Dead of Night

  No, I have to tell him!

  “I don’t think the foxes killed Whisper,” Storm blurted out. Lucky’s head whipped around, and he fixed her with a wide-eyed stare.

  “Of course they did. They believe we killed their pup. That’s all the motive they would need. . . .”

  “But there was no scent, Lucky! Foxes smell terrible, and there was no scent on Whisper’s body except for dogs and . . . and blood.”

  Lucky’s brows drew together, and he stared over Storm’s shoulder, back toward the forest, for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “Whisper’s body was cold. It must have been there for some time before the patrol stumbled on it—the fox-scents could have faded in that time.”

  “I don’t think so,” Storm pressed. “And even if they had, I’m sure we would have smelled them in the forest! The patrols didn’t report scenting foxes, and I didn’t smell any as we came in from the hunt . . . did you?”

  Lucky kept on staring toward the forest and didn’t answer. Storm guessed he didn’t remember—she couldn’t blame him for being distracted, when they’d been following the sound of Alpha howling in grief and pain.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “foxes’ jaws are small. Their claws aren’t very strong. Come back and look again, and you’ll see it too. I think Whisper was killed by a dog.”

  At that, Lucky’s eyes snapped back to focus on Storm. “What? You think the Fierce Dogs did this?” he snarled. Storm’s ears pulled back, and she looked away. “Or some other bad dog from outside the Pack?” Lucky added quickly.

  Storm didn’t meet his eyes. He’d tried to cover it, but Lucky’s thoughts had gone straight to her birth Pack, to dogs like her and Arrow.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I didn’t smell any unfamiliar dog scents, but . . .”

  Lucky shook his head. “Well, then what dog could have killed him? Storm, I know you’re upset, but that’s enough.” He turned away. “There are no dogs around here who would attack our Pack—we would have met them before. Whisper must have been killed by the foxes.”

  “But, Beta, the scent—”

  “Foxes are cunning creatures,” Lucky barked. “They must have covered their scent somehow. And as for the size of their jaws, foxes come in all sizes, just like dogs. That proves nothing.”

  No, that’s not right. I’m sure the bite marks are wrong for a fox. . . . A vision of Whisper’s bloodied throat flashed before Storm’s eyes. She had to make sure Lucky understood her fear, even if the thought was so dark she could barely allow herself to think it. “Beta,” she said again, “what if some dog in our Pack—”

  “Quiet, pup!” Lucky’s eyes flashed angrily, and Storm shifted back on her paws. “Stop this nonsense, right now. I know it’s hard to see something like this happen to a good dog like Whisper. It’s hard for the whole Pack. That’s why I need you to promise me you won’t go bothering the other dogs with this . . . this ridiculous theory!”

  Less ridiculous than pinning it on the foxes, Storm thought. Whether you can face it or not. But she kept quiet, her head low, as Lucky paced back and forth in front of her, scattering the dew drops with his swishing tail.

  “The Pack is under attack, Storm, do you understand that?” Lucky barked. “We need to be strong right now—for Alpha, and the pups, and for every dog. If you start accusing Pack Dogs of murdering one of our own, there will be panic, and they’ll turn on each other. They’ll turn on you, most likely!” Lucky’s voice became softer, but no less certain. “The foxes killed Whisper, Storm. I won’t hear another word about it.”

  Without even waiting for Storm to reply, he turned and hurried after Alpha toward their den.

  Storm stared after him, unease forming a hot ball in her stomach.

  What do I do now?

  Her Beta had given her an order—to keep her observations to herself. She shook her coat briskly from head to tail and turned back to the forest, her mind racing, covering rabbit-chases with every step.

  He was her Beta, and he didn’t just give orders like that on a whim. He must have a good reason to believe that the foxes were responsible. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t. After all, what was a Pack worth if they couldn’t trust their leaders to give orders that made sense?

  She broke back into the clearing and her eyes fell on Whisper’s body, still lying where he had died. Seeing his wounds again gave her a jolt, as if the Earth-Dog had growled under her feet. With the evidence in front of her, she couldn’t deny the truth, even if Lucky had told her to keep it to herself. She was certain foxes could not have done this.

  The other dogs were still gathered around Twitch, discussing how they were going to strike back against the fox pack.

  “We’ll see how those mangy brutes like being attacked in their own camp,” Bruno snarled.

  Snap bared her sharp fangs. “We should go at night, when they won’t be expecting it.”

  Storm shuddered, but her Beta’s order still rang in her ears, and she kept her mouth shut.

  She padded over and sat down beside Whisper.

  “I’m sorry I left you,” she whined.

  She knew that if Whisper were alive, he would forgive her nearly anything. She gazed at his torn flank, the fur along her back prickling with shame. All he had ever shown her was kindness and admiration, and how had it made her feel? Embarrassed. Annoyed.

  She’d wanted him to leave her alone.

  I guess I got my wish, she thought, and bit back a howl of grief and guilt.

