The Thing About Wolves by Leigh Evans – Extract

The Thing About Wolves

On the Tricky Subject of Wishes

I don’t know why Weres think the moon’s so beautiful. Look at it. The thing’s rutted with craters. Not once have I gazed at it and wanted to let loose a wolf howl or break into a melancholy chorus of “Moon River.”

Most nights, I refuse to give it more than a brooding glance. Matter of fact, most of the time, I make a point of not looking upward. I keep my eyes trained on the life around the pond and the dead air above it.

But sometimes, when my thoughts are muddy and circular—like they are tonight—my gaze will slowly swing upward to a certain star.

Star light, star bright.

If you want to see what I’m waxing poetic about, tilt your chin up and slant your gaze to a few degrees left of the Milky Way. There it is: one twinkle-perfect light. To my eyes, it’s not silver or white but a definite blue—a faint copy of the azure that glimmers from Trowbridge’s eyes. And even though it sparkles from a blanket of similar lights, to me its glow is far brighter than any other star’s.

It stands alone.

Brave. Insolent. Bright.

That makes it unique, and so I claim it as mine. Screw the dudes with the pocket protectors and penchant for Latin. They may have already given that radiant beauty a double-consonant moniker but I’ve redubbed that bit of pretty “Hedi’s Star.”

The first star I see tonight.

I’ve never pinned a wish upon my star. Mostly because I have the sneaking suspicion that Karma’s not done with me yet. And I can’t help but worry that no matter how ca­gily I frame my request, that greedy witch would hear the naked plea in it, and would immediately begin plotting something nasty.

And she’d already done a whole bunch of the nasty.

Why? Because Karma’s an insatiable bitch.

Which is exactly the type of talk Cordelia loathes hear­ing. Trowbridge’s best friend has several pithy life prompts she repeats whenever she’s convinced I’m in need of some attitude coaching. “You are the architect of your own life.” (Pinched from Alfred A. Montapert.) “Find your passion and embrace it!” (Lifted from Oprah.) And her own wry creation, “Stop brooding, darling, or you’ll get lines around your mouth.”

They’re relatively new, these buck-up phrases.

At first, back in the day when we were getting accus­tomed to each other’s foibles—basically those early weeks just after we’d shoved Trowbridge through the Gates of Merenwyn—my six-foot roommate had been confident that I’d figure out how to summon the portal.

Uh-huh. That and a dollar bill will get you four bits.

Then one day, she came to the quiet realization that I wasn’t going to summon up the smoke, and the myst, and the round window to the Fae realm—or maybe better said, she finally understood that I really couldn’t—and she abruptly dropped the subject of bringing the true Alpha of Cree-more home.

That’s when Cordelia started focusing on the here and now, which meant alternately scowling at me with some­thing akin to reluctant affection or holding up her bejew­eled finger to utter one of those little bon-mots.

And that’s when I knew.

My new best friend had resigned herself to what she considered the truth: that Trowbridge wasn’t ever going to return home; that Merenwyn had swallowed him just like it had swallowed my twin brother Lexi; and now it was up to the three of them—Cordelia, the ex–drag queen; Harry, a Were who’s seen three score and more years; and Biggs, the wolf voted least likely to succeed—to form a protective bar­rier between me and Trowbridge’s pack.

“Look on the bright side, darling, where there’s life, there’s hope,” she says now when she’s feeling generous.

But she doesn’t look at me when she says it.

Days have run together. Fast forward and we’re here— the first night of the Hunter moon, six months and twelve days after I slid my mate through the Gates of Me­renwyn. Which was one of the reasons my favorite star and I were having an epic stare-down before I threw in the towel and tried to get some sleep.

Last night, as I lay alone in my bunk bed, listening to the dead branches of the old maple chafe in the wind, I had a mind- blowing epiphany.

Ready? See if you can follow my logic: if there really was such a thing as Karma, then how much of a stretch was it to believe that there’s such thing as a benevolent God­dess in the sky? And even more wondrous—what if my Sky Goddess was more powerful than Karma?

Could there really be such a loving deity? One that waits, invisible and Godly, dying to hear your problems? And better yet—what if she could protect me from Kar­ma’s whims? What if my Goddess was just waiting to hear me wish upon a star?

On that hazy thought, I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, from which I woke with the sudden, irritating aware­ness of one additional and painful twist to the previous night’s revelation.

