But she had to save herself, the dogs, and find Cameron.
The wolf crept toward her, separating her from the dogs that were charging and growling at the other wolves. Like a predator singling out the weakest link, the wolf bared his daggerlike teeth, snarling, crowding her. Her heartbeat spastic, her hands trembled as she tightened her grip on the can of pepper spray in one hand and the gun in the other.
The damned wind was blowing in the wrong direc tion. She couldn't chance choking herself or the dogs with the spray. If she could work her way around to have the wind at her back… but dogs and wolves blocked her path, and the tent was hindering her in the other direction. Plus, she was unable to fire the gun accurately without using both hands. She shoved the pepper spray in her pocket and wrapped her hands around the gun. Having had weapons training in her line of business, she knew how to shoot, but practicing at targets was one thing. Killing a live animal or a person…
The aggressor wolf paused, his expression changing. No longer growling, he smiled—if a wolf could smile. Her finger on the trigger, she hesitated to fire the weapon. Since he'd quit pursuing her, she hoped she could scare him away—although she figured it was a futile exercise—but giving it a try, she stomped her foot, yelling, "Ha!"
He crouched in response. An icy shiver stole down her spine. Readying to leap, he behaved just like her standard poodle would when he was a puppy, crouching before the pounce.
But more than that, she envisioned the wolf that had lunged at Cameron, then bit him in the arm.
She aimed the weapon again, took another step back ward, and stumbled on a pile of snow. Her heart nearly seized. Falling on her butt, she dropped the gun.
Everything seemed to freeze in time. The dogs and wolves quit growling and barking, their mouths snapped closed, their attention diverted to something behind her. The one ready to leap on her, straightened, his ears perked, his gaze focused to her left.
She didn't have time to turn to see what was coming, when a huge wolf sailed past her shoulder, nearly hitting her. She jerked away from the great white beast and rolled over the mound of snow.
The new wolf, bigger than any of them, pounced half on the wolf's shoulder, his hind feet landing firmly on the ground. He knocked the other down. The pinned wolf tried frantically to get to his pads, before the newcomer seized his throat.
Not wanting to see any of the animals fighting or injuring each other, she feared the outcome should either win.
The other wolves and the huskies all observed the pair as if the newcomer was attempting to become the pack leader of a mixed bunch of wolves and huskies, and they wanted to see who came out on top.
Faith scrambled to her feet and shoved her gloved hands into the piles of snow until she located the gun. She shook the snow off her gloves and aimed the weapon at the fighting wolves. Their incisors bared, snarling, lunging, and biting, the ferocious sound chilled her blood.
Patches of blood covered both wolves' fur and stained the snow in places.
Desperately, she wanted them to give up fighting and run off. But the two continued to circle each other. Then the biggest wolf attacked the other, tore his ear. When the wolf yelped and jumped back, the biggest one went for his throat like an animal possessed by the devil. The newcomer seized the other's throat and the wolf went down.
The victor's head swiveled around to look at her. Immediately, she raised the gun and pointed it at him. But she couldn't pull the trigger. If they were all Kintail's wolves—which she believed to be so—why did the biggest one kill one of the others?
For an instant, the animals were silent. Then the other three wolves began to growl low. So, they didn't accept the newcomer as the pack leader. But at the same time, the dogs began to bark at the wolves, growling and lunging. The big wolf's chest heaved for a few minutes while he stood still, turning his attention toward the rest of the animals.
Although he had helped her and the dogs, she worried he still might turn on them.
The dogs pounced on one of the wolves, while the other two wolves shied back, then ran off. They'd tell Kintail. That's what she figured. They'd alert him to where they were, leading them back here like blood hounds on a prey's trail. Then she and Cameron would be in bigger trouble.
Bleeding at the shoulder, the big wolf crouched low, targeting the last of the aggressors. The beast continued to show his aggression, his ears straight up, his tail stiff behind him, snarling at the dogs. The huskies ran at him, snapping their jaws. He lunged in retaliation. They darted out of his path.
The victor wolf growled threateningly low. The sound made the hair on the nape of Faith's neck stand at attention, even under her parka hood.
The final aggressor had been fierce and full of bravado when facing the dogs, but she swore he looked like he was about to die now. His tail suddenly lowered, his ears flattening as he turned to face the real threat—their wolf savior.
The big wolf crouched. His tail was slightly raised, the tip twitching to one side, his ears and fur erect. As soon as he made his move, he would kill the other. The smaller one had to be a male also, aggressive and single-minded in his urge to fight. Because of his size, the larger wolf had to win.
