Chapter Twenty-Six
NASH
I'm standing in the kitchen, drinking cold coffee, watching Aris tape a magazine around her forearm.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Improvised armor," she says, wrapping a layer of duct tape around a copy of National Geographic. "I read about it. If a dog bites, or a wolf, the teeth slide off the glossy paper. It protects the arteries."
She holds up her arm, tapping the taped-up magazine. "Plus, it's the 'Predators of the Serengeti' issue. I feel like that adds a layer of irony."
I stare at her. She's wearing every layer of wool she owns, her hair is braided back tight, she has a rifle leaning against her hip, and she's making jokes about irony while preparing to walk into a wolf den.
A week ago, she was wincing every time her boots rubbed a new blister.
"You," I say, shaking my head, "are terrifying."
"I'm adapting," she corrects. She tosses me a roll of tape and a copy of Field we walk with purpose. Running triggers the chase instinct."
"Walk with purpose," she repeats. "Got it. Like I'm late for a faculty meeting."
"Exactly. We head for the ridge. It's five miles. The snow is deep, but the crust should hold us this early in the morning."
"And the wolves?"
"They'll follow," I say honestly. "They'll flank us. They'll try to separate us. But they won't attack as long as we stay together and look dangerous."
"We look very dangerous," she says, patting her magazine-arm. "We look like ecoterrorists."
I laugh. It's a dry, cracked sound, but it feels good.
"Ready?"
"No," she says. "Let's go."
We step out into the blue-gray twilight.
The cold hits us like a slap. The air is still, frozen solid at twenty below zero. My breath plumes out in a white cloud.
The yard is empty. The dead Alpha is gone, dragged away by his packmates during the night. The only sign he was ever there is a smear of red on the snow and the smell of death that lingers in the crisp air.
"Eyes up," I whisper. "Scan the shadows."
We move toward the tree line. I take point. Aris stays five paces behind, scanning the rear, the rifle steady in her hands.
We hit the first line of trees. The shadows deepen.
Snap.
To my left.
I swing the shotgun. Nothing but spruce boughs heavy with snow.
"I see movement," Aris whispers. "Three o'clock. Parallel to us."
"Keep moving," I say. "Don't stop."
We hike. It's a grueling pace. The snowshoes bite into the crust, crunch-crunch-crunch, a rhythm that seems deafening in the silence.
Mile one passes. The adrenaline starts to burn off, replaced by the deep, grinding fatigue of vigilance. My calf registers every step now, sullen and hot under Aris's wrapping. She watches my gait more than the tree line. I don't tell her it's bad. She doesn't ask, which means she knows.
"Nash," Aris says softly.
"Yeah?"
"Tell me about the boat."
"What?"
"The boat," she says. "Reid's boat. Tell me the poker story again. Distract me. My brain is trying to calculate the bite force of a gray wolf, and I need it to stop."
Something like a grin tugs at my mouth. "It's called the Kingfisher. It's a forty-foot aluminum heavy-hauler. Reid won it in a poker game in Anchorage."
"Tell it like I haven't heard it."
"He went in with a pair of boots and came out with a boat. He spent a year welding it back together. It's ugly as sin, unpainted metal, dents everywhere, but it's got twin diesels that sound like the end of the world. Reid loves it more than he loves most people."
"And Rhys?" she asks. "Does he have a boat?"
"Rhys has a fleet," I say, stepping over a fallen log. "But they're all clean, painted, and properly insured. Rhys hates Reid's boat. He calls it 'The Liability.'"
"I think I like Rhys," she says. "He sounds organized."
"Rhys is the foundation," I admit. "Everything else stands on him. Finn is the glue. He keeps the rest of us from drifting apart. Kane's the roof, the oldest, the one who took the weight when we were kids and never once set it down. And Reid … Reid is the fire."
"And you?" she asks. "What are you?"
"I'm the anchor," I say. "I stay put. I hold the ground."
"Not anymore," she says. "You're moving pretty fast right now."
"I'm moving because I have you," I say. "Anchors are useless if the ship leaves."
We hit the base of the ridge. The terrain steepens. The trees thin out, giving way to rock and scrub brush.
"Heads up," I say. "We're exposed here."
As we start the climb, the pack makes its move.
They don't attack. They appear.
Five of them. They step out of the timber below us, lining up in a row. They sit down in the snow, watching us climb.
It's chilling. They're in no hurry. They're escorting us.
"They're waiting for us to slip," Aris says.
"Then don't slip."
We climb. My legs burn, and the stitched calf burns hottest, a hot wire under the bandage. The sweat freezing on my back feels like knives. But we keep moving, climbing higher, leaving the tree line behind.
Finally, we crest the ridge.
The view is spectacular. The sun is just breaking the horizon, painting the peaks in gold and fire. To the west, the strait lies flat and gray as hammered tin. To the south, the vast expanse of the valley.
And there, cemented into the rock, is the repeater tower. It's a small metal structure, covered in ice, humming faintly.
"We made it," Aris breathes, dropping to her knees in the snow.
"Not yet," I say. "Get the radio."
She pulls out the handheld VHF we grabbed off the mudroom charger, and I connect it to the repeater's auxiliary cable, a trick Finn taught me years ago.
"Power's green," I say, scraping a crust of frost off the status panel. "We're boosted."
I take the radio. I take a deep breath.
"This is it," I say. "If Reid is out there, he'll hear this."
I key the handset.
"Lantern Bay, Lantern Bay. This is Misty Meadows. Emergency traffic. Reid, pick up the damn phone. Over."
Static.
I wait. The wind howls over the ridge, cutting through my layers.
"Come on, Reid," I whisper. "Don't be sleeping."
Static.
Then, a voice cuts through the white noise. It's loud, clear, and annoyingly cheerful.
"Misty Meadows, this is the Kingfisher. I hear you loud and clear, brother. You sound terrible. Did you run out of coffee again?"
The relief hits me so hard my knees almost buckle.
"Reid," I choke out. "Listen to me. I have a situation."
"A situation? Like 'I need a beer' situation, or 'I need a medevac' situation?"
"A 'surrounded by wolves and need an extraction' situation," I say. "I need the boat. I need you at the shore below the ridge. Now."
The line goes quiet. The joking tone vanishes.
"Wolves?" Reid's voice is sharp now. "Are you and the girl safe?"
"We're secure for the moment. But we can't get out on the sled. We need heavy transport."
"I'm on my way," Reid says instantly. "I'm about twenty miles down the strait, running a supply line to the village. I can be there in an hour. But the coves are icing up, Nash. I'll have to break skim ice."
"Just get here," I say. "Bring Rhys if you can."
"Rhys is already with me," Reid says. "He's currently yelling at me about fuel consumption. We're coming, Nash. Hang tight. Kingfisher out."
I lower the radio. I look at Aris.
"They're coming," I say. "An hour."
She tips her head back, exhausted and beautiful. "An hour. We can do an hour."
She stands up and walks to the edge of the ridge, looking down at the wolves waiting below.
"Hey!" she yells at them. Her voice carries down the empty canyon. "You hear that? The cavalry is coming! And they're bringing a very big boat!"
The wolves look up. The black Beta tilts his head.
Then, he stands up. He lets out a short bark.
And the pack starts to climb.
"Nash," Aris says, stepping back from the edge. "They're coming up."
I rack the shotgun.
"Let them come," I say. "We have the high ground. We have the ammo. And in sixty minutes, we have a ride."
I stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder.
"Ready to be an anchor?" she asks.
"Ready," I say. "Let's hold the line."