Hells- bells, if my logic was sound, then my silence over these last six months wasn’t an act of stoic restraint; it was a piece of lame stupidity.

Crap.

So here I am. Sitting cross-legged on Lexi’s pirate stone, slapping at late- season mosquitoes, setting myself up for a fall. On the plus side, I’m solo tonight—nobody’s breathing over my shoulder because my would-be protec­tors believe I’m safe by the fairy pond. The wolves are spooked by it, and the humans don’t know about it. Up in the trailer, Cordelia’s fussing with her wig. Back at his apartment, Biggs is probably reading some wolf-girl’s Facebook timeline. And Harry? Goddess knows what my favorite geezer’s doing. Maybe he’s oiling his gun.

I’m finally alone. About to pin a wish on a star.

I wish I may, I wish I might.

I clear my throat. “Hey, Star. I’m not sure how this wish- fulfillment thing goes, so I’m going to just work my way toward my request, okay?” Cover all the bases first. You’re not above doing a little groveling to smooth the way. “I know that it’s totally my problem that I can’t sum­mon the portal. I accept responsibility all way round on that. And I know if you really want to be pissy, then it’s my own fault that I’m in this position. After all, I was the person who pushed Trowbridge through the Gates of Merenwyn—”

Gad, am I turning into one of those wimpy women who tune into Dr. Phil?

“I had no choice,” I say, in a harder tone. “It was either that or watch him die.”

And I’ll never sit helpless again, watching someone die.

“Look, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Karma’s al­ready taken a big bite out of me. A Were killed my dad, and the Fae executed my mom. The Fae stole my brother too—by force—and dragged him across the portal into Merenwyn, and then . . .” Even now, it’s hard to think of it. “They slammed the gates shut. I haven’t seen Lexi since.”

Unforgivable.

Lexi’s got to be alive. Trowbridge, too.

“Maybe it’s time for the tide to turn. Maybe you can tell Karma to back off and throw me a bone.” I blink hard at the tears gathering, and my star—that round blue diamond— blurs into something you’d expect to see hovering over a stable, a donkey, and a pregnant virgin.

“I’m not asking for the moon . . .” I feel my lips curve into a weak smile. “So I won’t ask you to return Merry, too.”

No, I can’t do that. She made it home. She’s safe now.

My damned throat is so damn raw it hurts to form the words. “So all I’m asking for is . . .”

Oh, Goddess. What if Trowbridge is happier there? What if life is better in Merenwyn? Is that why neither of them have returned home?

I can’t shape the words.

I can only silently pray.

Please, Star.

Give me the wish I wish tonight.

Chapter One

Wishing upon a star is a foolish exercise. I’d gone to bed late, after a quiet dinner of two maple-glazed doughnuts and a Kit Kat, followed by a chaser of grape juice.

“I’m dreaming again,” I said, feeling miserable and happy all at once.

Because I was, and because it was as good a way as any of saying hello. The alternative was saying “Hello, beauti­ful,” and that was both obvious and repetitive.

On his worst day, my guy is a freakin’ work of art.

I know.

I’ve seen him on his worst day.

Robson Trowbridge stood hip- deep in the Pool of Life, caught in the act of raking his long, curling hair off his forehead. I could waste time wondering why each visit begins the same way—his hand lifted to his brow, his bi­cep flexed, his abdomen muscles ridged like some lucky girl’s washboard—but I won’t. It’s my dream or his dream or our dream, and it never ends well, so it seems fitting that it begins with him hale and hearty, and so insanely sexy that a girl’s heart picks up at the sight of him.

As mine had.

Evidently, art appreciation does that to me.

Blame it on his hair. Except for a few faint silver threads, Trowbridge’s mane is as dark as a lump of coal and enviably thick. Though, at present, it was wet, and mostly, so was he. Beads of the Pool of Life’s water stood out on the slope of my mate’s shoulder—little translucent blips of healing Fae power that paid no heed to gravity—seemingly content to stay there, clinging to his collarbone and the rounded swell of his upper deltoids.

Therein lies one of the inherent problems about being around Trowbridge.

He’s so damn beautiful that it’s really hard to think in a straight line around him. For instance, when I saw those little beads of water on his hard shoulder, I didn’t think “baby needs a towel.” Nope. Instead, I imagined myself licking the moisture off.

Sad, the direction my brain slithers when I’m around my mate.

