Frostbitten

PLAYTIME

ONCE IN THE terminal, naturally we had to check for Reese, in case his flight had been delayed or he'd decided to hang out here rather than pay for an extra night's hotel room. We went in search of all the secluded, tucked-away places he could hide. Unfortunately, post-9/11 these places are increasingly hard to come by in airports.

"Goddamn it," Clay muttered after our third possibility proved to be staffed by a security camera. "Where the hell is a mutt supposed to hole up around here?"

Before he stormed down the car-rental hall, I caught his arm and I pointed to a sign warning of construction ahead.

"About time," he grumbled.

He hurdled over the barrier, pushed back the tarp and disappeared. I waited for any indication that the coast wasn't clear-screams, shouts, foul language-then followed. When I caught up, Clay stood beside a pile of drywall, his head tilted, nose lifted, trying to catch the sound or smell of workers.

I turned down a side passage. It was short, ending at a-a locked door. I was considering the wisdom of snapping the lock when Clay strode up behind. He caught me around the hips, flipping me around, mouth going to mine.

He kissed me hard. Lips crushing. Hands grabbing. Fingers digging in. The smell of him filling my nostrils, thick and heady as hashish smoke. Brain spinning. Body screaming. Hands pulling his shirt up. Fingers gripping his sides. Skin to skin, touching, stroking, making that connection I'd missed so much.

A growl vibrated up from his chest, coming out in a long, low moan. Fingers in my hair. Winding. Pulling. Kissing harder. Teeth scraping. Tongue tasting.

His hands dropped to my waist. Button flicking. Zipper whirring. The chill blast of air against hot skin. The rough rasp of jeans shoved down. Warm fingers moving under my panties. Tugging. Fabric catching, pulling, stretching. A growl. A rip. A laugh.

Hands on my thighs, pushing them apart, as if I needed the encouragement. Back against wall. Wriggling. Straddling. Legs over hips. Come on, come on! Then…

Oh, God, yes. God, I missed you. God, I love you. Yes, please, yes…

Clay pressed me against the wall, nuzzling my neck as I shuddered and gasped.

"Speed record?" he asked.

"For us? Probably not."

He chuckled and kept kissing my neck, inhaling deeply, telling me how good I smelled, how much he'd missed me, how much he loved me, until the distant clang of a door had us jumping apart.

"No sign of Reese here," I said as I pulled my jeans back on.

"You can tell Jeremy we checked every nook and cranny. Now time for that run."

FIRST WE HAD to get the luggage and rental car. As much as Clay disliked dealing with people, I sent him for the car, since Clay and crowded baggage claims really don't mix. If someone picks up one of our bags by accident, his territorial instinct kicks in. Usually one glower makes the offender drop it and scuttle away, but on our last trip, a guy tried to take off with my bag even after I politely suggested it might not be his, and Clay… well, it was really best for all if I got the luggage alone.

Having also seen a young woman at the car-rental booth made the task-splitting decision that much easier. Jeremy would have re served us a decent vehicle, but we can always use a free upgrade… and Clay gets a lot of free upgrades-double butter on his popcorn, an extralarge coffee when he orders medium, high-test fuel for the price of regular. I think it has something to do with being drop-dead gorgeous. Muscular body, chiseled face, bright blue eyes, golden curls. At forty-seven he looks midthirties, which is no longer a "hot young thing," but apparently a "hot mature thing" is still serious catnip.

Clay hates attracting attention of any kind, and to him when he has a wedding band on his finger, attention of that kind is an insult. He makes no secret of his feelings, which only seems to earn him more freebies and upgrades, as women try harder to coax a smile.

"They were out of Explorers," Clay said as he met me pulling the luggage. "We got an Expedition."

"Uh-huh."

"And this." He held up a navigation system. "It was some kind of monthly deal."

"Did they have any free T-shirts? Ball caps? Travel mugs?"

