Hi all,

Well, it’s been a year, and I think I have to admit to myself, and to all of you, that I’m totally blocked on Winter Rain, and that it doesn’t look to be changing. At this point, I don’t honestly know that I will ever finish it. This saddens me, but, unfortunately, it’s the way it is for now.

Anna and I have been talking about ways of getting me unblocked, and, with her help, I’m going to try to get back to writing with some flash fiction and shorts. As to whether that will help resolve my issues with Winter Rain . . . only time will tell.

I want to thank all of you who’ve read Winter Rain for your support over the 18 months I did post. I really enjoyed writing the story, and hearing your thoughts and comments on things. I’m sorry I’ve let you down, in the end.

Chris.

The night grows suddenly brighter and Garvey snaps upright at the sound of the kitchen door banging open. It slams shut again, hard, as I turn.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brennan shouts.

Garvey leaps to his feet, snarling, and I grab at him to pull him back. A shock of pain rolls through my head, and I cringe away from it. Brennan freezes, just out of Garvey’s range.

“Please lower your voice,” I plead.

“Or what,” he sneers, “you’ll set your dog on me?”

I squeeze my eyes shut against the ache, but it doesn’t help. “Brennan . . . what do you want?”

“Where the fuck have you been?” he demands, no quieter than the first time.

Garvey strains forward again, against my grip. I tighten down on a handful of his hair, just in case.

“Finding Torrin,” I lie—but it comes out too plainly in my voice. There’s no way he falls for it.

“Bullshit!” he spits. “He’s in there now, talking like we are staying the night.”

Well, that was nice of him. Though apparently not everyone thinks so.

I open my eyes and look up. “We are.”

Even in the dim light cast from the kitchen windows, I can see his mouth hanging open. Like that was the last answer he was expecting.

“Are you out of your mind?” he snarls, at last. “We’ve got to get to Carrigan’s now! I fucking told you we shouldn’t have come here!”

I sigh, and reach up to rub my neck with my free hand.

“Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but that’s darkness above us, up there between the stars.

“We aren’t getting to Carrigan’s today.”

He doesn’t reply, but his silhouette seems to contract, to grow tighter. His breathing grows louder, too. Sharper.

Seething, unless I miss my guess. What a dickhead.

“We are not staying here tonight,” he growls.

I pull back on Garvey again. “Shhh, boy,” I say softly. “It’s okay. Just relax.” He glances back at me for just a moment, and eases off a bit, then returns to watching Brennan.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Brennan. The decision’s made. We’re staying the night.”

“You worthless little pup!” he snarls, and stomps a step closer. I almost jerk back, away from him, but Garvey’s instant reaction gives me something more to worry about. Brennan stops short again, as I pull Garvey back.

“What the fuck are you doing with that dog?” he snarls. It’s hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure his eyes aren’t on me.

I almost want to smile.

“Brennan . . . go inside and have some dinner. I’m too worn out to deal with your shit, right now.”

“My shit? My shit? Faolan gave you the simplest little job to do and you’ve managed to fuck it up. At every turn! First bringing that Keely twit—and nearly getting us fucked up—and now this!

“You always were worthless! Now get the fuck up and let’s go!”

Garvey strains away from my hand again, and the pain in my head needles me, like the incessant whine of a mosquito . . . like a screaming baby . . . like a jackhammer. I rub my neck harder, but the pain is deeper than I can reach.

A worthless little pup.

A worthless . . . fucking . . . pup.

Well, that didn’t last long.

I close my eyes.

“Are you done?” I ask quietly.

“Not even close,” he snarls, and my breath catches in my chest. “But it’ll wait. We’re going. Now!”

A vise starts to tighten, somewhere inside, deep. I can feel it. My breathing grows shallow, tight, and all the hairs on my head stand. The throbbing in my skull grows louder, heavier.

A worthless little pup.

A worthless little pup.

So, nothing’s changed.

You know what?

Fuck ‘im.

“You seem to have forgotten who’s in charge here,” I growl, through my teeth, as the anger leaps up into my brain. I open my eyes again and glare up at him. “So, unless you’re going to do something about it, asshole”—the pain in my head flares with the tension in my face, flares into something screaming . . . violent . . . consuming. I want to hit something. I want to hit something. I want to hit something—“go, the fuck inside and leave me the FUCK alone!”

I push to my feet, still holding Garvey, but he wants me to let him go, and I’m starting to want to let him.

“If Faolan were here—” he snarls, but I cut him off.

“If Faolan were here? If Faolan were here?”

Was that fear in his voice? The thought makes me giddy.

I pull Garvey back behind me and let him go. He stays put, at my side, but I can feel him, still taut. Ready to back my play. I almost smile, but Brennan’s impotent little snarl drives me on. I stalk a step toward him. Garvey follows, growling.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what Faolan would do if he were here.”—Another step.—“He’s not here. I am.”—And another.—“I’m in charge. Me. And this is my call.”

I reach him, and I must really be drunk, because I jab a finger at him, into his chest. Hard.

“So do something about it,” I yell, into his face, “or shut the fuck up!”

So close, I can feel the tension in him. He is shaking with it. The fucker so wants to take me. He so wants to try. He wants to beat me to a bloody pulp.

But he won’t. He won’t! Because he’s afraid of being on the hook for what happens!

I feel the smile spreading on my face. I’m daring him to do something. I’m fucking daring him.

And if he does?

Fuck him! Let him try. Come on, Brennan. Fucking try.