To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with the full body flush of sexual desire that nearly levels me when I see him standing there, utterly desirable and absolutely unreachable. I don’t trust it. There was no reason to it, no natural progression from first stirrings of attraction to my current level of “wave my panties over my head” lust.

I grew up in the same small Ontario town as he. His house was just on the other side of the pond. As a kid, I’d been the uninspired witness to many Trowbridge sightings. But one day, a few months before puberty, I looked at him, and it was like someone had pressed my sexual identity’s switch to on. Bam! Bye-bye, Barbie. Hello, Trowbridge.

Like my body was preset for him, and him alone.

Behind my lover, Merenwyn’s forest climbed a series of hills in rolling swells of golden yellow and deep green, providing a scenic foil to Trowbridge’s own particular dark beauty. I studied the tree line until my heart settled down, then said with faux calm, “It’s cold to night.”

Gorgeous grimaced and pulled his fingers free from his damp locks. “Why does it always have to be water? I hate water.”

“You know, you look so real in my dreams. Sometimes I think—”

“That you’re not dreaming. Well, check the list, Hedi Peacock. Am I wearing any clothing?” Trowbridge ran his hand down his gleaming chest, sliding it along the landscape of all that lovely taut flesh, to disappear under the water. “That’s a definite no. Do you know what hap­pens to skin when it stays in water for a long time? Things get shriveled. Important things, like—” He frowned, his hand busy under the water. “God, they feel like stewed prunes.”

My mate pulled out his dripping paw, inspected it with a fierce scowl, and gave his hand a savage flick. Droplets of water sprayed—a bullwhip of diamond beads. “Why here? We could have this conversation anywhere else. You know—”

“I know. Weres can’t swim. You hate water.”

He wasn’t listening. Instead he was concentrating on dragging his wet mitt across the single dry patch on his pecs—once, twice, and—ah, there we go— three times— before he was satisfied that his hand was dry enough to plant on his narrow hip.

Now his chest gleamed in the most distracting way.

“You making any progress on getting these nightmares under control?” he asked.

“This isn’t my nightmare.”

“Tinker Bell, if this was one of my dreams, you’d be naked and we’d be in bed. This is one of your nightmares. I’m standing in the middle of some damn millpond that the Fae consider healing and sacred, without a gun, a knife, or an Uzi. You’re under the cherry tree, looking like . . .”

He let his gaze casually roam. First to my mouth, where it lingered on my upper full lip, then slowly down the line of my white throat, from there to the hollow that he’d kissed, and finally to my breast, where it rested for a heated moment or two.

There went his nostrils. Flared as if he could scent me.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” I whispered, flattening a hand over my stomach.

“Like what?” His hooded eyes glittered.

As if your gaze were leaving a trail of heat on my skin. As if I were the sexiest thing you’d ever seen. As if you—

“You are. You are my fuckin’ catnip,” he said simply. “And I’m getting beyond tired of the whole ‘look but don’t touch’ torture. Come to me, right now. Walk down that hill and meet me in this goddamn pond.”

Eyes the color of the Mediterranean challenged me. Not the soft warm hue of shoreline shallows—with mellow hints of turquoise and green—no, more like the saltwater just past that, where the sea is deep and filled with unex­pected currents.

Now, they demanded.

Yes.

I took an unsteady step toward him and then . . . found myself wobbling, my balance destroyed. I could not move forward one more inch. My muscles seemed frozen, inca­pable of the slightest task. No matter how I willed myself, no matter how I struggled.

With a ragged breath, I retreated. “I can’t, Trowbridge. She won’t let me join you.”

“I’ve told you. There is no such thing as Karma. All you need to—”

“I can’t! I cheated her when I pushed you through the Gates of Merenwyn. This is Karma’s revenge. She brings us together every night, and she won’t let me move.”

He shook his head once, sharply, in denial. “She doesn’t exist.”

“She does.”

Anger momentarily tightened his features. Then he as­sumed control, taking in a long, slow breath. “Okay. We’ll just talk about the weather for a bit. So, is it fall in Cree-more yet? All the trees are yellow here.” His gaze traveled as he spoke. A soft hiss of air escaped his lips. “God, I wish you could see what’s behind you.”