"Nah. Got some maps, though." He held up a handful. "Good ones."

"Monthly deal?"

"Guess so."

We found our vehicle-a massive SUV with tinted windows.

"We didn't need to find a quiet corner inside," I said. "We could have just crawled in the back of this."

"Huh." He opened the hatch and looked in. "Could try it out… "

"I'm sure, we will. Later. Right now, I want my run, followed by my postrun romp. Once took the edge off. Twice would spoil my appetite."

"Wouldn't want that," he said, and heaved our bags in.

THE PRESUMED WOLF kills had both occurred about twenty miles south of Anchorage, so with my laptop open to a newspaper article's rough map, we headed out, planning to run in the same general area in hopes of picking up a wolf or werewolf scent.

Clay and I can play at being irresponsible-stopping for sex at outrageously inappropriate times is one of our specialities-but it's just a game. Neither of us would be able to really relax and enjoy our run unless we felt, in some small way, we were still doing our job and fulfilling our Alpha's expectations.

The map in the article was very rough. It showed the highway, one side road and two X's to mark the kill sites, with no concept of scale. So until we talked to locals, we were guessing at the location. But neither of us realized how much we were guessing until the highway left Anchorage.

In daylight, I'm sure the scenery was spectacular. The highway weaved along between an inlet on one side and mountains and valleys on the other. In the predawn darkness, it was awe-inspiring-the endlessness of it all, the choppy water and the looming hills and the snowy fields and forests.

The road wasn't empty. Steady headlights streamed toward us, people making their way into Anchorage for work. As for where these commuters came from, I had no idea. There were certainly no suburbs I could see-just the occasional sign suggesting an unseen town down a long, dark road.

Finally we turned off onto one of those long, dark roads. Clay drove a mile, found what looked like a service road and parked along it.

I hopped out… and sunk knee-deep in the white stuff. The air, though, wasn't as bitterly cold as I'd feared. I'd been in Winnipeg earlier this winter, when the temperature hit minus twenty Fahrenheit, but this didn't feel any colder than Pittsburgh.

At least I was dressed for the season, having boots, a down-filled jacket, hat and mitts in my luggage. Clay-returning from Atlanta -wasn't so lucky. I'd grabbed him a toque in the airport, but he was only wearing it to humor me. Cold weather never bothered Clay. I always joked that he was like one of those werewolves from medieval legends, with his fur hidden under his skin.

We left our valuables-watches, wallets, wedding bands-in the locked glove compartment, then set out, tramping through the deep snow. If I'd bad to walk through this I'd have been cursing with every step. But because I chose to, in pursuit of an activity I was giddily anticipating, I didn't mind at all-laughing and lurching, grabbing onto Clay and dragging him down as I fell, getting tossed face-first into a drift, returning the favor…

We didn't go far from the road to Change, but it took us awhile to get there.

The area was wooded enough for us to find separate thickets. I was finally past the stage of insisting on that, though I do make Clay turn his back if we share. I don't consider myself particularly vain, but I'm not keen to have anyone see me mid-Change, even Clay.

I undressed and put my clothes in a plastic bag I'd grabbed at the airport. And then it got cold-"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!" cold. When I got down on all four, and sunk in snow up to my breasts, I was gasping for breath.

It took a few moments for me to relax enough to begin the Change, but once it started, the cold was the last thing on my mind. My body is shifting from human to wolf; it's not going to tickle. As I learned when I had the twins, a Change is a lot like giving birth, except you skip the labor pains and jump straight to the "what the hell was I thinking?" screams of agony. Once you accept that it's a natural process and nature will see you though, you grit your teeth and bear it because you know it'll be over soon, and when it is, the reward will be worthwhile.

So I suffered the body-ripping, bone-cracking agony of the Change with only a few grunts and whimpers, as I'd done at least once a week for the last twenty years. And when it was over, I collapsed onto my side, panting, muzzle buried in the snow to cool off.