You stupid son of a bitch. It’ll be fun to wrap my hands around your neck.

Hit me. See if I fucking care.

Fucking pup, my ass. You might win, asshole, but you won’t like the price.

Faolan can take his leash and shove it.

I lean in closer. Maybe he’s right—maybe I am out of my mind. But he’s not getting the option, this time. We decide this, right fucking here, right fucking now.

“I’m done with your bullshit!”

His eyes dart from me to Garvey, and back again.

I lean in, closer still.

And he stumbles back.

“Fine, Tiergan,” he spits, and backs off another step. “Fine.”

He backs toward the door.

Two steps.

Three.

He pauses. “I’m going to enjoy watching Faolan tear you apart.”

“Yeah, whatever. You fucking coward,” I spit back. “My whole life! My whole fucking life, you’ve been pushing me around. And it turns out, without Faolan at your back, you’re nothing.

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”

He glares at me, on a knife’s edge. Shaking visibly. Torn between his pride and his future.

The smile on my face spreads wider.

“Come on, Brennan,” I say, and the glee in my voice scares even me. “Fucking try. Let’s find out. You know you want to.”

I laugh out loud. Even I can hear the maniacal edge to it.

I hope I’m not just drunk. Things could get bad.

Oh, well. I giggle again at the thought.

“Fuck you, Tiergan,” he snarls and stomps off to the kitchen door. He yanks it open, stomps through, and slams it shut behind him again.

Garvey yips at my side, and starts skittering around, tail wagging. Nervous, but happy.

Or is it relief?

Whatever. I won.

Asshole.

Fucking coward.

“Go to hell.”

Chapter 7

The small shed is well-hidden in bushes—much further from the house than I’d expected—and the light is failing quickly. Maybe I should have carried my clothes back and dressed with Torrin—these eyes and this light . . . .

Yeah, and likely passed out. Idiot.

Anyway, Garvey seems to know the way.

Something tall and dark moves away from the shed as we approach. Torrin, I hope. There’s a rattling sound, and suddenly there’s light on the ground.

“Always good to have a torch handy,” he says cheerily. “You manage to find everything?”

I nod, then realize he can’t see me, and say, “Yeah. Garvey helped.”

“Good, good. Follow me, it’s not far.”

I fall in behind him and his pack of dogs. Garvey stays close, but even he seems happy to be nearing home. He trots forward, his tail high, occasionally brushing my midsection.

The ground is mercifully flat and well-trodden. Uneven terrain, just now . . . I don’t even want to think about it.

Of all the fucking days . . . .

Somewhere up ahead, a bright point of light pokes through the trees, then several more. I can hear the river again, too. I guess we must be getting close.

After several more minutes, we step out of the woods into a clearing across from what must be the side or back of the house. Lights shine out through several windows, glowing warmly.

“Here we are,” Torrin announces without turning. The dogs surge past him and run, barking, into the expanse. Only Garvey and what I’m pretty sure is the dangerous-looking setter remain behind—Garvey near me, her near Torrin.

Ahead, off to the right side of the house, the dark silhouette of the tower looms heavily against the deep, almost-black blue of the sky. A lone star shines brightly, just off to its left.

“You probably can’t tell,” Torrin says, “but this is the vegetable garden. Not much left growing, now, but Eoin does a wonderful job with it in the summer.”

“Eoin?” I ask, though I’m not sure I care. My head feels like it’s floating in syrup.

“Oh, you haven’t met him, I guess. Sky let you in?”

“Um, yeah,” I say. “Sky.”

“Ah. Well, Eoin’s sort of my apprentice. Quite talented, really. But, ah . . . yes, well, he does all the cooking. It’s kind of our arrangement.”

He laughs and adds, “Don’t tell him I said so, but, really, I’m getting the better part of that deal.”

I nod, though he’s not looking to see.

We cross the clearing and approach a heavy wooden door, set in a narrow stone archway. Two bright windows are set off to the right. The dogs rejoin us, crowding in around Torrin, but he waves them off.

“Not in the kitchen, guys—you know that! Go on, around to the courtyard!”

He points down the wall, and with barely a moment’s hesitation, they all take off, running happily after each other, racing to be first around the corner. Even the setter goes, this time. Only Garvey stays.

“What?” Torrin asks, turning. He kneels to tousle Garvey’s head, then tries to draw close to his face, but Garvey backs off—into me—avoiding Torrin’s hands. He glances to me, then to Torrin again.

Torrin watches both of us for a moment, then rises, chuckling. “Okay, okay,” he says. “But no grabbing snacks from the counter.”

Garvey starts wagging his tail.

“He seems to have grown quite attached to you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” I reply. “I don’t even like dogs.”

He watches me impassively as I say it, then looks down, away from me, and smiles. I follow his gaze down and realize he’s looking at my hand. It’s rubbing Garvey’s flank. I pull it away, and grin sheepishly.

“Okay, fine. Most dogs.”

He shakes his head, still smiling, and turns to open the door.

“Enjoy your run?” asks a male voice, as we step through. But the heat and smells of the kitchen hit me like a blow, and I almost stumble back from it. I feel a sudden shortness of breath, and I go from syrupy to headachy and nauseous in an instant.

Across the room, a young man—somewhere in his late twenties—turns from his work at the counter and stops short. Flour drifts down from his hands to the floor. “Well, hello!” he says to me, then turns to Torrin. “Nobody told me we had guests.”

