Fairytale - Wolf Given - Part II

[maderr]

*~*~*

He woke with a groan, and for a moment could not figure out why he was unable to hold a hand to his head.

Only after some struggling did he realize that it was because he wasn't in a form that had hands. He was wolf, and after a few attempts to alter that state, he realized he couldn't.

It was just as well, really. As awareness grew stronger, he saw he was in a cage. Crude, but effective, for the wooden bars of it were carved with magic that mere strength would never overpower – and everywhere were bundles of wolfbane. Damn it.

Her scent. The girl's scent had triggered something and made him stupid. He remembered that much.

Grosvenor. Where was the wolf given? Was he all right? Had Ulrich's stupidity caused Grosvenor to be caught as well? Perhaps he had been smart enough to escape, to work out some other way of rescuing the girl.

His brothers, Ulrich thought with a sigh, would never have been so stupid. How could he have been taken in by such an obvious trap? Perhaps if he had not been so busy wondering about Grosvenor… but that was no excuse. He should have been paying more attention.

Ulrich whimpered and again berated himself, pacing restlessly about the tiny confines of his cage as best he was able. Out. He needed out. There was nothing worse than being trapped, and he wanted out now to find the child and his wolf given.

Then his own thoughts drew him up short, and he whined, laying down to his bury his head in his paws. It was natural to be possessive; wolves were very possessive by nature. Grosvenor was wolf given, which woke everyone one of those possessive instincts—even if the idea of a wolf given high mage going to a lowly seventh son was laughable.

Pack, that was it. He wanted Grosvenor for his pack. He would be a splendid addition, even with that grouchiness, and the pack would appreciate him. Why was a wolf given hiding away in the lowlands? What pack had been stupid enough to let him go, and why? Few were the crimes for which one such as Grosvenor would be banished or otherwise forced to leave.

He whined again, and set the thoughts aside. There was little point in thinking about the wolf given when he was trapped in a spelled cage in the lair of a child-eating witch.

No scents reached him, an agonizing state of affairs. Thanks to the spells and the wolfsbane, he could smell nothing past the confines of his cage. He could see, though, and what he saw was a dismal cellar filled with barrels of food, herbs hanging from the ceiling, crates and bottles and jars. He did not think he wanted to know what some of those things contained, and was almost grateful he could not smell the truth.

The sound of movement drew his attention, and he tensed as he saw the cellar door swing open…and small, dirty feet appeared on the stairs. He watched intently as the little girl walked toward him, carefully carrying a large, heavy bucket.

She moved to the corner of his cage and tipped the contents of the bucket into a large porcelain bowl in the corner of the cage that until then he had not paid much attention.

Water. He couldn't smell it, damn it all, but he could see it well enough.

He moved closer to the bars, peering at the little girl. She was drugged—heavily. There was not a single lowland child who was not unnerved by the sight of a wolf, and if this one had nearly been the meal for a wolf turned feral…she should be running, or at the very least crying. Some show of fear. Yet she stood still and patient, as though waiting for something. Her eyes looked wrong…fuzzy, or something, around the edges. Distant and vague, certainly. Whatever she was really seeing, it was not him or even their surroundings.

Poor thing. Little girls were meant to be given ribbons and sweets, and taken up on shoulders to ride around the village for a bit, before being sent back to their mamas. He'd always liked his little nieces and cousins and all the other pups in the village who came along to play with 'Uncle Rich'.

Thoughts of home depressed him, for locked away in this miserable cage in the cellar of a witch—and all because of his own stupidity—home seemed further away than ever. He continued to watch the girl, curious as to her reasons for lingering.

She stared at him, then at the water, then at him again. Then she repeated it.

It was drugged.

He didn't know how he knew it, but he knew it as well as his own name. The water was poisonous, and he did not care to find out what it was intended to do to him. With a witch in residence, there was any number of possibilities, none of them appealing.

Chuffing, he got his muzzle beneath the bowl and upended it, spilling the water out onto the floor beyond the cage.

The girl gave a faint, whispery smile that was gone as quickly as it had come, then slowly turned and walked back the way she had come.

Left alone in the near-total dark, Ulrich lay down and wondered miserably what he was going to do.

He did not know how long he remained in that hell, only that the girl came three times more with water he promptly poured out, despite the growing agony of his thirst and hunger. It was, as plans went, a sound one. If the witch suspected, for whatever reason, that he was not drinking it, time alone would be enough to eventually force him to it. Food he could do without for some time; water he could not.