Once I'd caught my breath, I rose slowly. The pain was only a memory now, but I still took my time, finding my footing on four legs, paws crunching through the snow crust, icy shards prickling between my footpads. I blinked hard, adjusting to a gray world, giving my brain time to convert the shades to colors.

My ears and nose were already in action, ears swiveling to pick up every distant crackle of falling ice, nose wiggling to catch every molecule of prey scent, both senses urging me to hurry up, get on with it, get out there and start exploring. I ignored them and stretched. My eyes slitted in bliss as my muscles ached, endorphins shooting to my brain, sweet as champagne.

I swished my tail against the snow, then stepped forward and back, reestablishing my center of gravity. After twenty years, all this was completely unnecessary, but it was like foreplay-delicious on its own, even better as a way to whet the appetite, anticipation and frustration growing.

Speaking of frustration…

As I stretched, footfalls padded around my thicket. Gold fur flashed, glistening under the moonlight. Then Clay's smell wafted in-that glorious rich scent, starting a whimper deep in my throat. I swallowed it and braced my legs against the urge to bound out and greet him.

Clay circled again, faster now, impatience growing. I lowered my self to my belly and slunk forward, slow and silent, until my nose was at the thicket's edge. Then I bunched my muscles, hindquarters rising, wiggling, waiting, waiting…

Clay loped past and I shot out behind him. By the time I heard the crunch of his sharp turn, I was running full out, tearing across the open stretch, eyes half closed, wind sluicing through my fur, moving so fast my paws didn't break the crust.

Clay's heavier mass meant he did break that crust, and he fell farther behind with each stride, the huff of his labored breaths interspersed with growls as I pulled away. I crossed the clearing and dove into the forest, but as soon as I did, I realized my mistake-protected by the thick canopy, the ground had only a thin layer of snow, and I lost my advantage.

Soon Clay's huffing was right on my heels. Then a grunt and a whoosh, and I knew he'd leapt. I tried diving to the side, but as my hind paws flew up, he caught one and wrenched. My front feet skidded out and I belly flopped.

With a snort, I bounded up and spun around. He was twenty feet away, prancing away, tail waving. Every instinct said to chase, but I toppled back down into the snow and whined in pain. Now Clay knows better than to fall for that. He really does. But he can never bring himself to run off, in case this is the one time I really am injured.

He circled me, wide and wary. I licked my foreleg. He came a little closer, staying out of lunging range. I struggled to my feet, paw raised, then gingerly touched it to the ground. He came closer, head lowered, nose working hard to catch the scent of blood. I lifted my paw and whimpered.

Closer, closer…

I sprang. He danced out of the way and took off. I hesitated, then started snuffling the ground. He stopped, head tilting. I kept sniffing, checking out all the prey trails. Vole, hare… is that lynx?

He dashed past so close I felt the draft.

I kept sniffing. Marten, porcupine, more hares…

Another dash, this time snagging my tail hairs in his teeth and tugging. I snapped and snarled, then went back to sniffing. More voles, more marten… Hey, what's that? I scratched off the top layer of snow, trying to uncover the scent.

Clay whipped past again, this time veering and sending a tidal wave of snow over me. I shook it off, nose still working, trying to pick up the mystery scent. When I glanced up, I caught a whiff of it in the air. I tracked it to an old tree with missing chunks of rough bark. There, caught on one loose piece six feet from the ground, was a tuft of brown fur.

Bear? Oooh. We'd crossed paths with black bears in northern Ontario, but never one of their big brown cousins. I scrambled up the trunk, nails digging in as I stretched to sniff-

Clay plowed into my side. I went flying. Then I bounced up, snarling, and tore after him.

He was smart enough to know that his advantage lay in the forest, so that's where he stayed, keeping only a few strides ahead, dropping back, then sprinting ahead, taunting and teasing.