Without further warning, the victor lunged. The two slammed into each other. Their front legs lifted off the ground, their teeth clanking as they bit each other's mouths. They landed on their pads, but the victor didn't hesitate to attack again. He grabbed the aggressor's throat and killed him. The animal dropped to the ground with a thud.
Everything was whisper soft with the breeze blowing against the tent, and the animals now standing silent. The victor quietly watched Faith. He stood still, panting, his white muzzle tinged with blood, his eyes amber, the wildness in them softening. Her heart was beating hard and she felt panicked, unsure what to do, but she didn't want to kill him. Not after he'd saved them from two of the wolves. And not while he didn't act threatening toward the huskies or her.
For a minute, no one made a move. Then the dogs barked in excitement. Jumping at each other, they licked him in the face in greeting. He continued to watch Faith's reaction, his tail now pointed down. She barely breathed and wanted to get the huskies away from him before their overexuberant attentions irritated him, and he attacked them. The dogs treated him as if he was a war hero and they were cheering the wounded veteran. He didn't seem bothered by them, but eerily kept his attention on her.
But then a husky nuzzled its face against the wolf's ear. Recognizing the husky, Faith's mouth dropped open. "Nikki?"
Nikki. What had happened to Charles and the rest of the team? And Cameron? Faith's gaze searched for any signs of him and saw Cameron's parka and the rest of his clothes piled up on top of the sled.
"What the…?"
The wolf lifted his nose and sniffed the air, then turned his head south. With the dogs still yipping, he tore off. Nikki followed him, along with two of the other dogs.
Dashing to the others to grab their collars and make them stay with her, Faith hollered at the rest to come back. But the wolf's influence overrode hers and the dogs ran with him until they disappeared from sight. She prayed they'd come back and that Charles and his team were all right. That the wolf wasn't leading the dogs into an ambush like the one did in one of Jack London's wolf tales.
But what of Cameron? She had to locate his tracks in the snow. Something surely had gone wrong with Charles and his team, too. She glanced at the dead wolves, their blood coloring the snow red. What if the blood attracted predators? She shoved her outer gloves back on and hurried to the sled to search for a shovel.
In the distance, an eerie howl sounded.
After he killed the first of the wolves, Cameron reluctantly concluded he wasn't living a dream or a nightmare. The taste of blood and fur was too real. The smell of dogs and wolves. The way he recognized their fear, anger, and jubilation in every action—the raised tails and the drooped ones, the ears forward, or back, or flattened, the narrowed eyes, or widened. Every action signaled a defensive, or aggressive, or excited posture. The way he understood their barks, growls, and yips. The feel of the cold breeze whipping across his face and the burning in his shoulder from the new wolf bite. The iron smell of blood—of his and the ones he'd killed. All were very real and too unreal to ponder more closely.
Still in shock over the whole changing-into-a-beast scenario—had to have been twice now—he couldn't figure out what the hell had happened to him. Except it probably had something to do with Charles's comments about magical wolves coming down from the aurora borealis. But he didn't want to think about his bizarre situation beyond that for now. All he knew was he had to locate Charles pronto, make sure he was safe, and find out more concerning the magical wolves.
He was a white Arctic wolf, just like the one that had bitten him, and the ones he'd killed.
But right now, more than anything, Cameron hoped the older man was all right and the dogs were, too.
Nikki ran with Cameron, then turned west. He followed her along with the other dogs and heard Charles's team barking in the distance again. The sound was in greeting, not warning of danger. Which gave him a small sense of relief.
Then it occurred to him that the other two wolves had taken off before he could kill them—the one howling their whereabouts. What if they circled back around to the camp and Faith? Hell, if only he could be in two places at once. He had to hurry, not wanting to leave Faith on her own for long.
When he neared the camp, his original husky team raced to greet him, but there was no sign of Charles, just his sled, tent, and the bed of straw he'd made for his dogs. Cameron loped toward the erected tent, the door flap blowing in the wind. He poked his head inside and saw Charles lying in his sleeping bag, deathly quiet. After walking inside, Cameron nuzzled Charles's face with his nose and pawed at his chest, but Charles didn't wake. Cameron concentrated on the man's breathing, his heartbeat. And he smelled blood. But Charles was alive, thank god. Although he needed help and Cameron couldn't give it to him—not like this.
Then a blood-curdling scream shrieked across the snowy woods from the direction of Cameron's campsite. The dogs began barking. His heart thundering, Cameron raced out of the tent. Faith. Kintail's other wolves. Or maybe Kintail and his men had arrived.
