Dead of Night

  More foxes charged, and Storm let her fury overwhelm and consume her. The part of her that was dreaming and aware expected the shadows to fall and the scene to go black. Storm expected to wake up. But she didn’t.

  Instead, this time, she saw everything.

  She saw herself snap at one fox and then another. She smacked one to the ground and trod hard on its face, grinding it into the mud. She watched herself in horror as she leaped right into the middle of the group of foxes—a stupid thing to do, no matter how small the enemy. She could have been flanked and overwhelmed.

  But she wasn’t. Storm saw terror gleaming in the foxes’ amber eyes as they cowered back from her raking claws, her slavering jaws and snapping teeth.

  She saw, too, the unease in the eyes of the other dogs. Storm floated above herself, able to turn and see that her Packmates had stopped fighting. There were no foxes left for them to fight. Storm was taking on all the not-dogs herself, biting and snarling, while the other dogs backed away.

  Storm felt the snap of a fox’s leg in her jaws and heard its howl of anguish. She saw the foxes retreat and felt herself start to run after them. She hadn’t finished with them yet. She wasn’t going to be finished until they all lay still at her paws. . . .

  Then there was a pressure against her flank, trying to push her down.

  Arrow.

  Except . . . no, this wasn’t Arrow. It felt different. The paws were smaller, weaker. They were scrabbling gently, trying to get her attention. . . .

  She turned her head, dream-dog and dreaming-dog moving together, and saw Whisper with his paws resting on her side. She flinched back, but he kept his paws on her. His eyes were still blank, clouded over with death, but there was a look on his face that was almost . . . friendly.

  “Storm, no,” he said. “You’re better than this. You don’t need to be so vicious. You’re a Good Dog, a Brave Dog!”

  Storm wanted to believe him more than anything in the world.

  But then she felt another flood of rage, harsher than the first. How dare he keep saying that? How could he tell her she was a Good Dog, after what she had done?

  She turned on Whisper, and he didn’t resist as she knocked him to the ground and sank her teeth into his neck. . . .

  Storm’s paws ached with the cold, and for a moment she stared down at the water rushing by, thinking she was still dreaming. She had run to the stream, Whisper’s blood still on her muzzle. Mickey would come and fetch her and perhaps she would kill him, too. . . .

  But the ground under her paws was mud and sand, not hard stones, and she wasn’t back in the foxes’ territory. She was at the river, and she was awake now.

  Storm recoiled, bounding back to the riverbank, trailing droplets after her. She shivered, looking around. She had wandered a long way. She was half-relieved that at least she’d left the camp and the other dogs far behind her, but even so, she felt disappointed with herself. How could she have let herself sleep deeply enough to dream? She’d thought she was getting so good at jerking herself awake before the darkness could take her. . . .

  In fact, when had she gone to sleep at all? She stood and watched the river running by, trying not to let herself panic. She found herself listening out for howls of fear and grief, for a sign she might have done something terrible while the dream-Storm had been battling the foxes . . . and poor Whisper. . . .

  She shook herself, flinging away drops of river water, and tried to focus. When had she last been in the den? What was the last thing a dog—a real dog—had said to her? It was something about a hunt. . . .

  “There you are!”

  Storm turned, almost tripping over her own paws in her surprise. It was Arrow. He pricked his pointed ears when he saw her wet fur.

  “You must be eager to get going,” he said, without any hint of fear in his voice. “But you can’t hunt by yourself, you know. You have to wait for the rest of us.”

  That’s right! Storm remembered in a flash. I agreed to go on a hunt in the woods by the river—I just wanted to rest my eyes first. I must have remembered where I was supposed to go, despite myself.

  “I just wanted to wash my leg in some cool water,” she said. It wasn’t totally a lie—her wound was definitely feeling better than it had when she lay down.

  Her relief redoubled when the dogs who joined Arrow at the top of the bank turned out to be Bella, Mickey, and Daisy—dogs who trusted her, who looked at her without that terrible unease in their eyes. They waited for her to scramble up to join them, but said nothing more about her journey to the river by herself, or any trouble back at camp.

