*

COYOTE WATCHED THEM go. He had not paid much attention to the Marrok’s son, his daughter’s foster brother. He was more interesting than Coyote had thought.

But they were not why he was here.

He trotted into a damp cavern that held a clear, cold pool in its center. He nosed around until he found what he’d been looking for. A small squid-like creature, no bigger than his toenail.

Immortal things were truly difficult to kill.

It tasted like eel.

* * *

*

WHEN ANNA AND Charles emerged from the cave, the rain had stopped, though the chill that lingered in the air had an edge of winter in it. The next rainstorm in these mountains was going to carry snow, Charles thought.

He smelled the witches before they came upon them.

“Is something wrong?” Anna asked.

“Witches,” he told her quietly. “Black. Over by the amphitheater. The lake.”

Neither of them slowed—or sped up, either.

He pulled the Glock out of his waistband and loaded the clip. Their best weapon against the witches was likely to be the sword. He wanted Anna to have it, but he hadn’t taught her swordplay yet. If his da was going to continue to break out swords from his store of weapons, Anna needed to learn. But for now, it meant that he kept the sword.

“You still have your gun?” he asked, keeping his voice soft.

She nodded. “Six bullets.”

Brother Wolf thought there were fewer than six witches waiting for them. Charles handed the Glock to Anna, too.

“This is a Glock 21. It’s a .45 caliber. Thirteen shots—there is not one in the chamber right now. You’ve shot this gun before.” She hadn’t liked it. It hadn’t fit her hand as well as her Sig did.

We could just kill them, observed Brother Wolf. There are three of them.

Anna checked the Glock herself, then tucked it next to her carry gun in the small of her back. “We don’t want to start a war,” she told Brother Wolf. “They don’t have anything to gain by our deaths—and a lot to lose.” She looked up at Charles. “They’ll know the Singer is dead, right?”

“Probably,” Charles said. “If it was feeding them power, that would have stopped the moment it died.”

They quit talking. Charles wanted to get this encounter finished as quickly as possible. He was tired and so was Anna.

He was, under the circumstances, unsurprised to find three witches standing next to the lake. He hadn’t expected that they would be standing in the ashes left by the Singer’s tentacle, and didn’t quite know why he found that disconcerting. He suspected they did not realize what they were standing in, and he had no intention of telling them. Who knew what mischief they could brew up with the ashes of the Singer?

One of the witches was the pregnant Ms. Hardesty, which he thought had been a mistake on their part. Her pregnancy gave them something they wanted to protect.

Brother Wolf snarled in his mind; he did not like witches. Especially when he and Charles were so tired. It made Brother Wolf worry that they could not protect Anna.

“This is private property,” Anna said. “You are trespassing.” It was better if Anna talked, because Brother Wolf might say something they would regret later.

Ms. Hardesty, her lips white, strode up to them while the others hung back. Either she was in charge, or she was rash. Since she was here, he was betting on the latter.

“You killed him,” she said, her voice low with rage. “You will regret that.”

“We told you our intentions,” Anna said. “Why are you surprised? The Singer was unfinished business that belonged to my family. Ours to deal with. You have no claim.”

“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.”

“Who are you to say so?” asked Cathy Hardesty, though she’d felt the magic die as well, Charles thought. He could hear it in the wariness of her voice.

One of the witches approached Ms. Hardesty and took her arm. That one kept a sharp eye on Ford, though she took time to give Charles a foul look.

“Come, daughter,” she murmured. “This is unproductive.”

Ms. Hardesty jerked her arm free. “Where is Zander?” she demanded harshly. “What have you done with him?”

Charles did not reply—and was glad that Anna did not, either.

“Go now,” said Ford. His voice was not ungentle, but there was force behind it.

“Come,” said the older witch. “We cannot win this battle on this ground.”

Ford gave her an affable smile. “Common sense is a rare commodity.”

They stalked off in the direction of Wild Sign, and after a moment Charles heard the sounds of dirt bikes revving up.

Ford shook his head. “They came through the wilderness area on those. We’ll see that doesn’t happen again.”

“Thank you,” said Anna. “We would not have been happy to have another fight today.”

Ford slanted an amused look at Charles. At Brother Wolf, maybe, because he said, “I’m not sure that is entirely true.” He glanced in the direction the witches had taken and said, “You have made yourself enemies there.”

“We have always been enemies,” said Charles mildly. “Water is wet. Black witches are our enemies.”

Ford nodded. “Fair enough.” He took a deep breath, then said, “We owe you thanks. This one has long been a foulness in our home.”

“Team effort,” Charles said.

Ford smiled. “This is your land, Charles and Anna Cornick. This forest welcomes you here. But I think, today, you have accomplished all you set out to do.”

“Yes,” agreed Anna.

“We found a couple of vehicles a few miles away.” He jerked his chin in the general direction of where the two cars had been left. “One of my nieces said that she knew the owner of one of them, who might be surprised to find it where it was. She has taken it back where it belongs. She is something of a tinkerer.” This was said with a look of pride. “She fixed what was wrong with the other rig—the one that brought you to the Trading Post. Good as new, she said.”

Charles, surprised, said, “Thank you. I believe a card was left with a phone number, and if the owner of the Land Rover would use it, we’ll see that they are compensated for the use of their vehicle.”

Ford smiled and nodded. “Good. Good.” He tilted his head at Charles. “You and your lady, when you come back here, you should stop in for more pie.”

“We’ll do that,” Charles said.

* * *