"Charles," she said. "I thought you were dead, too. No. Don't move-" And she put her hand on his shoulder to make sure he didn't. "I..."
Asil growled hungrily, and Anna turned to look.
Asil was not a small wolf. He wasn't as big as Samuel or Charles, but he was big enough. His fur was so dark a brown as to be mistaken for black in the growing shadows. His ears were pinned, and there was saliva dripping from his jaws.
But Anna wasn't stupid-her attention, like most of Charles's, focused on the Marrok. Bran was watching them as a cat waits for a mouse to do something interesting-like run.
Her breath caught, and the scent of her fear forced him to sit up-which was a dumb move-but his da was watching Anna now and ignored Charles.
Caught in Bran's mad gaze, Anna reached out instinctively and grabbed Charles's hand.
And it happened.
Unexpected, unheralded, the mating bond settled over him like a well-worn shirt-and for a moment he didn't hurt, wasn't tired, sore, beat-up, cold, naked, and terrified. For a moment his father's rage, eating him up from the shadows, was as nothing to the joy of the moment.
Anna took a deep breath and gave him an astonished look that clearly said, You told me we needed sex for this to happen. You're supposed to be the expert.
And then reality settled in.
He gave her a jerk that skidded her back so he was mostly between her and the two mad wolves, who were watching her with utter intentness.
She freed her hand gently, and he was glad of it-he told himself-he needed both hands to defend them. If he could manage to get to his feet.
He could feel her scooting farther behind him, which he appreciated-though he'd half expected her to fight him. Then two cold hands settled on his bloody shoulders and she leaned against his back, one of her breasts pressed on his old wound.
She drew in a breath and began to sing. And the song she chose was the Shaker song that his father had chosen to sing for Doc Wallace's funeral, "Simple Gifts."
Peace swept over him like a tropical wind, as it hadn't since the first couple of hours after he'd met her. She had to be tranquil, Asil had said, or something of the sort. She couldn't give calm that she didn't have. So she sang and drew the peace of the song into her-and gave it to the wolves.
On the third line Charles joined in with a descant that complemented her rich alto. They sang it through twice, and when they were finished, Asil heaved a sigh and settled on the snow as if he were too exhausted to move.
Charles let Anna pick the songs. The next one was the Irish song "The Black Velvet Band." To his weary amusement, she picked up a little bit of an Irish lilt as she sang it. He was pretty sure from the phrasing, she'd learned the song from listening to the Irish Rovers. In the middle of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," his father walked tiredly over to Anna and put his head in her lap with a sigh.
The next time he saw Samuel, he'd have to tell his brother that his Anna defeated the Marrok at his worst with a couple of songs instead of the years it had taken Samuel.
Anna kept singing as Charles heaved himself to his feet-not a pleasant experience, but his father's claws and fangs weren't silver, and even the worst of the new wounds were healing. It was dark but the moon was bright, not yet full, but waxing strong.
He stepped over Asil, who was sleeping so deeply he didn't even twitch, and walked to the bodies. The witch's neck was broken, but he'd feel better when they burned her body to ash and gone. Walter was dead, too.
Anna finished her song, and said, "It was for me."
He looked over at her.
"The witch threw some spell at me, and Walter got between us."
Anna was pale, and there was a bruise forming along her cheek. Despite the food she'd been eating, he thought she'd lost some weight the last few days. Her fingernails were torn, and her right hand, which was gently petting his father's muzzle, was cut on the knuckles where she'd punched someone-presumably Mariposa.
She was shivering a little, and he couldn't tell if it was the cold or shock, or both. Even as he thought about it, Bran curled around her, sharing his warmth.
Walter had been right: Charles hadn't been taking very good care of her.
"Then Walter died as he lived," he told his mate. "A hero, a soldier, and a survivor who chose to protect what was precious to him. I don't think, if you could ask him, that he would have any regrets."
Chapter FIFTEEN
In the end it was the cold that drove Anna. She couldn't stay any longer staring at the bodies: the man who had died for her and the woman she'd killed. But it was the cold, leaching the heat from her body that gave her the impetus to move.
Wearily, she got to her feet, disturbing the wolves who were piled around her in the futile effort to keep her warm. She looked apologetically at Charles. "I know the cars are only a couple of hours away-can you show me how to get there?" She looked at the corpses and then back to Charles. "I can't stay here anymore."
With a groan, Charles stood up. Bran steadied him a little when he staggered. Asil rose with the others. Only Bran looked fit for travel.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I can't eat enough to stay warm. And I can't manage to change to the wolf." As soon as night had fallen, the temperature had started to drop, and it was only getting colder.
Charles bumped her with his head and started off, limping badly. Bran stayed by her side just like Walter had. She clenched her fingers in the ruff on the back of his neck, forgetting that he was the Marrok in her need for tactile comfort.
In the dark, the forest should have been eerie, but either she'd gotten used to them, or Charles's woodland spirits were being helpful at last. Weariness dogged her steps, and her jaw chattered unmercifully. She took an incautious step and her foot broke through the crust on the top of the snow and she found herself waist deep in snow, too tired to pull herself out.
The pack on her back rattled, and then Asil pushed a candy bar under her hand. Unenthusiastic, she tore the package open with her teeth and started chewing. It tasted like cardboard, and she wanted to put her face down in the snow and sleep. But Asil growled at her-subsiding unrepentantly when Bran growled back. Charles didn't make any noise, just stared at Asil with yellow eyes. It was the threat of violence more than anything that made her swallow and swallow until the sticky stuff was gone.
She struggled out of the snow and tried to stay away from places where the white stuff spread out in smooth sheets. Not that she didn't fall into drifts again. The wolves had trouble, too, but not as much as she did.
When she first saw the vehicles, she thought she was hallucinating.