When the forest opened into a clearing, I hit full speed, head down, paws sailing over the snow, closing the gap, the delicious smell of him filling my brain-

He swerved… right at the edge of a small embankment. I tried skidding to a stop, but tumbled over it, down the five-foot cliff onto the ice-covered creek below, each leg going its own way as I spun snout-first into the snowy embankment on the other side.

From behind me came the rough growl of Clay's wolf laugh. My answering growl was not nearly as amused. I got to my feet slowly, digging my claws into the ice for traction. Then, without turning to look at him, I gingerly picked my way along to a spot where a branch poked through the ice. I scratched at the thinner ice around it until I had a hole. Then I lowered my muzzle and drank.

I lapped the cold water, so clean and sweet that I closed my eyes to savor it. I could hear Clay pacing along the embankment, his panting getting louder, thirst growing. I bit off a chunk of ice, making the hole bigger, then shifted aside to give him room. He tore down the creek side, slowing as he reached the ice, testing each step under his weight.

When he got up beside me, the ice groaned, but held. He brushed against me, tail beating the back of my legs as he drank, droplets of icy water spraying my face. I shifted closer, rubbing against him. He made a deep-throated noise closer to a purr than to a growl. I quietly scraped at the ice with my far front paw. Then I reared up and slammed down, all my weight on my front legs. As I twisted and tore off the crack of the ice rang through the quiet forest.

Now it was my turn to stand on the embankment and laugh, as Clay scrambled like a lumberjack on a runaway log jam, jumping from piece to piece as they sank beneath him. He leapt for the shore, but didn't quite make it, splashing down to his dewclaws in icy water.

I tore off, but I'd stayed to enjoy the sight a few seconds too long. He caught me ten feet from the embankment, grabbing my back leg, yanking me down, then pouncing over me and shaking, water spraying everywhere. I tried to buck him off, but he bit the scruff of my neck and pinned me beneath his soaked underside.

I flipped him over and we tussled, fangs flashing, nipping and kicking and snarling, tone changing, the need for exercise and play fading fast, the need for something more primal taking over. The nips and growls grew rougher. I wriggled free, about to take off in a final chase before a quick Change back and-

A scent floated past and I went still. Clay's teeth clamped around my lower jaw, trying to get my attention. I shook him off and got to my feet. He tried one last time to grab me. I growled and stepped aside, nose lifting telling him however much I hated the interruption, what I smelled demanded my attention.

The distant murmur of a voice got him to his feet. He turned his nose into the breeze. His sense of smell wasn't as good as mine, but after a moment he caught it. His only reaction was a grunt, deep in his chest, the canine equivalent of a mildly curious "huh." When I started toward the source, he caught my hind leg in his jaws. Just a light tug, like catching my arm.

I looked back. He had his ears down, expression uncertain, cautious even. Normally, Clay's leading the charge and I'm holding back, but this was one situation where I was bolder than he.

I chuffed, getting his attention, then gave a slow shake of my head. I'd be careful, but I was going to investigate. He snorted, his jowls vibrating, huffed breaths hanging in the air. Fine, but he wasn't happy about it.

I took off at a lope, Clay at my heels. The sun was cresting the mountains now, the valley still gray and gloomy, with patches of snow glittering where the sun pierced the thick trees. It was a strangely eerie time of day, shadows playing with the light. More than once I thought I saw something and slowed, only to gaze out over empty forest.

We went a half mile before the distant murmur turned into three distinct male voices, and even then I couldn't make out what they were saying. For that, I'd need to concentrate, and I was focused on getting closer.

As the voices grew loud enough for me to eavesdrop without effort, Clay nipped my heels, saying we were too close already. I could have safely gone another fifty feet, but I stopped before those nervous nips became anxious bites.

I couldn't see the men, but their voices seemed to come from a lighter patch ahead, presumably the forest's edge. I circled to the east, until I could see a frozen lake through a gap in the trees. I kept circling, wide enough to keep Clay's complaints down to a steady grumble.

