Alden holds my gaze for one long moment.
"Yes," he says. "We are."
20
ALDEN
We move at midnight.
Twelve wolves, split into four flanking teams, deployed along the southern access roads in total silence. No headlamps, sound above a whisper, nothing that breaks the dark any more than the forest already does.
I lead the center line in wolf form, moving low through the underbrush parallel to the gravel road where two hunter trucks are parked with their lights off and their engines cold.
The hunters have been bolder the last two nights, pushing further up the access roads, setting up glassing positions on the lower ridges, working closer to the tree line with the particular confidence of men who believe the darkness belongs to them. It doesn't.
I signal with a short, low sound that carries no farther than the tree line. Four wolves peel away from the center group and circle wide to the eastern flank. Four more take the west. The remaining three hold position behind me, waiting.
The hunters move in a cluster near the first truck, five men, orange vests abandoned in the cab, rifles slung or carried loose at the hip. Their voices are too loud for the terrain, theirflashlight beams swinging without discipline. One crouches near the tree line, examining something in the soil. Another leans against the truck bed, scrolling a phone that blazes white in the dark.
I give them thirty seconds to settle.
Then I signal the eastern team.
The tire goes first with a sharp, percussive hiss as claws shred rubber without ceremony. The hunters' heads snap toward the sound. Two men raise their rifles and sweep beams across the road while the others scramble toward the truck, and in the confusion the western team takes the second vehicle's tires in quick succession. The truck lists hard to the left, settling onto its rim with a grinding thud that echoes up the road.
"What the…"
"The tires are shredded.”
"Something's in the trees."
The voices tangle into each other.
I watch from the brush as one of the rear wolves moves through the truck bed in silence, fast and purposeful, rifle cases dragged out and dropped into the ditch, ammunition boxes tumbling after, two folding traps crushed flat underfoot with a metallic shriek that makes two hunters flinch hard enough to stumble back.
Controlled chaos. Loud enough to unsettle, precise enough not to draw blood or reveal the presence of wolves.
I shift.
The change moves through me with the familiar heat and grinding pressure, fur receding, hands reforming, height dropping from wolf to man in the span of a few sharp breaths. The cold hits my skin immediately. I step out of the tree line and onto the gravel road while the hunters are still facing the wrong direction.
"This is private property."
The nearest hunter spins. He's mid-forties, heavy build, a bolt-action rifle he brings up before his brain finishes processing the situation. The others turn in sequence, and for a moment all I hear is the hiss of deflating rubber.
"Back up," the closest one says, rifle not quite aimed but pointed in my direction. "Back the hell up."
"You back up." I keep my steady and my hands visible at my sides, and I walk toward them at a pace that communicates exactly how unconcerned I am. "You're on Blackmoore land. Posted boundary markers every hundred yards going back half a mile. No hunting. No trespassing. You passed six of them to get here."
The heavy-set man at the front is older than the others, a bearing that suggests he's accustomed to giving the orders, steps forward slightly. His rifle stays at his side. "We're tracking a predator," he says. "A dangerous one. There's a public safety exception under state law."
"There isn't," I say. "Not for private land with documented posting. I know the statute." I stop ten feet from him. "Who's leading this group?"
A beat of silence while the man decides whether to answer.
"I am," he says. "Name's Harrett."
"Mr. Harrett." I hold his gaze. "You have two vehicles that aren't going anywhere tonight, destroyed equipment in that ditch, and no legal authority to be standing where you're standing. I'd recommend reconsidering your position."
