* * *
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The following Friday found me baking brownies for the gamers in the basement. Because there were no extra wolves living with us, I had all the ingredients I needed.
The pack’s ongoing pirate LAN game was open to anyone in the pack who wanted to play. But a couple of weeks ago a spin-off adventure in the Dread Pirate franchise had been released, this one designed to be played Dungeons & Dragons style. Which meant that players had to go in as a team and survive till the end. It was intended for four to eight pirates, and tonight the diehards had gathered for a game-until-we-drop that was expected to run at least until dawn.
Adam, Mary Jo, Ben, Warren, and Darryl had volunteered to test the waters. I wasn’t playing because the part of the game I really liked was killing my fellow pirates, not amassing imaginary treasure.
This afternoon, Sherwood had called me to say he was joining in. I didn’t get to ask him any questions, because he said what he had to say and hung up.
Sherwood had showed up tonight, his one-eyed, half-grown kitten riding on his shoulder like a prince of India riding on an elephant. He hadn’t said anything to me, just waved and headed rapidly downstairs, where the rest of the pirate crew were already gathered.
I put the brownies in the oven and licked the spoon. They’d been at it for about three hours. Jesse had watched for a while, but Tad and Izzy had come over. They’d set up in the big meeting room to use the projector system to play YouTube math videos. Calculus 101, I was informed, was a flunk-out course, and they were all planning on acing it.
The stairs creaked, and I looked over to see Sherwood carrying dishes.
“I’ve been knocked overboard and retrieved unconscious,” he reported. “We’ll find out in ten minutes of gameplay whether or not I survive.”
Sherwood’s eyes looked happy, I thought, as he reached up to scratch Pirate—the cat—under his chin. He flexed his white mittened feet into Sherwood’s shirt and purred.
“Experiment a success?” I asked as Sherwood moved away to put the dishes in the sink.
He looked at me.
“No urges to kill Adam and become Alpha in his place?” I clarified.
He smiled. “None,” he said, then sobered. “I still don’t remember how to tone down how dominant I am when I want to. Which means that Darryl and Warren and I might have to dust up a bit to put everything in order. But not now—because my wolf understands that a dustup might hurt the pack’s ability to defend our territory, and we are at war.” He shook his head. “Wolf logic for you. But yes, Adam and I are all right. And Warren and Darryl and I can engage in mock battle without anyone getting riled.”
“Because?” I asked.
“Because the pair of you together make a better Alpha than I would,” said Sherwood.
I frowned. “That’s not how being Alpha works.”
“Not usually, I grant you,” said Sherwood. “But the way the magic of this pack works, you two are one.” He smiled, a sharp expression. “Coyote’s daughter brings something to the mix. I felt it that night—when Adam was fighting off the Soul Taker.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “We know that you were the Great Beast of Northumberland. Were any of the other guesses right in the betting pool?”
He grinned at me, a sudden happy expression, but before he could say anything, we were interrupted.
“Pegleg!” Ben’s shout rose from the basement. “Get your arse down here. You’re waking up and there’s a bleeding kraken after us!”
“All hands!” bellowed Captain Wolf Larsen （Adam）。
“Coming, Captain!” Sherwood’s cat clung easily as Sherwood ran down the stairs.
I pulled the brownies out of the oven and set them to cool before I frosted them. As I got out the ingredients for the frosting, I heard the soft sound of a violin being played in my backyard.
I looked out the window over the sink. Night had fallen and it was darker outside than in my kitchen, so I couldn’t see very well, but I thought there were people sitting on the picnic tables in the backyard.
I went outside, shutting the door quietly behind me. As I stepped out, there was a flurry of movement and small shadows scattered away. My eyes couldn’t quite catch them, though I could hear the sound of wings and the rustling of dry grasses.
“Your people?” I asked Tilly, who, in her guise of a ten-year-old girl, was sitting on the ground, her face intent.
She nodded but kept her rapt gaze on Wulfe as if she’d never heard music before. I listened for a few more bars, searching for the title of the familiar piece, and finally found it—The Lark Ascending.