When I drew close to the forest's edge, I hunkered down, sliding across the snow on my belly. Clay tried to follow, wanting to stay close, but I chuffed and shook my head. He grumbled a little louder, but knew I was right. Our fur matches our hair color and, against a snowy backdrop, his gold caught the eye far better than my silvery blond.

I stuck my muzzle out beyond the tree line and took a deep breath. Four men-three standing, one on the ground. The scents didn't betray their positions; their voices did. For the three, their voices above my head told me their position. The scent of the fourth told me where he was. His smell was the one I'd caught back by the creek. The stink of decomposing flesh.

The smell wasn't overwhelming, but I should have picked it up while we'd been goofing around. I suspected it was no coincidence, then, that I'd noticed the smell and the voices at the same time. The corpse must have been buried under a layer of snow, now found and uncovered.

I pushed forward a few more inches. When my eyes passed the tree line, I could still make out only shapes in the twilight.

I shuffled another few inches forward. Clay's grumbling turned to growls. I stopped as soon as I could see the three standing figures. They were all too bundled to guess age, but I could take a good stab at occupation, given that two had badges on their hats and the third was in camouflage gear with a glow-in-the-dark vest.

At their feet lay the body… or what was left of it. Most of the clothing had been torn away. What remained was dark with frozen blood. Even up close it didn't smell too bad-a human nose would barely detect it. Freezing had kept decomp at bay, but by the time it got warm enough to stink, there wouldn't be anything left to smell. Being buried under the snow was the only thing that had stopped the scavengers from finishing what they'd begun.

I could tell that the body had been eaten, but unless I could get close enough to sniff it, I had no idea what had done the eating-wolf, werewolf, mink or one of the dozens of other predators out here. Even knowing what ate the man wouldn't tell me what killed him. At the tail end of a long winter, even wolves won't turn down free meat. And that, I realized when I concentrated on the men's speech, was exactly what they were saying.

"Fresh snowfall yesterday means no tracks today," the shorter cop said. "No way to tell if it was canine, ursine or homo sapiens."

"You think a person could have done this?" The taller cop's voice squeaked with surprise and youth.

"Eat poor Tom for dinner? I hope to hell not, but I wouldn't put it past some of the whack-jobs we get up here. I meant he could have been murdered, then eaten by scavengers. He's so chewed up, we might not ever know for sure."

"I always told Tom he was crazy," the hunter said. "Checking his traps at night. But it was his favorite time."

There was a moment of silence for the dead man.

The younger cop broke it first. "I saw some wolf tracks back there."

"Wolf?" the older cop said. "You sure about that?"

"I can tell canine from ursine, Reed."

"He means there's more than one kind of canine out here," the hunter said.

"And I mean don't go jumping to conclusions," the older cop said. "Folks hear about paw prints near a dead body and they start crying wolf."

"My money's on a wolf-dog," the hunter said. "City idiots think it's cool to own a dog that's half wolf… until it turns out there's some wild beast in their pet pooch. Fancy that. Then what do they do? Let them loose out here and tell themselves they've done the humane thing."

"That'd explain the big canine tracks people have been seeing since the pack moved on. A wolf-dog got dumped here, started harassing the pack, scaring off the prey, so they left. If an animal's been raised by people, it doesn't fear them. It gets hungry? That big hunk of meat on two legs looks damned tasty."

As I backed up, Clay huffed in relief and circled in front to herd me to safety. Even being raised near people had never erased that gut-level anxiety that said a human in the forest was a bad thing. In this case, his instinct was right. If these guys caught of glimpse of a big yellow wolf right now, we'd be picking shotgun pellets from our butts for weeks.

I started walking away, my nose to the ground, skimming it like a metal detector. Clay watched for a moment, then made that rumbling noise deep in his chest, one that said he'd rather get as far from these humans as possible, but I had a point. He put his nose down and joined my search.