“Just found out about it myself,” Torrin replies, laughing.

The young man looks back to me and adds, “Are you feeling alright?”

Torrin turns to look at me, and immediately grabs a chair. “Here, you’d better sit down. You really don’t look well.”

“No, no,” I say, waving him off. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . ”—I pause as a wave of nausea rises to my throat—“the heat, after being outside for so long. Maybe I should just go outside for a few more minutes.”

Torrin nods, and I turn to fumble with the latch. It catches once, then releases, and I stumble through, out into the coolness. The nausea mercifully recedes as I pull beautiful, dense, cold air into my lungs.

I walk out a few steps, then drop down onto a thick stump on the edge of the garden. Garvey trots over and sniffs at me worriedly. I rub the side of his neck, but don’t really pay him attention.

“Set up for three more, will you, Eoin?” I hear Torrin say in the kitchen.

“Three? Are you kidding me?”

“Sorry, Eoin. I’ll talk to Sky later—I don’t know why she didn’t think to tell anybody about them.”

He steps out the door and pulls it softly shut behind him. I turn and pretend I wasn’t listening.

“Just how much did you have?” he asks as he arrives. It’s not an accusation—his voice is soft—but it stabs at me, even if he didn’t intend it to.

I hate it when I’m stupid.

“Too much . . . . ” I say. I blink a couple of times and look away—across the vegetable patch, to the dim glow on the horizon. The quiet closes in around me, and, after a moment I admit, “A couple of glasses full, I guess.”

“Glasses?! Shit, Tiergan, you should have said something before we ran all the way back here!”

I snort. “Yeah. Probably.”

My voice sounds angry and short in my ears, and I realize it must to him, too. I turn quickly, to apologize. “I’m sorry, Sir—I, I mean Torrin. I . . . . You’ve . . . .” But whatever it is I want to say won’t form into words.

“Relax, Tiergan. It’s fine. Stay out here as long as you need to.”—He pauses to laugh.—“I’m sure Garvey will keep you company. Look, I’m going to go in and see to Keely and your cousin. ‘Brennan’, wasn’t it?

“You’ll be staying the night, I presume?”

“Sir?”

“Well, it’s dark. It’s generally considered bad form, as I recall, to go traipsing through other people’s territory in the dark. Or has that changed?”

Shit.

When I fuck things up, I fuck them up good.

I drop my head into my hand and debate resisting the urge to cry.

“Tiergan, really—it’s fine. You can stay the night. I’ve got plenty of room.”

I shake my head slowly, in my hands. The tension that has been growing around my eyes all afternoon tightens into something much more sharp. Garvey seems to sense something’s wrong and tries to poke his nose in, to lick at my face, but I push him away.

The words spill towards my mouth, and, stupid as I know it is to let them pass, I just can’t seem to find the effort to stop them.

“I’ve totally fucked this up, Torrin,” I say, though I can’t imagine why he would care. “Faolan sent me to do the simplest little thing—and I couldn’t even do that right.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Silence follows, and it grows instantly uncomfortable. I open my mouth to cover it with some kind of joke, but he speaks before I get the chance. “Tiergan . . . . ”

I brace myself for a scathing rebuke.

“Look, I don’t know you, and I don’t know what problems you are dealing with, right now. But I do know this—you aren’t thinking clearly. Do yourself a favour, and give things a few hours to clear, okay? Stay out here, if you want, until you’re feeling better, then come in and have something to eat. I’ll go take care of things with everybody else—you don’t have to worry.

“If you still want to talk about this later, I’ll be around.

“Deal?”

He says it so calmly, so matter-of-factly—like he actually gives a shit.

But he’s right. I shouldn’t be talking to a First, right now. Not like this. Not even this First—strange, incomprehensible, packless one that he is.

For no reason I can figure out, he’s trying to save my ass.

I pull in a deep breath and straighten up, then nod slowly.

“Deal.”

“Good,” he says, and turns back to the house.

As he reaches the door, I call to him. “Torrin?”

He pauses to look over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

I want to say something that matters. Something to express how grateful I am that he’s been so kind. That he hasn’t handed me my ass, as I deserved.

But I’ve got nothing.

“Thanks,” I say. It sounds ridiculous, even to me.

He smiles, then steps inside.

He’s older than I’d expected—black hair, now mostly grey, and a weathered face. Mid-fifties, maybe. Neck down, though, he could be me, ten years older.

Garvey tries to lick at my hands again, but I pull them behind me, out of his reach.

There’s no way around it: what I’ve done is inexcusable, and Faolan’s going to kill me, when he finds out. If Torrin doesn’t do it first.

The whiskey hasn’t worn off much, and my brain feels as thick as soup.

I avoid his eyes as I respond. “I’m sorry, Sir.” I say it carefully, slowly, just in case. My words all sound distinct to me, but I can’t be certain. “My name is Tiergan, one of Faolan’s. I came here with Keely, one of Dugan’s, to ask for passage across your lands.”

I feel him react, and glance up, just for an instant. His eyebrow is raised.

“Rather unorthodox, wouldn’t you say? Running out here to do it?” His voice is almost flat—but, there’s an edge on it. Not anger. Amusement, maybe? Could it be? “Drunk on my best whiskey,” he adds, ominously, “if I’m not mistaken.”

My crazy hope fizzles. Shit—I must be drunker than I thought, to misread him so much.

“It is as you say,” I reply—again, to his mouth, “and I have no excuse, Sir.” And I really don’t. I’ve fucked us up.