Before that became a problem, however, someone new came to visit him.

Though completely drained of energy, Ulrich stood and growled, his fur standing on end as he took in the woman who was too young and pretty and perfect to be real.

He barked loudly, sharply, hackles up as the witch drew closer, longing to bite her face off, to rip out her throat and make her suffer for all the pain she had caused others. For caging him, for taking Grosvenor, or for leaving him for dead.

The woman laughed, a sound that raked across his raw nerves. "You're even prettier than the last one," she said, curling her hands around the bars of the cage, mocking him with the gesture. He could not touch the bars and she knew it, the bitch. "No wonder that damned mage is so angry with me."

Grosvenor was alive? Ulrich did not want to get his hopes up, but he could not deny that tiny bit of information eased him.

She laughed again, tossing back long, gold hair over one shoulder. "He killed the last one. I had hoped you would serve me better, pretty highland wolf, but I see you have not even been drinking your water."

He drew back as she slowly knelt, growling low and deep as she smiled in a way that made him want to run and attack in equal measure. "Bad wolf. Do what I say and drink the water, or I will do far worse than this to your pretty mage."

She threw something at him—and Ulrich abruptly saw red.

A finger. It was Grosvenor's little finger.

"I was going to eat it," she said with a laugh, "but I thought it would be better off going to you."

Hot rage poured through him, acerbated by the shame that this was his fault. Beyond thinking, beyond reason, he threw himself at the bars – and howled in pain as the magic burned him, stabbed through his system like a thousand knives.

He paused to recover his ability to breathe, then did it again.

All the while the witch laughed and laughed. "That's right," she crowed. "Exhaust yourself. Expend that energy. Then you will have no choice!"

Snarling, he threw himself at the bars again, that little finger spurring him on every time the pain became too much to bear.

He felt dizzy. Nauseous. Shaky. But more than anything, he felt angry. Shoving back everything else, he threw himself at the bars one last time—and heard a definitive cracking sound.

Then abruptly he was free, just barely standing on shaky legs on the dirt floor of the cellar.

The witch gaped at him, both of them frozen from the shock.

He recovered first, and before she could run or cast a spell, he was at her throat. Her blood was hot and tangy, with some foul taste that made him retch as he finally pulled away. When his stomach finally gave up trying to leave his body, and the taste of blood had been washed away by the bitter nastiness of stomach acid, he half-walked, half-stumbled his way to and up the stairs.

Grosvenor was tied up on the bed, and seemed to be unconscious. One hand was poorly bandaged and crusted with blood, more blood dripped down the bed frame to pool on the floor.

Ulrich whined, then attempted to shift—and gasped in relief when it finally worked. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled his way to the bed and dropped down on the edge of it.

He whined low in his throat as he took in Grosvenor's battered state. Though his ability to smell had returned to him, he still could not smell Grosvenor. That would not do, and though it was a huge breach of etiquette, Ulrich reached out and yanked away the charm around Grosvenor's neck.

The scent of Grosvenor struck him hard, crashing through even the haze of pain that had come with fighting magic with brute strength. He smelled of blood and herbs and fear, but he also smelled of the highlands, of wolves, of magic.

Tearing himself away from the sight of Grosvenor bruised and bloody, passed out from pain and sheer exhaustion, he looked around the small cabin for something to cut the ropes. At last spying a dagger, he stood and slowly crossed the room to fetch it.

It was clean, almost eerily so. He wondered if she had used this to cut off Grosvenor's little finger, and felt anger stir anew in his blood. Returning to Grosvenor, he cut the ropes and then drew him close. He breathed in Grosvenor's scent, storing it away to remember forever, wondering if he could ever be forgiven for letting this happen.

He let go of his fierce grip only when he felt movement, sensed Grosvenor waking. He drew back just enough to look into Grosvenor's autumn colored eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "Besides…your finger…"

Grosvenor nodded, and pushed him away, shifting until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're not feral," he said after a moment, as he slowly began to unwind the bandage around his left hand. "She said…"

"The girl managed to let me know the water she was giving me was poisoned," Ulrich said, then drew up short. "The girl. Where is the girl?"

Immediately Grosvenor left off with his bandages, though it was obvious he was in a great deal of pain, and stood up. He strode toward a door in the back of the cabin, and pushed it open.

Ulrich followed close behind him, into what proved to be a kitchen. He carefully avoided investigating any of the lingering scents.