  It still wasn’t a good sign that she had been sleepwalking, but at least she had walked to somewhere that she knew and had not hurt any dog along the way.

  Bella was leading the hunting patrol, and Storm and the others followed her to a place where the trees stretched right down to the edge of the river, crowding thickly together. Storm remembered she had caught a large weasel here once, and she’d scented other creatures too, ones she wasn’t quite familiar with. There would be no big, flashy kills like deer or tusknose here, but if they were lucky, they might catch many small treats for the Pack.

  “Daisy, you go along the river and double back toward us,” Bella ordered. “Try to scare any prey you find back this way. The rest of us will fan out and make our way through until we meet on the other side of the trees. Arrow, Storm, Mickey: Be ready to pounce on anything that moves.”

  Storm gave Bella a nod to signal that she’d understood, and then walked a little way along the tree line, leaving Bella closest to the riverbank, and Arrow between Bella and Storm. Mickey trotted past Storm to take up his position a rabbit-chase farther down, and at a signal from Bella, they all began to walk slowly into the shadow of the trees.

  The day was dim and cool underneath the canopy of leaves. Storm was almost distracted from the hunt by how thick the branches were, and how green everything smelled. Whatever dog had called this season New Leaf had named it well—there were more leaves than she could ever count in a hundred seasons. She could hear birds up in the branches—small ones, twittering away to one another, far too high and fast for the dogs to catch.

  She couldn’t smell very much prey, though. In fact, she couldn’t even smell Arrow or Mickey anymore. The trees grew so thickly here. Everything seemed so still.

  Storm stopped and raised her head, sniffing. She could scent only what was right in front of her—the trees, the new leaves, and the odd hole where a prey-creature had made its den once, but wasn’t there anymore. But it wasn’t because those things smelled most strongly, it was because there was no breeze to carry other scents to her.

  It’s like the Wind-Dogs are . . . somewhere else. Not here.

  She wondered if it was just this part of the wood, and what Alpha would say about a place where the Wind-Dogs were unable—or unwilling—to go.

  And if it’s not just here, if the Wind-Dogs have gone somewhere else . . . where would they go?

  Perhaps they had chased the Golden Deer out of the Pack’s territory . . . perhaps . . .

  There was a low growl, and Storm’s hackles rose for a moment before she realized that it was Arrow’s voice she was hearing. She turned and picked her way through the trees toward the sound, until she could see Arrow’s distinctive shape, and a flash of Bella’s golden fur a few pawsteps farther on. She watched them carefully. Perhaps they’d want her help—or perhaps if she tried to help, she would disturb whatever prey they were stalking.

  She stopped with her flank pressed to a tree, waiting to hear them whisper a plan or an order to each other that would tell her if she was needed.

  But the two dogs said nothing. Arrow raised his head, and his ears flicked back for a second. Bella’s tail wagged low to the ground, and she crouched. Arrow gave a jerk of his head, and Bella nodded, as if she’d understood him completely, and without having spoken a word to each other, the two dogs turned and separated.

  A moment later, Storm heard a
squeak—some small prey-creature had been caught unawares. Whatever their plan had been, it had worked.

  Storm turned back to moving through the forest, but she couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to know a dog who understood you so deeply you could strategize without speaking. It was amazing, really—but when Storm tried to imagine it, she only felt uncomfortable.

  Storm stretched out on her back and looked up at the sky. The Sun-Dog was going to sleep, and the clouds above her were streaked with pink and yellow, parting here and there to show a glimpse of deep blue and glinting stars. In the distance, she could hear the constant soft sloshing of the Endless Lake and the cries of the big white lake birds.

  The camp was peaceful. The Pack had eaten well, with a few rabbits still left over from their last meal and a bundle of smaller prey from this afternoon’s hunt. The foxes were gone, and all the dogs seemed to have let go of their fear and anger, at least for the moment. Alpha and the pups were out of their den, lying in the warm evening air to be with their Packmates. Several of the dogs had gone over to say hello, pay their respects to Alpha, and play with the pups until they were tired out. Now the pups were lying in the soft curve of Alpha’s body and listening to Lucky telling a story about the Spirit Dogs.

