Monday morning. I’m up before dawn, running the south perimeter in wolf form because my human brain won’t shut up and the wolf needs the miles. Five miles along the fence line in the dark, paws on cold stone, lungs full of crisp air, and the fading scent of deer. The rhythm helps. The repetition. The ground solid under me, the territory known.
By the time I shift back and shower, I’ve almost stopped thinking about the way she looked at me yesterday outside the general store. Or the way shedidn’tlook at me. The nod and the turned shoulder and the careful blankness she put on her face before she walked away, as if the woman in the bar restroom had never existed.
Almost.
I pull on my clothes, grab coffee, and head to the Brennan hollow.
Garrett mentioned the drifter family yesterday. Dawes spotted them—unaffiliated, camped by the creek. Standard assessment. The kind of work I can do on autopilot, which is good, because my autopilot is about the best I’ve got this morning.
The hollow is a twenty-minute drive east. The kind of terrain where wolves who don’t want to be found can disappear. The track narrows to ruts, then to nothing, and I park where the forest thins and walk the last quarter mile to the creek.
The camp is in a cleared space near the water. A tent, a beat-up sedan with Oklahoma plates. Clean setup. The fire ring is contained, the tent staked properly, the car parked where it won’t block creek access. These are people who know how to live on the margins without making a mess. Not their first time.
I let my wolf come forward enough that my presence carries weight. Not a threat; a statement.I’m here. I’m ranked. Pay attention.
A man emerges from the tent. Barely more than a kid, dark hair, thin. He’s wary, the body language of a wolf facing someone higher up the chain. A woman behind him, a kid on her hip. Another kid peers around the tent flap. Not much older. I’m thinking displaced, probably broke with their pack. Not the first time I’ve seen youngsters do it. They’ll learn soon enough that life is hard out there for stray wolves. Probably go back.
“Morning. Conner Forrester. You’re on the edge of our territory.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” His voice is tight. Tired. “Just passing through. We’ll be moving on soon.”
“Where from?”
“Oklahoma.”
“How long you planning to stay?”
“Few days. No more.”
I study the camp again. The organization of it. The care. People who’ve been doing this long enough to have a system:set up fast, break down fast, leave no trace. Not criminals. Just wolves without a place.
I pull in a deep breath, scenting for signs that there’s something more than wolf here. Signs of magic. I don’t find it.
“We’re traditional here.” I keep my voice level. I’ve said these words dozens of times. “I have to ask about your bloodline. Pack protocol.”
The woman pulls the kid tighter against her hip. The child stares at me with round, dark eyes. The other one disappears behind the tent flap entirely.
“Clean,” the man says. “No magic.”
I study him. Study the wife. Their scent is unremarkable; no magic signatures. The man’s telling the truth. I’m certain of it.
“You’re fine to stay,” I say. “Town’s twenty minutes west if you need supplies. The general store on the main street carries most things.”
The man nods. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“All right. No trouble. Welcome to the area.”
I walk back to my truck. Standard. Routine. A family on the margins, assessed and cleared. No issues.
I drive. The Hill Country looks the way it’s always looked: beautiful, ordered, mine.
But the wife’s face stays with me.
The way she pulled the kid in when I saidbloodline. Not surprise… reflex. She’d heard the question before, and her body’s response was to shield her child before the answer came. Not because the child was guilty. Because experience had taught her that the answer matters more than innocence.
Clean. No magic.
How many times has she said that? At how many territory checkpoints, in how many states, in front of how many wolves like me? How many times has she held her kid and prayed the answer was good enough?