The little girl was huddled by the fire, shivering despite the almost stifling heat of the room. She looked up, tears pouring down her cheeks—and stared in disbelief at what she saw. For a long moment she was silent, then she bolted to her feet and ran toward Grosvenor. "Hunter! Hunter!"

She sobbed in his arms as Grosvenor quietly soothed her with meaningless murmurs, holding her in a tight embrace. Finally, when it seemed she was going to make herself sick from crying, he whispered a few soft words and she went limp in his arms.

"There," he said, "she'll sleep until I wake her."

Biting back all the things he wanted to say and ask, Ulrich nodded and turned. "Let's get out of here."

"The witch won't follow us?" Grosvenor asked.

Ulrich remembered the taste of bitter blood in his mouth, and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth in an attempt to ward off another fit of retching. "She's dead," he finally managed, and without another word led the way from the kitchen.

They lingered just long enough to gather supplies and find their things, then they left the gingerbread house as quickly as their weakened states permitted.

Only an hour or so passed before they simply could not go another step. Making a fire took the last of Ulrich’s energy, and then he must have dozed off, because when he woke again it was dark.

He looked around, and immediately saw the shadowy forms of Grosvenor and the child. She was still fast asleep, but he could see Grosvenor was awake. "I'm sorry," he said into the silence. "It was stupid of me to fall into that trap."

Grosvenor stirred in the dark, idly tossing a twig into the flames. "No," he said slowly. "You could not see the trap she laid, and she laid it well. I did not even sense it until too late. How in the hell did you break free?"

Ulrich made the mistake of trying to sit up, and hissed in pain. "I beat through the spells," he said when he trusted his voice. "She…" he swallowed. "She threw your finger into the cage, and I lost it. I threw myself at the bars until magic simply wasn't enough to sustain them.."

"You fought your way through a magic barrier?" Grosvenor exclaimed. "That should have killed you. What in the hell were you thinking?"

"That you were suffering and it was my fault, and if I did not get free, we all would die," Ulrich replied quietly. "Are you all right?"

Grosvenor was silent for a moment. Being able to smell him…Ulrich thought he would be miserable when Grosvenor finally made a new Wolfsbane Charm. He smelled good, even with the lingering taints of blood and herbs, the ruined state of his clothes, and all their days hiking through the woods.

"I'm fine," Grosvenor said at last. "My hand hurts, but I've endured worse pain. Once we get home, everything can be set to rights. Thank you, for rescuing us."

Ulrich shrugged off the gratitude, uncomfortable with a Grosvenor who was not biting his head off. "It was my fault we were captured in the first place. I came along to help, but got us into worse trouble than you would have found otherwise."

"There is no way to say that for certain," Grosvenor replied.

Making a face, Ulrich slowly moved around the fire until they were sitting next to each other. "Shouldn't you be yelling at me, or something? I do not trust this nice part of you. I expected to have my head bitten off for screwing up."

He could tell that his words had startled Grosvenor, and almost thought he heard the faintest of laughs. Grosvenor threw another twig into the fire. "I'll yell at you later, wolf. Right now, I simply do not have the energy. She was going to eat me, did you know that? I guess my being wolf given added something to me and my magic, that she wanted badly to have."

Ulrich could not help the hot satisfaction that came with those words. "Of course," he replied. "You were bitten by a wolf and given the barest essence of wolf. Nothing improves the blood like wolf."

Grosvenor let out a sharp bark of laughter, and Ulrich had a sneaking suspicion he was rolling his eyes. "Of course," he said dryly. "Spoken like a true wolf. I have not missed that arrogance."

He was lying, Ulrich knew it. Grosvenor was truly wolf given; born and raised to it, bitten, bearing a collar, and completely at ease with him no matter what form he took. Rare was the wolf given who took so naturally and beautifully to it. He was made to be with wolves, of course he would miss them.

Even the arrogance.

The question escaped him before he could bite it back. "Why are you here, and not with a pack?"

Beside him, Grosvenor stiffened.

Ulrich did not think he was going to answer, but just when he opened his mouth to apologize, Grosvenor replied, voice soft and sad in the dark, face just out of reach of the firelight. "My marriage to Pack Rothenberg was arranged two years before I was born," he said slowly. "When I was twelve, and bitten, it was at last decided I would marry the Alpha's eldest son. I was chosen over the daughter of another Alpha, and they had dithered long over whom he would marry.