But any explanation’s got to be better than none. I take a deep breath, and chance the truth.

“I got some . . . bad news, on the phone, Sir, while we were waiting for you . . . and I acted stupidly. I’m very sorry, Sir. I realize you can’t let this pass, but I . . . I beg you not to punish my whole family for my mistake. Please, Sir, you can do whatever you want with me—but my cousin, Brennan . . . please allow him to continue through.”

I chance to look up, hoping to communicate my sincerity, then quickly drop my head to wait.

“Through to where, exactly?” he asks, after a moment, still impossibly without anger.

Hesitantly, I look up to meet his eyes. I can’t read him, but he seems calm.

To his right, one of the younger-acting dogs lies down and curls up, yawning. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

“We are on our way to Carrigan’s, Sir.”

“Carrigan?” he says, and looks intently to the right for a moment. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, it’s been a long time . . . .

“So, what was your news?”

“Sir?” I ask, and start shivering again. I really shouldn’t have come out here.

For so many reasons.

“That drove you to my drink, and into my woods?”

“Oh,” I say, and drop my gaze. My eyes start to burn, a little. “Just, ah . . . ”—I look up again, and force a smile, but it doesn’t want to last—“somebody I care about . . . she, um . . . . ” What? She what? She left me? She didn’t. I left her. And Faolan’s just doing what he said he would.

Fuck.

“Don’t worry about it, son,” he says. “I get the idea.”

“Sir?” I ask again, like an idiot.

“Come on, we should get you inside. Or at least out of that skin.” He chuckles and reaches out to pull me away from the tree. “You seem sober enough. Can you run?”

“S-sir?”

“You know, if you keep calling me that, we are going to have a problem. The name’s Torrin. Now let’s get going, okay—even I’m getting cold out here.”

“You’re not . . . an-g-gry?”

He snickers. “Son . . . I’m not thrilled you’re here. I’ve told Dugan more than once, that as far as I’m concerned, you guys can go wherever the fuck you want. It’s a free country. All this territory bullshit is just that, and I’d just as soon not deal with it. It’s a pain in my ass, you know?

“But you’re here now, and hey”—he nods to Garvey, who has turned around beside me, his tail thumping raspily across something behind us—“Garvey likes you, so that’s something.

He smiles again, briefly, then grows serious. “Look, don’t worry about the whiskey. Hell, if you hadn’t had it, Sky would have, so, what the hell, right? And as for running in my woods, well, I bought them for running in, okay? It’s cool.

“Now, can we go?” He smiles, and it spreads mischievously up to his eyes. “Or are you going to try some more to talk me into being mad at you?” He laughs heartily and waves his hand to his dogs as he steps away from me. They crowd around him, tails wagging again, while I start rubbing my arms with my hands, for warmth.

I can’t believe it. No consequences? None? At all?

Who the hell is this guy?

I watch as he touches each of the dogs in turn. They jostle up against each other, vying for his attention, and a few of them even playing with each other. They all seem to have forgotten about me. Well, except for the dangerous-looking setter—she’s still watching me, standing apart from her packmates. But even she has dropped the air of threat.

Garvey snorts at my side, and bumps up against me.

“Well?” Torrin asks, turning again to me.

I nod. “Th-thank you, Sir.

“I mean T-Torrin.”

“Yeah, yeah—don’t mention it. Seriously—don’t mention it. Now, let’s go.”

I nod again, and we change.

Torrin barks back at me once, then runs off into the trees. His pack swarm quickly after, except for the setter, who steps over to sniff at me a few times, and Garvey, who seems determined to stick to me like glue. The setter and I make some kind of peace, and then he takes off after the rest.

Garvey trots forward a few steps, then stops.

I snort. Fucking dog.

But if it hadn’t been for him, I’d have . . . .

I shake my head, but the fog won’t clear. And worse, something new is growing there. Or maybe it was there all along.

Fuck it. Whatever.

I step over to Garvey and briefly nuzzle the side of my face against his. His tail thumps a few times into mine.

Fucking dog.

I shake my head again, and launch into the trees, with Garvey close on my heels.

The baying of dogs chases me from dream into waking and I snap my eyes open to fading twilight, but too late. They’re closing from all sides—nearly a dozen of them, from the sound—and only seconds away. And I’m alone—Garvey is nowhere to be seen.

I haul myself to my feet, my back scraping against the tree as I rise, and cast about for a way out, but to no avail: from every direction, I can hear them crashing through underbrush. All of them coming toward me.

I steel myself for a fight I can’t win.

A large setter bounds in from the left and stops short, his bark dropping to a low, deep growl. An enormous wolfhound—ten stone if he’s an ounce—steps into the clearing from the right. He doesn’t make a sound, but, then, he doesn’t need to. His size and his stiff, flat tail are making all the threat he needs.

“Hey, boy,” I say calmly, quietly, to the setter, then nod to the wolfhound, holding my hands up non-aggressively. My shoulders want to tense, but I strain to keep them down, relaxed. “Easy. You guys wouldn’t happen to know Garvey, would you?”

Another setter enters opposite. Not the physical threat the wolfhound is, but there’s something far more aggressive about her. And I can’t see it clearly in the fading twilight, but I can smell it—a dark, slick stain on her muzzle. Blood—still wet. Our eyes meet and she watches me cooly as the other two stalk in another step. I glance to either side, then back to her. She barks once—not at me—and almost instantly the noise in the underbrush turns even more sharply in my direction.

