We climb a slight incline to a cluster of boulders. A stick cracks. I stiffen; something’s changed. They’re closer, less hesitant. I can sense it, like warm breath on the back of my neck.
Celine heads for the rock formation. I boost her up—there’s no time to waste—and she tugs me up behind her a second later, muscles tense, eyes hard.
We’re done being chased through the woods. It’s time to force a confrontation.
“It’s too hot out here for stalking,” Celine says loudly. “If you’re shy, just say that.”
Standing shoulder to shoulder, we scan the trees. The mix of greens and browns run together the longer you focus on them. It’s autumn here on Earth, but Georgia hasn’t gotten that memo yet. The heat is stubborn and sticky, and the foliage is barely beginning to change colors around the edges.
Something growls. It’s meant to be intimidating, but it’s enlightening instead.
Wolves. Of course. Pack-focused and territorial. We’re probably trespassing.
When the shifter steps out from behind a tree, neither Celine nor I react. It’s huge—forty inches tall—with a rich russet brown coat that blends perfectly with the tree trunks, dried pine straw, and patches of red dirt.
Another wolf appears to its right, then another, and another, until there are half a dozen. The others aren’t quite as big as the leader, but they’re all on edge, teeth bared, fur bristling as they stare at us.
“Nice,” Celine says cheerfully. “Can one of you shift so we can talk about this or should I play both parts?” She softens the challenge with a smile, and I grind my teeth.
Were they watching while I touched her? I hate that. Nosy dogs.
The largest wolf chuffs what could either be a laugh or a warning and squats, shuddering, rippling, and warping, before standing as a man. A naked man. His reddish-brown hair is long on the top and buzzed on the sides, showing off a raised scar above one ear.
“Hi there,” Celine says. “Do you want to explain why you were following us?” She plants one hand on her hip.
He chuckles low in his throat. “Maybe we should start with introductions, ma’am. I’m Sullivan Buchanan.” His voice is as sticky as the air, and the way he caresses each syllable before releasing it is almost melodic.
“I’m Celine. Just Celine.”
“Like Madonna?”
“Exactly.” She grins. “How can we help you?”
“Do you know where you are, honey?”
Celine wrinkles her nose. “Georgia, unless the plane dropped us off somewhere else.” Her voice is sugar sweet, but there’s a bite to it that puts me on guard.
She’s getting pissed. Subtly, I shift my weight.
“We are in Georgia; you’re right about that.” Sullivan shrugs, but I’m not fooled by his good old boy charm. “I won’t beat around the bush about it: you’re on pack lands, Celine.Buchananpack lands.”
“Buchanan as in you?” She points at him. He nods and grins, revealing gleaming white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. “Sully—can I call you Sully?” She gives him no time to answer. “We’re only passing through. While we appreciate theescort, I can assure you we’ll be out of your fur in no time at all.”
One of the wolves growls. The smile drops from Sullivan’s face, and he holds up his hand, a clear order for the pack to stand down.
Taking a step forward, he studies me with wary curiosity. “We’re neighborly down here.”Translation: nosy and suspicious.“And you can never be too careful in the Fringes.”
Celine raises her eyebrows. “Deep South Fringes? Can you believe it, Riven?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Vegas is hardly unique.”
She nudges me roughly with her shoulder. “You take that back, right now.”
“No.” I roll my eyes, and the wolf takes another step toward us.
“Vegas?” He looks genuinely surprised now. Clearly, he had a different theory. “You’re a long way from Nevada, don’t you think?”
“I do think, Sully, thanks for noticing,” Celine says. “Let’s cut the bullshit, because we’re losing the light and your pack lands seem to be home to some large, hungry mosquitos. Are there any angels living around here?”
