With the wracking physical pain that was only just beginning to die down replaced by the accumulated mental wounds that could not be healed by magic, Bran Cornick was the last person in the world that Leah wanted to see. The pain of his presence might be the straw that broke her.

There was a sudden brilliant flash and a crack as lightning struck a tree on the far edge of the pit. And a second crack as one of the Singer’s small limbs, the ones that hid in the shadows, smacked out and hit Tag, knocking him on his side—and one of the huge tentacles followed, staving in the berserker’s side.

* * *

*

THE FIRST BLOW had not done much; Tag was a tough old wolf. But the second strike was another matter entirely.

The hunting song meant that Charles felt the sharp edge slicing Tag from nose to flank, laying him open to the bone. But it was the crushing blow of the rest of the tentacle that did the real damage, splintering bone and flattening organs.

What Charles did next wasn’t an impulse. He and Brother Wolf had been engaged in a back-channel discussion from the beginning.

Remind it what death is, Asil had said. Jonesy had told him so, and Jonesy had been the son of a Celtic god, so he should have known. Charles had been hoping for his da to arrive with Jonesy’s sword, but there was only a faint chance that he would get here before they lost this fight—a chance that had become significantly smaller now that Tag lay dying.

If he could pull magic from Leah through the pack bonds—and he wasn’t sure that wouldn’t kill her—Charles thought that they could probably save Tag. As long as they did it soon, before he or Anna sustained further damage. Between the time it would take and the drain of energy, such a decision would mean conceding the battle to the Singer.

Which meant they would lose what might be their only opportunity to kill something approaching godlike powers that would bear a grudge against his family and owe allegiance to the Hardesty witches—who also bore a grudge against his family.

It would be loosing evil on the world, Brother Wolf said.

But if they chose not to save Tag, they had a different opportunity.

Charles released that knowledge to the hunting song, which was already reeling under Tag’s wounds. It was a pragmatic choice. If the pack rebelled, if Tag refused, Charles would listen.

Yes.

Tag’s wolf spirit gave eager consent. Taking one’s enemy down with one’s own death was more than acceptable to the berserker spirit, but the single word had a bit of Tag’s laughing amusement in it, too.

Anna waited. When a tentacle struck from the depths of the pit, she began a swift and brutal attack in the faint hope of keeping the Singer’s attention on her. She didn’t have to do it for long. This would not take much time.

With the Singer occupied with Anna, Charles ran to where Tag lay in the slime-covered mud. It was still Tag, not his corpse yet, though they could all feel the separation beginning.

Charles put his human hand on the horrendous wound, coating it in blood. He could not have said when he had changed back to human, only that he needed a hand for this, so that is what he had. Then he ran to the tentacle that was trying to kill his mate. This one had a long wound and Charles plunged his bloody hand into it, pressing Tag’s lifeblood into the Singer. And then he tied them together—like the first step in bringing a new member into the pack.

He felt what he had done in the pack bonds, but Tag lay between the Singer and the pack, keeping them safe. Tag had always been a protective wolf. Dying, he was no less a guardian, dragging the Singer through that final veil with him.

* * *

*

THE HUNTING SONG waited for Tag’s death.

Leah wasn’t a part of that anymore, but she was a pack mate, and she knew how to read the signs. It had been a ruthless decision—and something inside her told her it wasn’t going to work anyway. The Singer was too alien.

Not in body; it did not matter what body it wore. But pack magic was specific, and there had to be some affinity for Charles to find if he was going to bind the Singer to Tag.

She forced herself to her feet. Her hip hadn’t healed completely in the change, but she was satisfied that it was only outraged tissue she had to deal with. She ignored the pain.

Even through the lesser window the pack bonds gave her, she could feel Tag’s joy in achieving a glorious death. The idiot. It made her want to bite him.

* * *

*

THE TENTACLE WRITHED and Anna ran for safety, knowing Charles was doing the same thing on the other side. It didn’t matter; they both knew their last chance had failed. Tag was still dying, but the bond Charles had fought to forge had not taken.

Only then did she realize that the noise she was hearing was a helicopter, flying in close. The hunting song had failed to notice it sooner because Tag was dying and Anna and Charles were both numbed with exhausted failure. Three wolves were not usually enough to keep a song going, and the magic was fading.

Bran’s helicopter didn’t land in the meadow in the center of Wild Sign, the only place with a big enough clearing to put the machine on the ground. Instead, it flew over—and Anna could almost hear the sigh of relief as the hunting song renewed itself and reached out for its king.

Bran dropped out of the hovering helicopter into the forest, because it was necessary to keep the helicopter out of reach. Tied to Bran with intimate closeness, Anna felt—they all felt—the momentary pain of his impact on the ground. But Bran healed himself as soon as the damage took place—filled with the power of not only the hunting song but also his pack, his wildlings, and a huge distant well of strength that was all of the wolves who owed him allegiance.

* * *

*

CHARLES LET THE reins of the hunting song go with relief and a renewal of hope. Da was here; all would be well.

He is not a god, said Brother Wolf dryly, but Charles knew his wolf shared Charles’s faith.

Bran had assessed the situation before his feet hit the forest floor, and Charles knew what he needed to do as soon as his da did.

Anna waited for Bran beside Tag. Da wanted her human because he might need her hands to help save Tag, so she began her change. Charles felt the power that poured to her from the bonds of the hunt, felt her surprise at the speed of her transformation.

For his part, Charles ran toward the lake. About halfway there, he jumped into the air and raised his hand. Jonesy’s sword, tossed by his da, landed in his clasp as if it wanted to be there.

* * *

*

    DRIVEN BY THE wishes of the Marrok, the hunting song tried to engulf Leah again. Her initial rejection was instinctive. She could not bear being that close to Bran right now, raw as she was with the pain of the memories that the Singer had returned to her—only to snatch them away again, leaving her with just the remnants of the emotional upheaval. She did not have the strength to deal with the careful distance Bran maintained between them.

From her vantage point maybe fifty feet from where Tag lay, Leah watched her mate prepare to save them all. He threw the sword he’d brought into the hands of his son, then dropped to his knees beside Tag. Because, she understood, either he or Charles could have wielded the sword—but only one of them had a chance to save Tag.

Leah was not necessary.

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.