Maybe, if it was just the other two, I could convince them to commit and roll out between them, but this other one . . . she’s way too smart, there’s no way she falls for it. There’s no way I get out of this without going through her—and she won’t be even remotely easy.

“Garvey?” I call—a little more loudly than I should, but as calmly as I can manage. I shift my weight, ever so slightly.

There’s suddenly another presence to my right. The first setter reacts instantly—all his attention goes in that direction—and the wolfhound’s attention flickers behind him. The other setter doesn’t even flinch.

But neither does she attack. I watch her for a moment longer, then steal a glance toward my new doom.

One grey wolf. Not much bigger than me, but utterly calm and ready.

Two more large dogs spill in around him, and run over to join the wolfhound at my right. They stiffen, and show teeth.

I check positions again, but nobody—not even the dangerous one—has taken advantage of the distraction. Watching the setter as best I can in my peripheral, I turn again to the wolf.

He pauses over the spot where I fell and sniffs the ground, almost casually.

Suddenly, to my great relief, Garvey bounds into the clearing from behind the wolf, his tail wagging energetically. He barks to me as he pushes through the growing crowd of growling dogs—who react with confusion—and runs up to thrust his head into my hands.

“Shit, Garvey,” I say, almost under my breath. He licks my hand.

The wolf steps casually through the crowd as two more dogs run in from the left and stop. The dangerous setter holds her ground, watching me intently, without so much as a moment’s distraction.

I rub Garvey’s head and wait as the wolf approaches. The others grow quiet and tense—ready to end me at even the slightest threat, waiting for the verdict.

He stops at my feet and sniffs me carefully, but without apparent malice. Garvey—apparently unaware of the gravity of the situation—bumps his flank against the wolf and licks playfully at his muzzle.

The wolf steps back and changes.

“Who are you,” he asks, without emotion, “and what are you doing on my land?”

I run harder, tearing the soil with each step, spraying little chunks of the dark black earth and old leaves into the air behind. I hear them smack wetly into tree trunks, onto dead leaves. Behind.

That son of a bitch.

That mother FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!

Who the FUCK does he think he is?

I bank hard around a tree, and then another, down, toward the river, toward the wet-smelling air. There should be a steep climb on the other side. I hope. A nasty, vicious, impossible-to-take-at-a-run climb. Something I can go straight up. Straight up at this speed. Straight up at this speed if it kills me.

That son of a bitch.

I hear Garvey bark, but only faintly. When did he fall so far behind? I look quickly back as I launch over a wide pit—the nearly-rotted carcass of the uprooted tree that created it lying off to the left—but I can’t see him any more. I look forward again and land with beautiful, controlled force.

Faster. Recklessly fast. Suicidally fast.

I like the sound of that. I laugh at the idea as I smash through a narrow gap between two trees.

Fuck it. Nobody can touch me when I run.

Faster.

The whiskey is starting to hit—not much, not enough, but finally, there, in the back of my head, at the base of my skull. Warmth and softness. Melting in. I can feel it in my legs, too. Just a tiny disconnect between action and perception. I’m moving, but just a little bit ahead of my body. I let it in, and focus past it, through it. It’s my periphery, I’m the centre. Sharp inhale; front, front, back together; exhale. Harder. Again. Up, over. Land, and off again. Through.

Nobody can touch me when I run. Not even my asshole brother. That son of a bitch. And after what I did for him.

FUCK!

Don’t I deserve just the tiniest bit of respect?

Don’t I?

Behind my back. Behind my fucking BACK! Like I’m a fucking pup. Like I didn’t just . . . .

FUCK!

Like I didn’t just . . . .

That son of a bitch.

Yeah, well, fuck him.

I change my mind. I jump and twist in the air, landing hind-feet-first and push off to the right, away from the smell of water, along the valley, away from the house, away from Brennan and his backstabbing little lies.

Has he been laughing at me all fucking day?

All fucking day!

Yeah, well, fuck him, too.

I smash through another gap, and tear moss and rotten bark off a lying trunk as I scramble over. The ground rises sharply ahead, but I push forward. I’m not done yet. Not even by half. Not even if I puke my guts up after from running so hard.

Yeah, because running is what you do best.

Shut the fuck up, asshole.

Yeah, whatever.

Son of a bitch.

My breath is growing ragged in my chest, but I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I can run forever.

Forever.

The whiskey is asserting itself, like a wave washing over me—like a soft, fuzzy, heaviness, spilling down from the top of my skull.

I almost trip on a branch. Almost. But it’ll take more than that.

Yeah, six more. Good thing you already drank them.

Laughter wells up—giddy, maniacal laughter. But only a hairsbreadth from something else.

And my stomach doesn’t like me any more.

Somewhere far behind, Garvey barks again. It’s a deep sound, but sad. Like I’ve abandoned him. And I guess I feel bad about it. It’s not his fault he’s just a dog.

But the something else is growing. I can feel it, like a bad taste, like a bad smell, somewhere back there in my brain. Disgust.

Or pain.

I crash over another downed tree, and over another depression, but my landing isn’t quite right. I’m starting to slow, too, in spite of myself. The world isn’t reacting to me quite as fast as it usually does. Or, perhaps, it is me that isn’t reacting quite as fast. But everything is starting to feel just a tiny bit out of sync. Like I’m dreaming this.

If only that were the true.

