The Werewolf's Wife. Michele Hauf

branches stretched out over the car in front of them.

      “Shh,” he said, and sensed her heart beat a rapid pace.

      She’d said fear was good. That was true. But doing the right thing was also a good reason to stand tall and proud and never let them see you sweat.

      Times like this, he wouldn’t ask to be anywhere else. Sure, he felt it best to avoid confrontation. But if this pack were involved in the crime of blood sport, he wanted them to answer to his wrath.

      Glancing to Abigail, he conveyed a warning. She nodded and pointed at the ground, studiously placed her feet together, as if to say, “I’ll stay right here.”

      Not completely satisfied she would stay in the shadows, but unwilling to argue with an opponent who could win with a flick of her fingers, he stepped out beyond the car bumper. Here, where the tires had rolled over the packed snow, the ground crunched like Styrofoam under his boots.

      One of the wolves scented him, his head lifting and breath exploding in a foggy cloud before his face. Eyes narrowed, the ski-capped wolf turned to sight the new wolf walking casually toward them.

      “Chilly night, eh?” Ridge offered. “The match already begin?”

      “Yeah,” the one who was zipping up said, as Ski Cap approached Ridge cautiously. “Beer’s inside, and on the house. Or should I say on the barn? Ha!”

      “Martin, shut up,” Ski Cap snapped. “Who are you?” he asked Ridge, his pale eyes narrowing. “We’ve closed for the night. Full house. And I don’t recall you checking in earlier at the gate.”

      “I’m late. And I didn’t see a gate.” Ridge splayed out his hands, opening himself in an attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. His fingertips tingled though, his talons aching for the shift even as he told himself the situation was a bad one. “I brought a roll of cash for wagers.”

      The one in the back, Martin, chuckled and lifted his cup in a toast. “Benjamins!” He was already wasted, which was not so much a good thing as a warning.

      Ridge stepped up and the one in front, taller and slimmer than Ridge, but not lacking in bulk for his arms arched out from his muscled form, took a step forward, as well. He wore no coat, but instead a thick, insulated plaid shirt over black leather pants. He scented the wolf’s aggression, and tried not to put out his own surging rise to anger. He must remain calm if he wanted to gain admittance.

      “What’s your name?”

      “Richard Addison,” he answered. Few wolves knew him by his birth name.

      “What pack you with?”

      Now that was the question he couldn’t honestly answer without shutting down this reconnaissance adventure faster than a speeding bullet.

      “I just wanted a look at the fight,” he said. “Won’t bother anyone. Come on, we’re all brothers, yes?”

      He saw the fist swing toward his jaw, and caught it smartly with his open palm. The loud smack echoed in the still winter night. A bird fluttered out from high in a pine tree.

      Martin the beer drinker wobbled, but he observed their interaction with keen eyes.

      “Now that wasn’t very nice,” Ridge said. “I was being polite and all. Why’d you have to do that?”

      “I know who you are.” The capped wolf bounced in preparation to deliver another fist. “You’re the one who killed the Northern pack’s principal. Think you’re all high and mighty now, do you? Did you come to preach to us against torturing vampires?” He swung again.

      Ridge dodged the slow fist. The man’s breath reeked of beer but he wasn’t as inebriated as the other, who stood watching, his jaw hinged open and beer dribbling out of his tilted cup.

      “I’m not a preacher by any measure of the word.” Ridge lifted his fists in defense. He liked a good fistfight. No high kicks or martial arts moves for him. Keep it simple. Nothing fancy. A well-delivered fist trumped a kick to the jaw any day. Pummel your opponent’s weak spots and organs until he puked. “You know the blood sport has been outlawed.”

      “Yeah, yeah. Every decade or so the Council sends out a new list of stupid rules. We’re wolves, man. Don’t you want to live like one?”

      “We don’t need to kill to survive. And we certainly don’t need to celebrate the deaths of others. That kind of gang mentality makes all the rest of us look bad. Why don’t you think for yourself?”

      “I do, and I take great joy watching vampires tear out each other’s veins to get to the blood they crave.”