The wolf staggered away. Greasy drool hung from her lips, and she nearly collapsed as she put her weight on a dislocated back leg. A dry, panicked whine filtered down her nose as the Sannock folded its guts back into its stomach and stood up. Flesh melted, sealed, and reshaped itself into something taller, stranger, and paler. Horns, new-budded and still soft with velvet, tore through the skin of its temples, and it rose up onto its toes as its bones cracked and stretched. Dense, short fur the color of beech bark sprouted on its legs and across its cheekbones. The smell of pine and thick musk sweated out of its skin as he looked around.
He smiled, and it was terrible. Ailsa snarled her defiance in her stolen skin and went for him. The Sannock caught her by the throat. His fingers dug down and the loose skin split under his nails. He ignored the great rents she tore in his chest with her claws. Then he leaned down and opened his mouth as though he were about to whisper into her ragged ear. Instead a stag’s guttural bell rang out, a hoarse, deep sound that was full of something essentially awful.
Ailsa convulsed. Her eyes bulged, and her throat worked around the pinch of the Sannock’s fingers. He shook her twice and then tore the wolf off her back. The hide tore off her skin with a wet, ripping sound, stitches torn out in long, dripping runs, and she was left pink, greasy, and naked. The Sannock broke her neck, tossed her aside, and belled again. The sound echoed off the walls, cracked the gray paint in flakes and strips, and drove the prophets still on their feet to their knees. Blood seeped out of their ears and matted in dead wolf’s fur as they tried to rise under the weight of throat-closing terror.
The Sannock mobbed them before they could recover. Some of the prophets struggled to their feet, grabbed the ridden wolves by the scruff, and threw them aside. Others went down under the mass of the Pack.
The bird spun away on the point of a wing to catch another dead man in its beak. Another Sannock rose and then another, and the prophets fell.
WOLVES SPRAWLEDon the stained concrete and leaned against the walls. They panted, tongues torn to raw ribbons, and their sides heaved under dull, staring coats. It was no light thing to be ridden by the dead.
Not—the bird tucked its head down to tidy the feathers on its wings—for the living at least.
“Nick.”
The bird stretched both its wings out as far as they would go, the muscles tight under its feathers, and then snapped them back into its sides. It folded itself down, tucked into a ball of soft darkness inside itself, and let Nick pull his skin back on.
Nick staggered as being human again caught him by surprise and his body felt long, strange, and naked. Gregor caught his elbow before he could trip over his own feet and steadied him until Nick could do it himself.
“Did you know what they were going to do?” Gregor asked harshly. When Nick didn’t answer, Gregor squeezed his shoulder hard enough to hurt to get his attention. “Nick. Whatdidthey do?”
“The wolves took what belonged to us, belonged tousin a way nothing else could. Our skins, our magic, our meat,” the horned Sannock answered for Nick. Something horrid lurked under his voice, pinned down by the shape of words. It made Nick shiver with an atavistic dread of the things in the shadows that he’d spent most of his life trying to convince himself were his own imagination. “So we took what the wolves had offered the gods. Empty vessels, emptyenough.”
“And now?” Gregor asked. He pulled Nick back a step to put him behind Gregor’s shoulder. “Or did you really expect us to believe this made us even? Our people slaughtered yours, wiped them off the face of the island. I wouldn’t rest till the heather grew through our bones.”
The horned Sannock showed blunt white teeth. They were meant for an herbivore’s mouth, but shreds of skin were caught between them. “You played a shell game with the gods, wolf. They threw themselves at a door your prophets opened and had it slammed in their face. Your death is only when youstartto pay us back.”
In the back of Nick’s head, he could feel the bird’s disquiet as it clacked its beak on the sour taste of that warning. The gods would not, it knew, look any kinder on them than the wolves. If anything, the opposite would be true, but it was too late for second thoughts.
Or, Nick supposed dryly, first thoughts. The bird’s black humor sparked in acknowledgment, but they both admitted there hadn’t been much choice in the moment. There hadn’t been any choice ever, even if the wolves would never accept him now.
Not that he thought there had been much chance of that to start with. Nick could live with that, as long as it turned out to be worth it. He nudged Gregor.
“The gods can wait,” he said and then looked at the Sannock. It was odd to see them so solid and anchored. “The baby can’t. Where’s my grandmother?”
The Sannock stared at him pensively. “What is that to us? We walk again.” He stamped his foot—almost hoof—and the rest of the Sannock in their stolen bodies whistled or laughed as they joined in. They sounded almost drunk, heady on the solidity of it all. “Why should we risk that for you? Why should we court her vengeance when once and twice you’ve failed to end her?”
It was Nick’s turn to tighten his grip on Gregor’s shoulder before Gregor could say anything.
“You think she’ll let this go?” he asked. The Sannock rolled its eyes. Nick stepped forward. On some level he was aware he was naked, his vulnerable parts bare to the elements. He put that to the back of his head to freak about later. “Rose, my gran, she’s never forgiven, forgotten, or let anything rest. If she can’t control you, then she’ll destroy you whether you help us or not.”
The Sannock turned its back. Another—only its gray pebble eyes and bark fingers transformed from its human form—shook its head.
“We don’t fear her,” it fluted, three voices woven into one. It ignored the horned man’s snarl as it bowed its head. “Death has been on our tongue for centuries. But imagine, little carrion crow, what terrible thing we might actually fear. Then fear it too. Your grandmother treads dark water.”
Gregor pulled away from Nick. “You killed all the prophets, and you’re wearing her human followers like coats. So you’re going to tell us. She has my child.”
The Sannock looked at Gregor with dead, pebble eyes and shrugged. It had no sympathy and no real understanding of the need. “Breed another, steal another. Babies are birthed every day. Even in the Winter. Surrender this one to the dark water, for the dark water will win the fight.”
Gregor grabbed the Sannock by the torn Kevlar vest that was a remnant of the person it used to be. He hauled it toward him while the rest of the Sannock bridled in anger.
“I will, when….”
The scrape of toenails on concrete and the harsh, ragged pant of a run-out animal interrupted Gregor’s threat before he could finish it. Nick turned as the big, gray dog skidded into the door frame, bounced off, and staggered into the room. Its ribs pressed against its sides in sharp relief as it panted heavily, clouds of steam around its jaws, and sweat knotted coarse, gray fur. The side of its face was a bloody, swollen mess, one eye swelled shut and a few too many teeth visible through the torn edges of the wound.
It stood there for a second, legs trembling, and then Danny crawled out from the dog’s skin. He sprawled awkwardly on the ground, elbows braced under him and his head hung so dark curls obscured his face.
“I know what Rose wants the baby for,” Danny said, voice thick and clumsy in his mangled mouth. He pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, over the gash, as he looked up. “The same thing she took Nick for. To put something else in, only something bigger than a carrion crow.”