I can’t. I’m stuck in my head. Just a dreamwalker with­out a true body, my gaze somehow fastened on you, as if you were the quavering needle on my compass, watching you and knowing that I won’t be able to

“Mannus was right about one thing: this slice of heaven has never met a douchebag with a chain saw. Most of it’s virgin forest.” His head swiveled left, then right, his brow furrowed. “That’s the thing about Merenwyn. The land’s whole in this realm. You can taste it—pure and clean—on your tongue. The wind smells—”

“Sweet,” I whispered. “It’s the magic in the air.”

“Maybe. Mostly it smells clean without the humans polluting the place. They smell, and they don’t even know it. Their accessories are worse. Their cars, their barbe­cues, their—”

“You liked driving.”

He frowned, as if surprised he’d forgotten that. “Yeah, I did.” Then with a light shrug, he pointed to a hill at least a mile in the distance to his left. “There’s some whitetails up there. Smell them?” I shook my head to remind him—I’m only half Were, my little Fae nose isn’t as keen as yours, Trowbridge—but his eyes had become slits, predator sharp; his concentration turned to fix on the quarry in the forest. “One of the bucks is rubbing his antlers against the bark of a tree. Hear it? He’s telling all the other bastards to keep out of his way. He’s chosen his doe.” He listened for a bit, his face rapt. “There’s so much game up in those hills.”

His nose is perfect. Long and straight. Not misshapen and bleeding.

Trowbridge rubbed his shoulder and stared thought­fully at the narrow lane that had been cut into the old woods. “How long do we have before the Fae come?”

“They won’t come to night.”

He blew some air through his teeth. “They always come. How about giving me a crossbow to fire back at them?”

“I . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Can’t or won’t,” he finished quietly. “That’s our basic problem. You keep making decisions without consulting me first.”

Not fair, Trowbridge.

The trees behind him swayed, their leaves rustling and parting to reveal the glint of the sinking sun: a yellow- orange ball of fire, as luminous as one of Threall’s brightest soul lights.

He lifted his nose to the wind. “Wait . . . something’s on the wind.”

Not yet, don’t let the guards come yet. Just a little longer.

Another inhale, deep enough to flare his nostrils and lift his pecs. “Someone’s burning something in the hearth . . . peat? Yeah, I’d say it’s peat. Wouldn’t it be bet­ter to have this conversation beside a cozy, warm fire?”

“You know what burning peat smells like, huh?”

“I’m a figment of your imagination, kid. So, basically, I know everything you know. Hear your thoughts, too.” He began a slogging march through the hip-deep water. Six paces to the left, a sharp turn, and eight paces to the right. With each lurching step, the pool’s water level rose and fell on the high-water line on his tawny skin. One step and the water was up to his waist, drowning his hands, with the next, it had lapped away, providing a coy glimpse of the soft swell of his ass.

The yearning to touch him began to grow again. Long roots had my desire—like weeds growing between cob­blestones.

Trowbridge shook his head. “You know, the only bear­able bit in the first twenty pages of The Highland War­rior’s Mistress was the news that burning peat smells like scorched dirt. One day, I’m going to toss a handful of peat moss on a campfire, just to see if it does. Probably doesn’t.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m telling you, I’m well past done with that romance shit. Seriously, who calls his woman ‘my sweet wee lassie’?” Water churned behind him in swirling eddies. “The next time you send Biggs to Barrie to satisfy your book binge, let the poor bastard come home with a few thrillers. Lee Child, Robert Crais, maybe an Ian Rankin or two. I don’t know how he stands going through the checkout line at Walmart. Why don’t you go buy your own books?”

Because you might come back while I’m gone

“Not going to happen unless you’ve suddenly remem­bered the words to summon the portal. How’s that going?” He paused in his pacing, his head shifted to one side, his eyes cast down, seemingly intent on something beneath the surface of the water.

Over and over, I’ve tried. The Gates of Merenwyn are summoned by song. One with very specific lyrics. Which I couldn’t remember for the life of me.

When I didn’t speak, he sighed, the way men do when they’re trying to be patient—through the nose, teeth lightly clenched, jaw hard, impatience a stretched, jagged shadow behind his façade of tolerance. Very softly, too softly, he said, “If I can’t find a way home, you’re going to have to take your role as Alpha a whole lot more seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously. I sign stuff. I—”

“For starters, calling yourself their Alpha- by-proxy is just asking for it. The pack has zero sense of humor about shit like that. Can’t you see it’s messed up, the way you approach the pack? For us, it’s always about status. Who’s higher than me, who’s lower than me.” Water sprayed as my mate swept his arm to demonstrate his point. “You can never let your guard down. You must act, think, and smell like top dog . . . not . . .” He scratched his ear.