  It was nice . . . though underneath the calm, Storm could feel the deep river of darkness still flowing, ready to flood over them all again. There was a killer in their midst, enjoying the peace with them, sharing their food and their warmth.

  But even with that knowledge weighing heavily on her mind, Storm felt herself beginning to relax, just a little—the evening was so quiet, the world so still.

  She made herself push the thoughts away, rolled over, and listened to Lucky instead.

  “And I’m going to catch it,” he was saying.

  The pups were too young to talk, but they were old enough to listen, and they all looked completely enraptured by their father’s words. They stared at Lucky as if he were the Forest-Dog himself.

  “And once I catch the Golden Deer for you, the Wind-Dogs will bless you pups with good luck for your whole lives,” Lucky went on. “You will always be safe, and the Spirit Dogs will always look after you.”

  “Dahs!” yapped Fluff, and tried to climb up on Lucky’s paws, but she slipped and fell onto her back. Tiny laughed, a movement that seemed to shake her entire small body.

  “Hello, Storm,” said Arrow, padding up beside her.

  Storm craned her neck to look at him and gave him a slow, satisfied blink. “Lucky’s pups are nice, aren’t they?”

  The look on Arrow’s face was like a cold drop of rain falling on Storm from a high-up branch. He glanced over at the pups, and his face tightened with worry.

  “Can you come with me?” he asked.

  Storm almost wanted to stay and hear more about how nothing bad would ever happen and the Spirit Dogs would protect the Pack for the rest of their lives. But instead she reluctantly stood up and followed him.

  Arrow led her past the Patrol Dogs’ den and around the tree behind it, but instead of going farther out of camp, he stopped right next to the bone pile. Storm looked down at the pile of inedible, chewed-up remains of prey, and her stomach turned just a little.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are we here?”

  “I don’t dare take this to Alpha, because I’m afraid she’ll think I’m making things up.” Arrow stared at the bones, deep in thought. “It’s just . . . did you think there was something strange about the prey tonight? Something that was just . . . a bit off?”

  Storm thought back to the meal, but she didn’t have to rack her brains too hard—it had seemed completely ordinary. “Not as tasty as some meals we’ve had, I suppose,” she said. “But I thought it was just because some of those small prey-creatures that we catch in the woods are skinny and tough. Not much meat on their bones.”

  Arrow gave a huff and shook his head. “That’s what Bella said.”

  “Well,” Storm said, as gently as she could, “perhaps she was right. I know that we both know that—that not everything is as well as it seems,” she added darkly. “But perhaps, this time, you’re chasing your own shadow.”

  “No.” Arrow shook his head and pawed at the edge of the bone pile in frustration. “No, I know what I smelled and tasted. There was something wrong with it. It tasted foul. And then I found this.” He nudged aside a pile of bones, picked clean and chewed up. As he did so, a smell hit Storm’s nose, and she recoiled.

  There was something foul there—and fouler than normal for the bone pile.

  She forced herself to look.

  It was a rat. Not the chewed remains of a fresh rat—a whole, uneaten, moldy rat. It was green and stinking, rotted through. Flies crawled through its fur.

  “What—what is that doing there?” Storm managed, not wanting to breathe in too close to the stinking thing. “Who would put a whole rat in the bone pile?”

  “I don’t know—but I don’t think it was there yesterday.” Arrow kneaded the ground uneasily. “The food tasted strange tonight, so I came here to see if I could find anything that might have made the prey taste wrong, and . . .”

  “You think that was in the prey pile? The pile we all ate from?” Storm whined.

  “I’m afraid so,” Arrow said. “You and Bella might not have tasted it—it’s small, so perhaps it would only have affected the prey it was touching. But if some dog could slip it into the pile and get it out again without being seen, then yes, I’m fairly sure at least one dog has eaten tainted prey tonight. I tasted it and stopped eating, but no other dog seems to have done the same.”