Where am I going? Shouldn’t I know where I’m going?

Son of a bitch.

That’s such a weird thing for me to say. That’s such a human thing for me to say.

I can’t do this any more. The alcohol . . . . I can’t stay in this form. Not with this much whiskey in my stomach. I know it. I knew it when I drank it, when I changed. I knew what would happen.

Fuck, I wanted it.

But my feet keep running. In spite of my jagged breaths. In spite of my aching muscles.

In spite of the growing fog in my head.

Come on, Tiergan, you have to stop. You have to change back. Before this goes too far.

That was way too much to drink, you idiot.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

Yes, you do.

No, I don’t.

Yes, you do.

No, I don’t. I fucking don’t!

I did what I did for my family, goddamnit! I did what I did because I had to! I did what I did because I had no other choice!

You’re such a fucking coward.

Fuck you.

You are such a fucking coward.

Fuck you!

You are such a fucking coward.

My left front foot catches on nothing at all, and I spill forward and change. I throw my foot/hand in front of my face as I fall, and smack hard into the uneven ground. My stomach rolls, and I forcefully puke out a nasty mixture of acid and barley mash, then heave twice more before it is done.

You are such a fucking coward. You are such a fucking coward. You are such a fucking coward.

I crawl forward, away from the stench I’ve left on the ground, and curl up at the base of a tree. My skin is soaked with sweat, and the air is suddenly freezing. I pull my legs close and start shivering.

Garvey barks in the distance, and I suddenly feel sorry for him. “Here, boy!” I call, but I know I’m not doing it for him.

Because I am such a fucking coward.

Because it’s so fucking obvious to me, all of a sudden.

I didn’t end it for Faolan’s sake. Or for that of my family. Or anything noble like that at all.

I ended it because I was afraid. Because I am afraid. Of what he’ll do to me. Or of what Aiden will do to me.

Because I am such a fucking coward.

Because, deep down, I know that she’s better off without me.

And this isn’t just the alcohol talking. It doesn’t lie to me. It just makes me stop lying to myself.

Fuck, I’m cold. I wish I hadn’t left my clothes back near the house. I could really use them now.

I could change back—it would certainly be warmer.

But I’m done with this feeling. I need it gone. Now. And that means this form. It will last forever in the other.

And I’m so tired. I just want to sleep for a while. Until this is gone. Until I’m sober again.

But I’ll probably freeze to death out here.

Fuck. Way to plan ahead, Tiergan. You fucking idiot.

The world isn’t spinning, but it feels like it wants to. And I just want this to end.

I hear Garvey crashing through the forest, approaching. His breath is hard and ragged. I guess I really did push it a little hard there, for a while. Poor guy. I hope his pride isn’t too hurt by his not being able to keep up.

I giggle, this time obviously hysterically, even to me, but it quickly turns to a snarl. Not at Garvey. And not at Faolan, either—or Brennan.

I can’t blame them for what they are.

No, there’s only one person I can really have contempt for . . . . Only one person whose choices I control.

I am such a fucking coward.

“Hey, boy,” I say sadly, as Garvey comes into view. He seems both happy and reproachful as he approaches. He stops to sniff at my contribution to the local flora, before jogging over to me. I wrap my arm around this neck and pull him close.

“Do you think you could keep me warm for a while?” I ask—pathetically—like he can understand me. “I just want to sleep for a while, okay?”

He doesn’t respond, but then I guess it’s to be expected. I giggle again, as tears start to spill from my eyes, and I pull him close. “You’re a good dog,” I say, and sink back into the tree trunk. “A good dog.”

And I am such a coward.

I almost laugh out loud.

It’ll be sundown soon. This is a bad idea.

But it’s not like it’ll be the first time.

Yeah. A really bad . . . idea.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but to no effect. Useless tears continue to flow.

I’m just going to . . . just close my eyes . . . for a few minutes . . . .

Okay?

“How long have we been waiting?” Keely whines, turning from the large window.

Brennan scowls at her from his post by the door.

“I don’t know . . . ” I reply, with a little more edge than I’d intended—I soften my tone—”three minutes longer than the last time you asked?” She drops her gaze.

But I’m not really annoyed at her. It has been nearly an hour since we arrived, and it’s going to be sundown soon.

Where the fuck is Torrin?

Keely returns to the view out into the forest twilight. Even through the glass, the river chortles noticeably in the near distance.

This trip is not going as planned.

Brennan leans casually against the ornate oak trim of the entry archway, but his foot is live—pressed firmly against the wall, ready to spring—and has been since we arrived. Expecting trouble.

And I know what he’s thinking: he wants us to screw Torrin—and anybody else in our way—and proceed posthaste to Carrigan’s. And who am I kidding, I’m feeling much the same way, too.

But we already have enough enemies. We can’t afford to make more.

Fuck it.

“Brennan, give me your phone.”

“Huh?” he replies, but pushes himself off the wall.

“Your phone,” I reply, this time with exactly as much edge as I intend. “I want to call Faolan.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he walks over and hands it to me. Keely turns back from the window, suddenly interested.

Probably never seen a cellphone up close before.

“It’s quick-dial one,” he adds, as he returns to his post by the door.

I key in the appropriate sequence and wait for it to connect.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hello?” comes Elish’s voice from the other end of the line.

“Hey, Elish. It’s Tiergan. Faolan around?”

There’s a pause—too long—before she answers, sympathetically, “Um . . . he’s . . . out right now.”