A Fae? “I’m doing my best to hold on to your pack but being a leader doesn’t come naturally. Until you come home, they’ll just have to make do with me. It won’t be for much longer anyhow. Sooner or later, I’ll find a way to get you home.”

“Sooner or later one of them is going to challenge you for leadership,” he said.

For a bit, neither of us said anything. Trowbridge swished water through his fingers. I watched a dark smudge in the far distance, winging its way toward us. A bird. Long wings, torpedo-shaped body. Perhaps a duck, but they never flew alone.

“I have my flare,” I said.

The bird dipped low, skimming the tree line. An emerald-green cap a flash of gray and white.

“You have to turn into your wolf, Tink. They have to believe that you are one of them.”

“It’s a really good flare.”

Wings beating furiously, the mallard came in for a landing. It reared back, wings arched, feet thrust forward. A splash and then a long glide. The duck preened its feath­ers, then paddled sideways to give us a bird glare from its beady eye, before it swam to the end of the pool where the water was murky and the trees hung low.

“Friend of yours?” Trowbridge asked.

I scanned the sky but it was night-gray and heavy, and as far as my gaze could sweep, I could not spot another dark smudge. “Shoo,” I said to the mallard. “Go find your mate before winter sets in.”

Trowbridge watched the bird, his lips twisted. “Let it go, Hedi.”

“Tell me about your life there,” I asked softly. “Have you found Lexi yet?”

He shook his head, ever stubborn. “It’s moontime there, isn’t it?”

“Tomorrow.” Three nights of hell. “How’d you know?”

“You’re more anxious around the full moon. That’s when the worst dreams come.” Trowbridge’s shoulders flexed as he spread his arms wide. He bent his head, his fingers skim­ming the surface—seemingly poised for a dive.

Don’t. Not yet.

Water curled up to his navel and then dipped back. “Have you heard from the NAW yet?”

The letter came this morning. I didn’t explain how the air in the trailer had thickened with the sharp spice of Were anxiety after Harry, Cordelia, and Biggs had taken their turns reading it. But then again, in my dreams, I didn’t need to.

His wince was the type that happens before a trigger is reluctantly squeezed. And for a second, it was all there. Despair worn down to weary acceptance, fatigue etched into bone weariness—the visual equivalent of a heavy sigh if my Trowbridge was a man given to such things. But he was not. He wiped out the bad and replaced it with a smile that promised hell and havoc. “I have to get out of this pool.” My mate started walking toward me, the sound of the churning water loud to my ears. “I’m coming out now. We need to—”

“No!” I closed my eyes. “One thousand, two—”

“Shit! Stop with the counting!”

“Three thousand, four—”

“It’s freaking annoying. Hedi,” he called, his tone sharp and demanding. “Open your eyes and look at me. I’m good now. There’s no scars on my chest or wrists. No silver in my gut. I’m healed.”

“Five thousand, six—”

“That’s it, I’m coming out of this water right now,” he promised, the sound of his splashing progress getting louder, closer.

My eyes popped open. “No! You have to stay in the Pool of Life.”

If anything he moved faster. “Dammit, I’m healed!”

“No! Every time you walk out of it, you die!” Acid be­gan rising in my throat.

“I’d rather die on dry land!” he shouted back.

The wind came from nowhere. It whistled through the trees—frost tipped and javelin sharp—and whipped the water into a vengeful chop. It thrashed the trees and shred­ded their leaves. The remnants came in a whirl, a veritable barrage of dead and broken things; dry whispers of brown, bright flickers of yellow and red. They swirled and danced over my lover’s head.

He hunched his shoulders as he batted them away. “Hedi, you’re going to blind me with these damn things! I need to see! Chill. I mean it! Close your eyes and think of something else.”

I did. I covered my eyes and thought of something easy, but in the landscape of my dreaming mind, the wind still moaned.

“Okay, okay. Shh, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he whis­pered in my ear “Breathe deep Steady now It’s a dream That’s all it is.” A sigh—I swear I felt his warm breath on my face and the soft press of his lips to the peak of my ear.

