Chapter 18

At dawn,I removed Grumpy’s collar and told him to follow me into the woods. He knew what we were about without me having to say a word to him.

We were searching for the fiáin. Or rather, Grumpy was sniffing it out as I went to check on the moonflower grove. The werewolf had his nose glued to the ground, sniffing and snorting and wuffing and huffing like a crazed bloodhound. When we reached the black walnut trees, I had to clap my hands to get his attention.

“Don’t go further in unless you hear me shout, okay?”

Grumpy snorted in acknowledgement and resumed his search.

I passed the anti-frost wards next, feeling the chill of the November morning leave my cheeks, my breath no longer misting in front of my face. In a loose circle at my feet, the moonflowers were closing up their shimmering white petals for the day, preparing for sleep. Unharmed. Healthy.

Thank the Green Mother.

Skirting around the flowers, I continued the few steps to the vernal pool, leaves crunching underfoot. Crouching down, I dipped my fingers into the water to find it quite cold but free of ice. The pool still had plenty of water in it to supply the moonflowers, more when it filled with snowmelt.

So either the fiáin didn’t know the worth of moonflowers or simply didn’t care or didn’t even know they were here. Whatever the reason, I’d chalk that up in the “win” column any day.

Returning to the black walnut trees, I whistled for Grumpy. He appeared from wherever he’d meandered off to, nose and muzzle filthy from where he’d been rooting in the ground. His ears were lowered, eyes narrowed in a scowl.

“You lost the trail?”

He whined, bounding in front of me so I’d stop walking and pay attention. With deliberate care, Grumpy clawed two furrows into the dirt.

“Two trails? There were two scents?”

The werewolf nodded.

“One was the fiáin, right?”

Another nod.

“And the other?”

Grumpy whined. Either he didn’t know or didn’t know how to express himself, and I didn’t speak wolf. Neither did Sawyer—I’d already asked ages ago.

“Given that you’re not panicking, they’ve both moved on, right? The trails are cold?”

He huffed in agreement, obviously disappointed he didn’t get to battle again so soon. Then he shuffled out of the way, indicating we could resume our walk to the farmhouse.

It had to be that big supe my Scouting Spell had picked up last week, I was sure of it. But it wasn’t causing any harm. So long as it wasn’t also responsible for driving the coyotes onto my farm.

That faelight in their eyes… The fiáin had been controlling them, urging them to attack… Grumpy, I realized. They hadn’t paid me any mind until I’d started beating on them. Their focus was on the werewolf, but why? Word around town was that the magic hunters were here for the cause of the white light—me—and Grumpy only arrived less a week ago. Had they given up on me and turned their sights to another magical cache, one trapped—and thus vulnerable—in his werewolf form?

“Stay close to the farmhouse today,” I told him firmly, replacing his collar. “And the hobs’ barn. You can run patrols, but only on the south, west, and north areas.” The places with good sightlines, in case they came back for him.

Grumpy snorted, sensing the worry in my voice and dismissing it.

“Listen to me,” I snapped, snatching the soft fur of his cheek and forcing him to look at me. “They were after you, Grumpy. Those coyotes had faelight in their eyes, I saw it.”

His own glowing amber ones widened.

“And I have to leave the farm today—it’s unavoidable. You have to stay safe, do you understand me? Someone thinks they can take on a werewolf trapped in his wolf skin, and that someone’s either crazy, or knows what he’s doing.”

Or that someone’s just trying to take out your protection detail, my father’s voice, not my grandmother’s, whispered in my mind. That fiáin wanted you in the alleyway, Meadow.

I swallowed at that unsettling thought, whether it was true or not, for a werewolf had a large magical presence, even if it was one-dimensional, and reiterated to Grumpy, “Watch your back, alright?”

The werewolf nodded slowly, heeding me now.

I released his fur and smoothed it gently back into place. “Good boy.”

Grumpy nipped at my fingers, not hard, telling me exactly what he thought about being called a “good boy.” Then, tail held high, he led the way back to the farmhouse, practically pouncing on Sawyer who’d come to the garden path to greet us.

As Grumpy nibbled at his scruff and slobbered on his head, Sawyer whined, “Please take me with you. He’s such a butthead!”

“I think he enjoys torturing you.” I swatted Grumpy away and plucked the limp tomcat up in my arms. “And yeah, I’ll need you.”

The werewolf whined.

“Don’t worry,” I told him, heading for the car. “I’ll bring him back for you to gnaw on later.”

“Don’t promise him that,” Sawyer cried.

Grumpy spun a tight circle in delight, yapping, then chased the car all the way to the mailbox, barking with what I hoped were good-luck wishes.

In the passenger seat, Sawyer slumped and began cleaning the slobber off his head. “When he’s cured and goes back to being a human, I don’t ever want another dog again. Disgusting.”

“Technically we never had a dog.” I gave him a mischievous grin. “We had a wolf.”

“You know what I mean!”