Because rogues didn't think. That was the whole point. They were instinct and hunger and nothing else.
These things were something more.
I charged the nearest one, catching it in the hindquarters with enough force to send it sprawling. It twisted, snapped at my legs, and I felt teeth graze my ankle before I danced back out of range. Luke took advantage of the distraction to lunge at the other rogue, getting his jaws around its throat.
The one I'd knocked down recovered faster than it should have. Faster than anything living should have been able to. It came at me low, going for my legs, trying to take me down so its companion could finish the job.
I let it.
The moment its jaws closed on my foreleg, I threw my weight sideways, rolling us both across the bloody ground. The rogue's grip loosened for just a second, surprise or confusion, and I used that second to get my teeth around its neck.
This time I didn't let go until it stopped moving.
Silence fell over the clearing. Heavy and wet with blood.
Luke stood over the last rogue, chest heaving, his jaws still locked around a throat that had stopped fighting. He looked at me through eyes gone glassy with exhaustion and pain.
We both shifted back to human form, the transformation slower and more painful after combat, every wound we'd taken in wolf form translating to matching injuries in human flesh. I stood naked and bleeding in the fog-shrouded clearing, chest heaving, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
The young wolf lay where he'd fallen, still half-shifted, unconscious but breathing. Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with the moss and fallen leaves.
“What the hell was that?” Luke gasped, pressing his hand to the wound on his side. “Those weren't normal rogues.”
“No.” I crouched beside the nearest body, studied the matted fur and empty eyes. Up close, I could see the wrongness more clearly. A faint pattern on the skin beneath the fur, geometric and precise, like something had been carved there and healed wrong.
I looked at the unconscious wolf. At the trail of blood he'd left leading back into the wild places beyond our boundary. At the five dead rogues who'd been hunting him with the kind of coordination that required a guiding hand.
I stood, wiped blood from my face. “Get Gideon. Tell him to bring his kit and every defensive ward he's got. Then I want patrols doubled on every boundary. Full coverage. Nobody goes out alone.”
“You're taking him in.”
It wasn't a question. Luke knew me too well for questions.
“Someone wanted him dead badly enough to send five coordinated rogues across our territory. Until I know who that someone is, he stays where I can watch him.”
“And if he's bait?”
“Then we'll deal with that too.” I looked down at the broken wolf, at the blood still seeping from wounds that should have killed him hours ago. “But I won't leave him out here to die. That's not who we are.”
Luke's expression said he disagreed with my priorities. His voice said something else. “I'll get Gideon.”
He disappeared into the fog at a run, and I was alone with five dead rogues and one unconscious stranger who'd brought something terrible to my door.
I crouched beside the young wolf, careful not to touch him yet. His breathing had steadied slightly, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that suggested sleep rather than unconsciousness. His wounds were bad, but not as bad as they should have been. Healers made from bone-deep injuries that would have killed a normal wolf.
His scent was complicated. Pack wolf, definitely, but from territory I didn't recognize. Different bloodlines threaded through with something that made my instincts scream warning. Under the blood and fear, there was smoke. Ash. The particular smell of burned things that shouldn't burn.
“You're going to be trouble,” I said quietly, even though he couldn't hear me. “I can already tell.”
The fog pressed closer, cold and wet against my bare skin. Somewhere in the forest, something howled. Not one of mine. Not one of anything I recognized.
Gideon appeared twenty minutes later,moving through the fog like he'd been part of it all along.
“You've got to stop collecting strays,” he said, kneeling beside the unconscious wolf. His hands hovered over the wounds, not touching, reading something I couldn't see. “One of these days you're going to bring home something that bites back.”
“These ones already bit.” I gestured at the dead rogues scattered across the clearing. Steam still rose from the blood pooling beneath them, curling into the cold air like restless spirits.
“Help me carry him,” Gideon said. “Can't work properly out here. The fog's got too much interference.”