“Please, Tink, go back to sleep. Dream of Krispy Kremes and napoleons, not of me.”

Strangely obedient, my fist tightened on something soft and giving, perfumed very faintly of Trowbridge. I rubbed my cheek on its cotton softness, but as I wrapped my arms around it, a keening part of me registered the lumpy con­tours of my pillow.

“Sweet dreams, little one.”

Arm shielding my eyes, I rolled over, feeling the sheets catch on my hip.

Gray light in my bedroom. The floor- to- ceiling cabinet holding my clothes and his, reassuringly within arm’s reach. Good. Now wake yourself up, fully. Get out of bed for some water. Go for a pee. Move. But I didn’t. I lay there, drowsy and bereft, hovering on the brink of dread.

You see? I couldn’t leave him. I never could.

My eyes closed again all on their own.

In those brief seconds of semi-wakefulness, time had passed. Merenwyn’s sun had fallen, its golden light given way to the silver shimmer of the stars. Fall had yawned, and trundled off for bed. Gone were the bands of vivid gold, the touch of crimson in the hills. Winter chill was in the air and, save for the firs, the trees in the vista were bare. Viewed from a distance, the horizontal swaths of their gray-taupe trunks and naked branches seemed to be a gray fog wreathing through the vertical spikes of the sharp- tipped evergreens.

Almost like Threall seen from a bird’s-eye view, I thought.

The pond was empty, save for the man I could not rescue.

Trowbridge’s back was goosefleshed and bluish in the cold. “Back so soon?” he asked, without turning. The mus­cles on his back pulled and stretched as he folded his arms.

“Karh! Karh!” warned a distant raven.

My mate cocked his ear and took a step toward the deep part of the pool. “You should be dreaming of better things than this, Tink.” Water crept to his waist as he took another resolute step toward the drop-off. “Why do you do this to yourself? Always come back for the end? Why?”

“I don’t want you to die alone.”

“You should have checked the fine print of the mating bond. Our destinies will always be connected.” His gaze was fixed on the road leading out of the forest. “I told you a Were should never cross the portal. Nothing good’s go­ing to come of it.”

“I had no choice.”

“You did. You could have had the courage to let me go. Instead, you broke the treaty. The Fae will come,” he said with a cold certainty that made me feel all kinds of awful.

The Fae have come. It used to be that I’d meet you every night and now I’m never sure who I’m going to meet in my slumber. Mad-one and some old Fae keep slipping into my dreams. Am I starting to go mad, too? Because that’s what mystwalkers do. We lose our marbles.

Numbly, I watched my lover draw a shape in the water with his hand. A backward S curve slid into an upside­-down one, as Trowbridge carved a figure eight reclining on its side, infinitely graceful. “I’m tired of this,” he mur­mured softly. “Why does it always have to come down to a fight?”

As I’m tired of it. The welling guilt, the sharp bite of desire, the low swell of longing, the growing acid of fear.

“I’ll change into my wolf tomorrow night, Trowbridge. I promise.”

But he’d lifted his ear sharply to something only he could hear, and then he quietly asked, his breath misting in the cold air, “What could I say to make you leave now?”

That you’re coming home. That you forgive me.

“You ask for the moon, Hedi Peacock.” A snowflake fluttered from the sky to land on his shoulder with a frozen kiss. It lay there, a perfect crystal that did not melt. The raven issued another volley of urgent karhs, and then, over its sharp cry came the sound of horses being ridden in haste. I heard the hollow drumming of hooves on hard earth and the long metallic slither of silver swords being drawn.

Trowbridge swiveled his head to look at me. Blue eyes piercing. “These visits have to stop. It just makes things harder. You need to face the fact that I’m never going to find my way back.” Then, his jaw hardened. “Now go home, Hedi. Don’t watch this.”

The sound was getting louder.

All I could hear, those drumming hooves.

The muscles of his neck moved as he swallowed. “It’s time for my swim.”

My Trowbridge dived into the depths of the Pool of Life, hands pressed like in a prayer, just as the first arrow soared through the air.


Excerpted from The Thing About Wolves by Leigh Evans. Copyright © 2013 by Leigh Evans.
First published 2013 by St Martin’s Press, New York. This edition published in Great Britain 2013 by Tor an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited. Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR, Basingstoke and Oxford. Associated companies throughout the world: http://www.panmacmillan.com
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Pan Macmillan Australia solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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