Page 20 of Moonlight's Mate
With the easy lope of wolf-kind, they gained the ridge and traveled along the rockier but more open spine. At the highest point, Merrilee scrambled up onto a stony promontory, posing with her nose to the wind like the bold carving at the front of a Viking ship, the dark trees an ocean all around.
She whuffed, and he leapt up to join her, breathing her scent, her breath…and the hint of another wereling carried on the clear night breeze.
No one he knew. The lone wolf.
He inhaled, pulling the scent deep into his lungs, feeling his heart pound at the crisp air and the thrill of the hunt. They had the favor of the wind, but that was a tenuous advantage compared to iron.
When Merrilee crouched to descend, he blocked her.
Silly move, of course. She snapped at him, and when he hopped aside to avoid her teeth, she sprang down lightly before turning to glare when he followed.
She faced him with her dark head high and her tail an angry arch over her lithe spine. The faintest hint of a shining fang on one side showed between her lips.
He looked away, the most apology an Alpha could give. She received his apology as an Alpha would, by turning her back on him and resuming the hunt.
This time in the lead.
Plunging into the valley, they lost the scent for a while as they were forced to meander through the trees and boulders, but Merrilee kept to the course the wind had set. They were well outside the boundaries of either pack, and Beck’s hackles prickled at the unfamiliarity. Werelings were wild folk, no doubt, but they had their human sides that appreciated civilized comforts, and so they tended to adapt their lands to the best of both worlds. Here was wild only, untouched. His wolf reveled in the perilous purity, but the Alpha wanted control. And the man knew this was a place to hide trouble, lots of trouble.
Merrilee slowed, her head up, testing the wind. He did the same, catching the scent of the loner, plus smoke.
Close. And with a fire?
He exchanged glances with Merrilee who tilted her head in echo of his confusion. Wolf-kind had no need of fire.
Putting distance between them so they would not make one convenient target, they stalked the stranger.
It helped that he had a cheerfully crackling campfire masking sight, sound and smell. And he was drunk, which dulled whatever sense he might’ve had left. He sat on a moldering log, staring into the flames, with a mostly empty whiskey bottle tilted beside him. His ragged coat looked much the worse for wear.
Merrilee rolled her eyes at Beck in disbelief. He gave her an exaggerated nod.
To the stranger, it must have appeared that they materialized out of nothingness. Though he was a wereling, he startled, one flailing foot kicking the whiskey toward the fire.
The spray of alcohol sent the fire raging up in a hungry gout, and the stranger shouted, not so much in surprise as dismay. He snagged the bottle and pulled it to his chest, before giving them a furious glare. “Loco lobos. Go ’way.” He brandished the bottle, which might have been more menacing if he hadn’t seemed so anxious not to spill any more.
Beck recognized the upper-shelf brand only the Sun-Down carried. It seemed unlikely the stranger had brought his own. He drew back his lips in silent threat.
“I tried to save you.” The loner rubbed his forehead. “Who leads here?”
Beck growled deep in his chest, but Merrilee barked once, just a little louder.
The loner’s gaze shuttled between them. “Awkward.”
Merrilee took a step toward him, rearing up and shifting in the same move, making the stranger flinch back with a muttered curse.
She stood in all her naked glory, bathed in firelight that tricked hints of red from her thick sable hair and highlighted the flush of their long run.
Of course she was bold in her own skin; she was a wereling and Alpha. Still, Beck kept growling that the loner was seeing her. He took a few stiff-legged steps, half circling the man.
The loner quickly averted his gaze, clutching the whiskey as if that were entirely enough companionship for him.
“The upper valley you passed through is mine,” Merrilee said, then she tilted her head toward Beck so her hair slid forward over her breasts. “The lower valley and the bar where you took that bottle are his.”
The stranger mutely held out the whiskey in his hands.
She shook her head. “I don’t want a drink. I want answers. You can start with your name and why you are here.”
Her tone was milder than Beck thought necessary for interrogating a thief and a trespasser, but he knew she was a good leader. And, he admitted wryly, she probably wasn’t suffering from this lust to slash the man’s eyes out.