“Out?” I reply, with a sudden and intense feeling of dread in my chest. “Where is he?”

Another long pause. The sense of dread spreads to my stomach and shoulders.

“He’s at Aiden’s.”

Son of a bitch!

“Aiden’s?” I reply, and even I can hear the desperation in my voice. But I can’t help it.

And I don’t care.

“How long’s he been there?”

Another pause.

What the fuck is it with the pausing!?!

“Most of the day . . . ” she finally replies. Again, sympathetically. “He left about an hour after you did.”

That son of a bitch! That lazy, good for nothing, mother-fucking son of a bitch!

FUCK!!!!!

“Tiergan?” Elish asks, and I realize several breaths have passed.

“Okay,” I force myself to say into the receiver. “Thanks. I’ve got to go now.”

“Tiergan,” she asks, “are you sure you’re o—”

I snap the phone shut and squeeze it tightly in my hand. Harder. And harder still.

At my feet, Garvey barks sharply and pulls his head from under my legs. My heel smacks into the wooden trim on bottom of the couch.

Keely says something, but I can’t hear the words.

I want to hit something. I want to hit something. I want to throw the phone against the wall and watch it smash. I squeeze it more tightly in my hand, but it refuses to give me even a crack.

Goddamned quality construction. Goddamned Brennan who couldn’t buy a cheap phone.

SON OF A BITCH FAOLAN!

Screw it! I twist and hurl the phone with all my might into the open fireplace. It smashes hard against the stone and shatters into a dozen pieces, that scatter about the room.

But it isn’t enough.

I need to hit something. I need to hit something NOW.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Brennan yells, running over to examine the ruin of his phone.

The muscles in my right hand start to protest from the strain as I clench them harder. Harder. Harder still. But not enough. GODDAMN IT NOT ENOUGH.

“What is it, Tiergan?” Keely asks, with concern and fear in her voice. But I don’t care.

I can’t break anything here.

I need to break something, and I can’t break anything here.

FUCK!!!!!!

I want to slam my fist into my thigh. Anything, to make this go away. But I can’t. I’m in charge here. My SON OF A BITCH brother saw to that. I can’t just let this out, I can’t.

Brennan is staring at me, pissed.

Did he know, that this was all an excuse? I’ll bet he fucking did. Son of a bitch has been laughing at me all fucking day!

My arm is shaking from the strain in my hand.

I surge up and cross the room. I feel Keely step toward me, but she hesitates before she gets too close.

I step over to the bar and pour myself a tumbler full of whiskey. I drain it—it scrapes down my throat and makes me want to puke—and pour another.

“You knew, didn’t you, you son of a bitch!” I growl, turning on Brennan with the full glass in my hand. It sloshes around, and some of the liquid spills down my hand and onto the hardwood below.

I raise the glass to my lips and drain it in three gulps. This time, it tears a strip off the back of my throat and it takes every ounce of will to keep from puking it right back up. The muscles of my face contort in protest, but I hold it in.

I consciously force myself to place the glass back on the bartop—gently—and release it unharmed.

“Know what?” he demands, feigning indignation like a pro.

And I almost believe him.

I smash my knuckles into the bartop, and the pain leaps gleefully up through my wrist.

“You son of a bitch!” I reply and stomp toward the doorway.

“Fuck you. And Faolan, too,” I growl as I step through.

“Where are you going?” he asks, as I take off down the hall.

“Out,” I yell, and drive my fist into a stone column as I turn the corner.

I hear Garvey’s nails on the floor behind me, but I don’t care. I slam the door open as I reach it and drive my feet into the ground with as much force as I can as I take off into the woods. Over the first hill, I tear my clothes from my body, and chuck them against a tree. One shoe bounces down the slope, but I don’t give a shit.

Faolan be damned. Brennan be damned.

Torrin be damned, too, for all I care.

I change, and take off into the trees. Garvey follows behind.

She sidles up beside me as I step through the doorway and slips her arm under mine. I resist the urge to pull away—best just to grin and bear it.

“What’s your name, hon’?” she asks, touching my arm with her other hand as Brennan steps in behind me and shuts the door.

Up close, her breath is ripe with alcohol.

“Um, Tiergan?” I reply, turning a bit to the left for some fresh air. “And you?”

“Oh, you can just call me Sky, sugar—all my friends do.”

“Sky.”

“That’s right, sugar!

“Why don’t you all just follow Tiergan and me,” she adds, nodding back to Brennan as she pulls me forward, down the wide stone and oak corridor. The smile in her voice is audible, even when I can’t see her, but it feels entirely false.

“Are you expecting Torrin back soon?” Keely asks, stepping up beside us as we walk. The dog follows closely at her heels.

“Well, aren’t you just the perkiest little thing,” Sky exclaims warmly—but I feel her hand tighten ever so slightly on my arm. Nails, not pads.

“Garvey!” she barks at the dog. “I thought I put you outside!” Then to Keely, all soft and smiling, “Be a dear and take him back out, will you?”

She pulls me forward again, but I’ve had enough.

“Keely,” I say, extricating my arm from her grasp. “You go. I’ll take the dog.” She reaches out to grab my arm again, but I step out of her reach and head down the hallway, calling, “Come on, boy!” Brennan scowls at me as I pass, though whether in agreement or in opposition, I can’t tell. Garvey hesitates a moment—perhaps to shoot a withering glance at Sky—and then turns reluctantly to follow.

“Oh, fine,” Sky protests, ”he can stay.”