“He had no interest in me, however. Thirteen years separated us, and his interests always lay elsewhere. When I was sixteen, I stupidly let a lone wolf seduce me. I thought I was in love with him. You can figure out the rest, I’m certain."

Wincing, Ulrich nodded and did not bother to ask him to finish the tale. It was easy enough to put together the rest of the picture.

The history of the Packs was filled with such stories – a pup seduced by a wolf, convinced to run away, and abandoned somewhere along the way. Pride, however, was in generous supply in the packs. If Grosvenor had tried to return, even being wiser for the experience and sorry for it, his family would not have taken him back. If the pack had acknowledged him at all, it would not have been in any kind way.

Hell, his grandmother had been the youthful victim in such a scenario—except his grandfather had forgiven her. He'd heard the story a thousand times growing up, because it was an outrage for years that he had forgiven her for running away with another wolf.

He reached out unthinkingly to find Grosvenor's hand, curling his own around it, shame pouring through him as he felt the place where a finger should be—but Grosvenor did not pull away. "I am sorry, wolf given. You should come home with me; we would take a wolf given high mage."

"Yeah, right," Grosvenor said bitterly, and finally withdrew his hand. "Shut up, wolf, and go back to sleep. We've got hard traveling in front of us, and very little food to keep us going. Stop wasting energy on pointless conversations."

Smiling in the dark, unable to not, Ulrich obediently bedded down to sleep. Memories of the dead witch tried to rise up to haunt him, but the scent of Grosvenor drove out all else, and moments later he was lost to a deep sleep.

*~*~*

They reached Gretel's cabin a couple of days later, driven on by dreams of baths and hot meals and real beds.

At least, Ulrich hoped he would be getting all of the above, but under the circumstances he would not begrudge anyone too much if they simply sent him packing.

When they arrived, the old woman—Gretel, he recalled—was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the cottage. She went still as she saw them, then stood, gathered up her skirts, and actually ran as they drew near. "Oh, my baby, you found my baby," she said, and took the girl in her arms, kissing and petting and crying.

Ulrich smiled, and looked at Grosvenor, startled when he smiled back.

He made himself look away, and focused instead on the old woman and child, hanging back slightly when they and Grosvenor made to return to the cottage.

Grosvenor stopped when he realized Ulrich was not with them. "Well?" he snapped. "Are you coming?"

"Wouldn't it be better if I went?" Ulrich asked, trying hard not to think about what kind of food the old woman might cook for them. He could smell meat, and bread, and he wanted it bad. "Me being a wolf and all?"

"Shut up and move it," Grosvenor said, and turned to stalk off.

Ulrich smiled, shook his head, and followed after him.

Inside, the cottage was warm and smelled like food and warmth and like it had been lived in for a very long time. Loath to ruin the floor, he yanked off his boots with the last of his energy and left them just outside, then padded after Grosvenor into the cabin.

He moved to the fire and promptly sat down to sit beside it for a while, groaning when he felt soft fur beneath him and not sticks and leaves and damp earth. If it were allowed, he would sleep right here for a week straight. Possibly two.

Then Gretel removed the lid from a steaming pot set on the back of her stove, and the hint of meat he had caught before exploded into the most magnificent smelling stew he'd ever had the good fortune to smell. His stomach growled audibly, but he was too enthralled by the food to care.

Gretel laughed, and a moment later brought him a large bowl of it, topped with slices of buttered bread. "Here you are; it's the very least I can offer for all you've done for me, and after we were so rude to you at the start."

"You had reason," Ulrich muttered, and then lost all interest in talking or anything that did not involve eating. He barely even noticed when his empty bowl was promptly replaced by another, not stopping until three bowls of the stuff had been devoured and he at last was ready to stop. For now. "That was perfect."

Laughing again, Gretel took away the last of his dishes and put them all in a washing tub. "I'm glad you like it. Thank you for helping to rescue Annie, and from what I hear you saved Gros as well."

How much had he missed while he was eating? Ulrich shook his head. "It was my fault we were captured, the least I could do was get us free again. Anyway, I partially failed, as Grosvenor did not escape without permanent injury…"

He would always feel guilty about that, and would never forget the image of that finger thrown upon the floor of his cage.

Gretel clucked her tongue, then stood from where she had sat on the edge of her bed to check on Annie, who remained fast asleep. "Yes, let me see your finger, dear," she said to Grosvenor. Moving to a small cabinet in the kitchen area, she pulled out a basket that Ulrich saw was filled with bandages, tinctures, and other healing miscellany.

