Devon saw the pinprick flash of gunpowder, and before he even registered it, he was moving. Karl. It had to be. Without the detonator, he wouldn’t be able to set off the explosives, but he still had his rifle.
Arthur tipped his hat down low and hunched his shoulders as he walked down the slope in human form towards the Cluiche grounds. He had been traveling roughly northeast since his mother’s death two winters ago, searching for the man who had betrayed them. Now, he was so close he could taste it.
The Cluiche was hosted by a relatively new pack who had claimed territory deep and high up in the mountains, near a small lake they called Pine Creek. Noah had never been so far from his home, but he liked it here. He liked how none had questioned his request for a cabin alone with only his bodyguard, and how the alpha of the pack had looked Noah square in the eye when asking what they needed, instead of ignoring him in favor of Horace.
The rain had eased back to a steady falling mist when Zeke, in his wolf skin, made it home. He was sore, soaking wet, chest aching and guts cold with fear as he ran to the main lodge.