I stop and turn—she hasn’t moved from where I escaped her. Garvey bumps up against my hip. I wait silently for her to make up her mind.

“Oh, Tiergan, you’re so serious!” she says, grinning—but even in the dim light, I can see tension around her eyes.

Garvey licks at my arm, wagging his tail, and I rub his head in return. He turns and trots, clattering, down the hall—pushing indifferently past Sky—then stops to wait for us to follow.

“I swear!” Sky says, laughing nervously. “Torrin treats them like they’re people, sometimes. Teaches them horrible habits.”

Are you talking about his dogs? Or his guests?

She waits a moment longer, but finally seems to realize I won’t be returning to her side, and she turns. “Well, come on, then,” she calls without looking back, and we follow her following Garvey down the hall.

Before I can stop her, Keely jumps forward and extends her arm, saying, “Hey there, boy!”

“Keely,” I whisper, urgently, and put my hand on her shoulder to pull her back.

But I’m wrong: across the courtyard, the massive beast lurches into a run, tongue suddenly lolling out and tail wagging furiously. Keely turns, confused, and I withdraw my hand.

“Sorry . . . I . . . .”

“What, him?” she replies with a snort, “I know him—he’s harmless. He just likes to play.”

As if to prove her point, he slows in his approach and stops short. He drops downward, tongue still hanging out, daring her to chase him. She doesn’t wait for my permission to oblige him.

“Careful, Keely—they’re not called wolfhounds for nothing.” But the body language is pretty clear . . . . I guess I’m just being paranoid.

Keely darts at him, then again as he dekes aside. In spite of myself, I turn to Brennan and smile, but his eyes are fixed across the courtyard.

“Something wrong?” I ask, suddenly alert again.

“Hmm?” he replies, turning back. He shakes his head—“No, it’s fine.”—then looks over at Keely and the dog. “Don’t we have business here?”

The smile fades from my lips. “Yeah.” I guess.

One dog down, a dozen to go. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

“Keely, let’s go!” I call.

She takes one more pass at him, then stands. “Okay, boy, I’ve got to go now.” She holds her hand out and waits. The dog stays low, holding out for more, but only for a couple of seconds. Then he climbs to his feet and steps up to her hand. “Good boy,” she says, rubbing his side.

“They’re used to Torrin,” she adds as she returns, the dog trailing happily behind. “I’m sure they know the difference, but they treat us like humans.

“I mean, they’re not all like this guy,” she adds, laughing. “But Torrin once told me wolfhounds are useless as guard dogs, and all of his seem pretty friendly.”

Funny, that’s not what I remember of wolfhounds.

“Let’s get this over with, okay?”

I turn down the corridor and Keely and her not-so-little friend drop in behind me. I hear Brennan take up the rear.

The carving on the door really is quite impressive: a Sessile Oak, stylized, but still very recognizable, carefully detailed with leaves and acorns. I run my fingers over a branch—the wood is smooth and solid to my touch—then reach up and pull the cord beside the door. A bell peals out loudly inside, but only once. A real, actual bell. Of course. I pull the cord twice more, for good measure.

“Um,” Keely says, from behind me, “I know you had to make sure I got here safely, but . . . shouldn’t I be the one doing that?”

Oh. “Right, sorry,” I say, and step quickly to the side. “I forgot.” I turn to her and grin, a little sheepishly. “Kind of got used to being in the lead, I guess.”

“Mm, it’s okay. Just”—she grins dangerously as she steps forward—”don’t let it happen again.”

I laugh, as I’m supposed to.

On the other side of the door, footsteps approach. “Well, somebody’s home,” I say, to no one in particular. Beside me, I feel the dog’s nose on my elbow. He starts wagging his tail as my eyes connect with his. For an instant, I’m tempted to do something about it, but he’s just being a dog . . . . I guess it’s not his fault what he is.

“Fine,” I growl, and gently tousle the hair between his ears. He licks at my hand as I take it away.

Finally, somebody arrives and fumbles with the bolt. After a moment’s confusion, the door swings open to reveal a tall, thin, middle-aged woman wearing a very bright pink and orange outfit, a flowy thing of silk, from the look of it. She has a tall glass in her hand, that looks like orange juice, but smells like vodka. She looks past Keely, and her eyes rake me up and down. A smile that would chill even Cormac spreads across her face.

“Hey, cutie, what can I do for ya?”

Cutie. Um, yeah, sure. Whatever.

“We’re here to see Torrin,” Keely says, kindly inserting herself between me and the woman.

She glances at Keely—a spark of annoyance flits across her face—then returns to me. “Sorry, hon’” she says, shaking her head. She’s back to smiling like she’s looking at dinner. “He took some of the dogs out for a run. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Was he expecting you?”

Her gaze is so intense, I feel compelled to answer. “Um, no. We need to speak to him about . . . ”

“Family business,” Keely interjects.

The woman tears her eyes from me and looks Keely up and down, her smile waning quickly to a scowl. “I didn’t know Torrin had any family.”

“Well, he does,” Keely continues. “So are you going to invite us in, or what?”

My jaw almost drops open, but I catch it in time. Shit, Keely. I hope you know what you’re doing.

The woman glares daggers at Keely for a tiny instant, before covering it with an easy smile. She steps aside and sweeps her arm in. “Why, of course! How rude of me to keep y’all standing out there in the cold.”

She winks at me, and adds, “Please, why don’t you come on in.”