nose catches a whiff of fresh dung. Well, that explains the ability of plants to grow this high up.

Alpha Thorne maneuvers us into position behind a screen of bushes. As a gamma and thus, smaller and weaker than the betas and alphas, I fall back. This is the only time I don't lament my lower-ranking status. In a true pack, every member has a job to do and no one is unimportant. It's too bad we've chosen to model our society after humans, who put the individual ahead of the good of the pack.

Lying flat on my belly, I peer through the prickly bushes and get my first glimpse of our prey.

The first thing I notice is that they are not white—at least, not like the sheep I've seen in pastures. The flashes of white I saw from the ground was actually their large, powerful hindquarters. Their actual coat is a dull light brown, which blends right into their environment. They graze in small groups, some breaking away to scale a smaller, secondary level to the cliff with absurd ease.

I blink, settling my head on my paws. For such a bulky creature, they move with surprising grace—like dancers. They bounce from ledge to ledge until they reach the top, rushing headlong with no apparent caution. This athletic feat takes them several seconds—if less. No wonder Alpha Thorne warned us against following them blindly.

After a few moments of observation, it's easy to distinguish which sheep are male and which are female. The males' massive horns curve around like fiddleheads, the tips jutting toward their noses, while the females' are goat-shaped—small and short.

A sharp crack echoes across the flat surface of the cliff. My ears rotate, head following. Two males square off against each other on the secondary ledge, one perched higher than the other. They rear back in unison and launch themselves forward, heads lowered. A sound like a gunshot rings out as they crash their horns together in a test of dominance.

I flinch, watching as they back up and try again, tiny hooves scrambling for purchase. It's a harrowing primal dance, but I find myself strangely drawn to these two males in their prime pushing and shoving each other.

"Your Majesty!" Alpha Thorne hisses.

I jerk my chin up, jaw dropping as I watch Morgana slink toward the two males, her whole body vibrating with intensity.

Goddess. She's not going to—

I grit my teeth as the queen breaks cover and races toward the two combating males. The whole clifftop explodes into activity, with sheep scattering to all corners. Morgana crashes through them like a white whirlwind and launches herself upward.

The lower of the two male sheep turns as she's mid-leap and shoves off the cliffside. He soars over Morgana's snapping jaws, landing with a bleat. The beast stumbles, forelegs buckling, but manages to get his legs beneath him and races toward the edge. Morgana gives chase, a white blur against the earth-tones of the cliff.

"Fuck!" Alpha Thorne snarls, shooting to his feet. He spins around and pins me to the spot with a withering amber glare. "Can't you control the queen?"

Instinct compels me to roll my forequarters on the ground, tilting my chin up in submission. "No, alpha," I reply, tongue flicking out to lick my jaws. "No one can control her." If they could, she wouldn't be the queen, now, would she?

Alpha Thorne snaps his jaws and I scoot backwards into the bushes. He whirls and begins barking orders half in words, the other half in body language. His son and nephew leap into action with the other three beta males.

A small whimper of frustration leaves my throat and I scramble to my feet, shaking twigs free from my coat. I shake off the last vestiges of submission only to stare in horror as the sheep goes over the ledge, Morgana following close behind.

NO!

I race toward the spot where she disappeared and shove myself between Lord Blackwood and Alpha Thorne. Oh, goddess, don't let her be dead, I think as my belly curls with dread. Heart in throat, I peer over the edge.

Morgana hangs from cliffside, the claws of her massive hand-paw dug into the rock.

"She transformed mid-air," Alpha Thorne whispers, his voice trembling. His back hunches, tail tucking between his haunches.

I glance to my right and Lord Blackwood mimics his uncle's subservient stance, as do the alpha's son and the rest of the betas. I remain standing straight, eyes fixed on Morgana.

She looks up at us, blue eyes crinkling in triumph. The ram dangles limply from her jaws, its neck broken. Grunting, she swings her free left arm up and digs her claws into the rock. The sand-colored stone emits a high-pitched whine as her hindlegs find purchase and she hauls herself hand over hand up the cliffside.

We scramble back as she emerges and drops the dead ram's body on the ground. Its horns bounce off a rock with a clack. I look up and up into her terrible jaws, legs trembling.

Morgana dusts her paws off and folds her muscular, white-furred arms. "Well, what are we waiting for? There are a lot of empty walls in Daroonga and I am in need of trophies to fill them."