Grosvenor grimaced, but obediently unwound the makeshift bandages he had fashioned from his own clothing.

Clucking again, face lined with dismay and disapproval, Gretel set to properly tending the wound. "At least it's a clean cut," she said. "Nor is it infected, which is good, for else your entire hand may have had to go." She finished treating it, wrapped a fresh bandage, and smiled. "There. It'll never be good as new, obviously, but it will be as close as you can get."

"Thank you, Gretel," Grosvenor murmured. "I don't suppose we could trouble you for some soap and hot water, if we do the hauling? I feel like I'm wearing half the forest right now."

"Of course, dear," Gretel said. "I'll get it all ready, if you two are up to hauling the water."

Groaning, but unable to resist the chance at a proper bath, Ulrich hauled himself to his feet. It took nearly an hour of miserable scooping and hauling, but they did at last get the bathtub filled, with extra buckets of hot water nearby.

He let Grosvenor go first, while the old woman vanished to do other things to give them privacy. For his part, he tried to keep his eyes to himself, but they were irresistibly drawn to the wolf bite, as seared into his mind as Grosvenor's scent.

Wolf given. He belonged with wolves – real wolves – and not buried here in the lowlands to deal with pathetic lowland wolves and witches.

Looking away from the scar only caused his eyes to look at other portions of Grosvenor, until finally Ulrich had to stand up and go poke around the cabin lest Grosvenor catch him and decide to fetch his bow and arrow.

He wanted to go home, and he wanted Grosvenor to go with him. After all of this, and given how hard he had worked for the King, he was certain he could persuade his superiors to grant him an early release. Then he could return home, and with his wolf given—

Who would never be his, he realized, the thought knotting his stomach. Not that it mattered, because it didn't…but wolves were possessive, and he'd found the wolf given. Finders keepers.

Except that wasn't true. That he'd found Grosvenor counted for nothing. He was a seventh son, and even the fact his father was the Alpha did not much improve his standing. Seventh sons were last resorts, used most often to send to other packs. They did not get wild mages.

The thought should not have been as depressing as it was, and Ulrich turned away from pondering the whys of it, staring out the window at the forest they had only recently left behind. He was in no hurry to return to it, unless it was because he was headed home.

"Your turn," Grosvenor said from behind him.

Nodding, Ulrich moved to the tub and stripped out of his foul clothes. Gretel had kindly left some clean ones for both of them, saying they had once belonged to her husband, several years dead now.

Sliding into the water, happy it was still more than a little warm, he was more than content to simply soak for a bit. Only when the water began to really cool did he move to scrub himself clean. When at last he ran out of excuses to stay in the water, he grabbed a towel and climbed out.

The back of his neck prickled, and he turned—to see Grosvenor staring hard out the window, a scowl on his face.

He'd definitely felt someone watching him. Had Grosvenor liked what he'd seen? Ulrich bit back a grin, not quite able to explain why he was grinning, and swiftly dressed in the waiting clothes. Feeling more like himself than he had in days, he started to clean up the mess they had made.

Getting the water out of the tub was much easier than getting it in. An hour later, they sat before the fire with mugs of tea and slabs of some sweet cake he'd never had before.

Gretel laughed as she handed him a third piece. "Your mother must have despaired of ever getting your stomach full," she said teasingly. "Though, I seem to recall that all boys and men come with that challenge."

Smiling sheepishly, Ulrich ate the last piece of cake as quickly as he had the first two, then finished off his tea. "Your cooking is magnificent."

"It's what drew my husband's attention my way," Gretel said proudly. "I could cook better than any woman in the village."

"The whole country," Ulrich declared, and beamed when she cut him a fourth slice.

Grosvenor rolled his eyes.

"So will Annie be all right?" Gretel asked, moving to check on her again.

"Yes," Grosvenor replied, sipping his own tea and slowly eating what was only his second piece of cake. "I put her into a deep sleep, before we started back. She should wake in another day or two. It's entirely possible she'll think the entire thing a dream, and if so, I would not press her to think otherwise."

Gretel nodded in agreement, and looked at Ulrich. "It's nice to see a good wolf, for once. Grosvenor has said such a thing existed, but I confess I never really believed him."