  Storm stared at him. She didn’t know what to say—except to ask why again and again. She turned away so she wouldn’t have to look at the festering rat in the bone pile.

  Some dogs might get sick . . . and Arrow was right, it must have been done on purpose, or else whoever found the rat would have called out to the others instead of hiding it away in the bone pile, and every dog would know. A rotten piece of prey in the pile might have been a mistake, but hiding it away afterward . . . that was deliberate.

  Dread filled Storm’s heart, and fury that any dog would attack their Pack like this. . . .

  And then, suddenly, a burst of relief so strong she almost wanted to howl. If this was all true, then they had a traitor in the camp, a dog who wasn’t Storm.

  I still don’t know for certain what happened that night. I still don’t know everything I do when I sleepwalk or when I let my rage get the better of me. But there is one thing I know for certain.

  I did not do this!

  She turned back to Arrow, unable to hide the energy that she suddenly felt in her paws. “Who can we tell? Who will believe us?”

  Before Arrow could answer, a howl went up from the camp behind them, and then another joined it, discordant and anxious. Storm and Arrow shot brief glances at each other, then turned and bolted back past the patrol den.

  “Stand back,” Twitch’s voice said. “Give her a little space. Bella? Bella, it’s going to be all right.”

  “No . . . Bella!” Arrow barked, skidding to a halt in between Mickey and Snap. Storm hurried up to them and looked down at the golden dog—she was lying on the ground, her flanks heaving, her eyes rolling back in her head.

  “Is she sick?” Storm asked, a terrible shudder running the length of her body, all her relief forgotten.

  “Stand back, Storm,” Twitch barked back. “She needs air.”

  Bella coughed, and her whole body seemed to ripple and shake for a moment. She rolled over, onto her paws, and got up. At once, Arrow bounded to her side and let her lean on him.

  “Bella?” he whined softly. “O Earth-Dog, please be all right. . . .”

  Storm worried that it might not be the best thing for Bella to stand, but the golden dog leaned on her mate for a moment, and her legs seemed to steady.

  Then her chest heaved and she coughed up a stream of foul-smelling prey pieces. Most of the dogs
backed away with horrified whines, their ears pressed back against their skulls. Bella kept on bringing up more and more hot, foul liquid, and even after it seemed there was nothing left inside her, she still coughed and retched, swaying weakly. Arrow looked up, casting a desperate gaze around at the other dogs. His anxious whine made some of them flinch, and others look at one another in horror.

  “What can I do?” he begged. “Help her!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Storm woke up in her own den, feeling the weight of sleeplessness lightly on her shoulders. She had made sure she didn’t sleep through the night, so she wasn’t fully rested—but these days, she barely remembered what that felt like. Instead she felt the comfortable sense of workable tiredness that she was starting to get very used to, and knew that it was time to get up, to walk around so her legs would remember how.

  She was just glad that she wasn’t sick.

  Out in the camp, the smell of the sickness still lingered. It had been two journeys of the Sun-Dog since Arrow had spotted the rotting rat and Bella had started to throw up chunks of prey.

  It had been a very long night. It wasn’t just Bella—Twitch, Moon, and Woody had fallen sick too. All night, Storm and the other healthy dogs had run to the pond and back to bring cool reeds and moss soaked in water, like an entire Pack of Omegas. Which was fitting, Storm thought, because Sunshine herself had sickened after the Sun-Dog had finished his run. Finally Thorn had joined them the next morning, with great reluctance and grouchiness, as if she had been holding out as long as she could, refusing to let the sickness that was festering in her gut take her down as it had the others.

  And yet, although it had been horrible, if the bad dog had intended to really hurt the Pack, then that plan had failed. The sickness didn’t seem to have permanently harmed any of its victims. They were mostly lying out in the sun when Storm came out of the den, eating scraps of prey brought to them by Ruff and Daisy, or sleeping off the exhaustion.