Ulrich blinked, then looked Grosvenor, who was scowling into his tea. He grinned, and turned back to Gretel. "Did he really? My mother would say otherwise, but I have always tried to be a good wolf."

"Your mother would be very proud of what you've done for Annie and Gros."

His mother would knock him upside the head for falling into the trap, and remind him that his eldest brothers would never be so stupid, but he was happy he had not gotten anyone killed. "I am happy I could help, and am grateful for your hospitality."

"You're just happy to have a full stomach, wolf, and angling for breakfast."

"Which he'll get," Gretel said with amusement. "Now, you both must be tired. If you'll fetch some more firewood, I'll put out the blankets and pillows for you to bed down before the fire."

More than happy to comply if it meant he could finally sleep, Ulrich stood and stretched with a groan, then headed for the door.

Grosvenor followed him, and then led the way to the shed a few yards away from the house and the firewood stacked along one side of it.

"I'm probably headed home in a couple of months," Ulrich said into the quiet, not certain what in him provoked the words.

"Good for you," Grosvenor said with a shrug that Ulrich could only just see in the growing dark. "Try not to get caught by any more witches."

Ulrich seized upon that statement. "You could come along and make certain of it, since obviously I'm easy prey for witches?"

"What?" Grosvenor asked, dropping the wood he'd picked up. "You weren't serious about that."

"I was," Ulrich said. "My pack would welcome you. I told you, the only wild mages we have are both old. I don't think either one is as capable as you've proven to be. You're wolf given, you should be with wolves."

Grosvenor blew out an irritated breath. "Meant to be with wolves—and all of you decided that before I was even conceived. What makes you think I even want to go back, or waste any more of my time on a pack of idiots? Forget it; I live here now."

"You miss the highlands—why else would you cling to your accent? Why else would you curl up with me, despite my being in wolf form? And you told that old woman that there were good wolves, even if you told me you thought all of us were bad." When Grosvenor said nothing, he went in for the kill. "You still wear your collar."

"Shut up," Grosvenor snarled, even as his hand jerked as he stopped it from reaching for the collar in question.

Ulrich reached out and touched it himself, curling his fingers under it and tugging hard to bring Grosvenor just a little bit closer. The sudden urge to kiss him rose up and Ulrich squashed it for the stupid impulse it was, because Grosvenor was not his to kiss and there was no reason to, anyway. "Come home with me," he urged. "Return to the highlands with me. If you decide you cannot stay, I'll escort you back here myself, and no hard feelings." He bit back an urge to say 'please' because wolves did not beg, even if he wanted to for some strange reason.

"I was rejected by one pack," Grosvenor snarled. "I don't feel like facing that a second time."

He tried to move away, but Ulrich grabbed his shoulders, made him stay. "You won't. I promise my pack will welcome you, on my life. I—we would love you to join our pack. I know it."

Grosvenor stared at him, and even in the dark he could feel the weight of those eyes. "Why should I believe you?" Grosvenor finally asked, voice bitter—but the slightest hint of hope, of longing, was all Ulrich needed to hear.

Victory was so close he could nearly taste it. "I don't think I've ever even heard much about Pack Rothenberg, so obviously they are nothing but a pack of fools. Schwarzenberg is not so stupid." Impulsively he reached up and unfastened his own collar, then fastened it around Grosvenor's neck before Grosvenor could move away. "Come home with me, wolf given. You belong with pack, and mine will claim you gladly."

He heard the catch in Grosvenor's breath, but did not remark on it. He simply waited, and hoped…

"All right," Grosvenor said, the words barely audible, and Ulrich could tell he was already wondering if that was the answer he should have given.

"Then give me yours," Ulrich said, and waited, tense, as Grosvenor obediently undid his own white leather collar and fastened it around Ulrich's throat.

It felt strange, different than the one he had worn nearly all his life. But Grosvenor was sunk into the leather, and he found he rather liked having the scent of Grosvenor so close to him. "I have to return to the castle, to receive my formal release and permission to go home. That will take a few weeks. Did you want to come with me, or shall I return here for you?"

"Return," Grosvenor said stiffly, and began slowly to gather up firewood again. "I have to pack, and make certain Annie and Gretel will be all right. Take care of my own cabin."

"All right," Ulrich said. "You will come with me?"

"Yes," Grosvenor snapped. "You have my damned collar, wolf, and I have yours. That is a promise made; do not insult me by questioning it."

Ulrich smiled in the dark and murmured apologies, hoping the next few weeks moved quickly.