  Perhaps this was the work of a strange dog, or some creature they’d never seen before. If she could find some other clue to what had killed him and prove that it came from outside the Pack, maybe Lucky would be more willing to listen, and Whisper would be avenged after all.

  There had to be something. She looked around, trying to sense anything in the clearing that was out of place. At first she saw nothing strange, but as she got to her paws and walked slowly around the edge of the dark stain on the earth, something caught her eye. A trail of grass that lay flat, as if it had been trampled down, leading from Whisper’s body into the trees.

  No, she realized, looking more closely at the way the blades of grass were lying. It leads here, from the trees. It was as if Whisper had been dragged into the clearing from somewhere else, somewhere in the forest.

  Slowly, trying not to disturb the trail, Storm followed it toward the nearest tree and past it, into the deeper shadows. She sniffed carefully as she walked, hoping that despite everything she might catch a hint of something other than dog—a fox, perhaps, or even a giantfur.

  But Whisper’s fear-scent was the single overpowering smell . . . until her snuffling nose hit something wet, and cold, and the smell of blood filled her whole world.

  Storm stopped dead, her vision swimming for a moment. When she could see clearly again, she looked back along the trail. There were smears and spatters all along it. But the smell hadn’t hit her until right here, where there was a thick black stain and a small chunk of something red. It still had a few gray hairs attached. The hairs wavered in the air as Storm breathed on them.

  She felt cold and strange, as if her paws weren’t quite touching the ground.

  She could see it now. Here in the dimness beneath the trees, it was almost as if the Sun-Dog was still asleep and she was back there in the night, watching Whisper’s death unfold in front of her.

  The light of the Moon-Dog shone weakly through the leaves overhead, glossing the fine hairs of Whisper’s gray fur in a coat of silver as he moved in and out of the shadows.

  He came that way, she thought, staring at a path that wound between the trees and the bushes. He was heading directly for the camp, innocent and unwary. Why would he be wary? He was within our borders, almost within scent of home. In barely a rabbit-chase he would have been out of the trees and in sight of the Patrol Dogs’ den. He would have been safe.

  Instead another dog had come out of the darkness. Storm wished she could see a sign, smell a scent somewhere
that it could have been a fox, or anything else, but she was sure. It must have been a dog.

  And that dog came . . . that way. Storm could see the route the attacker must have taken, flanking Whisper, staying between him and the safe, open spaces.

  Storm raised her head and sniffed, but there were only the familiar scents of the Pack here—no trace of fox-scent. Dogs passed this way all the time, patrolling or dragging home their prey. No single dog-scent stood out from the others, except for Whisper’s. His fear hung in the air, tangy and strong.

  If it was a strange dog, Whisper hadn’t scented it or seen it coming, not until it had torn from the shadows. Before he even knew what was happening, the dog’s teeth had sunk deep in his throat. He’d had no chance to bark for help. He tried to struggle, but the killer bit him again, on his side, on his back, until he fell helpless at her feet. She’d dragged him into the clearing and raked her claws across his flank, rage lending her even greater strength.

  She didn’t leave him where he had fallen or hide him in the undergrowth—she’d wanted them to find him. She wanted the whole Pack to see him and be afraid.

  When Whisper’s last gurgling breath had left his body, she had turned and slunk back the way she’d come, blood on her paws, blood dripping from her muzzle. . . .

  A drop of something warm fell onto Storm’s paws, and she recoiled with a strangled yowl.

  But it was just her own drool. She had been standing still, breathing slowly as she imagined the attack unfolding before her eyes, and a drop of saliva had fallen from her jaws.

  Storm took a few stumbling pawsteps back, away from the pool of dark blood, and shook her head so hard that her ears beat against the sides of her face.

  Wake up! she told herself. But she knew that this was no simple dream. Her vision of the crime was so clear . . . disturbingly, frighteningly clear. How could she see it so easily? It was almost as if she had been there.

  As if she had been the murderer.

  “No! Don’t think that!” Storm whined aloud. Perhaps Lucky was right, and she was simply imagining things. I was out hunting the Golden Deer. Lucky and Snap were with me. I didn’t sleep, so I couldn’t have been sleepwalking.

  Even if some dark urge had taken her over, and she had forgotten what it was to be a good dog, and everything that some of the other dogs suspected about Fierce Dogs was true . . . she could not have killed Whisper last night.

  The body was cold, said a nasty voice in the back of Storm’s mind. He was found this morning—but no dog said he was killed last night.

  Dread pierced Storm’s heart, and she turned tail and ran back to the clearing.

  How can I trust my own memories? How can a dog who walks in her sleep know for certain where she has been, or what she has done?

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Sun-Dog was halfway across the sky, peering down keenly through the branches of the trees. Storm had watched as the dogs talked of revenge until there was nothing more to say, then slowly padded back into the camp in ones and twos. Alpha and Beta had not returned, and Storm had not moved from Whisper’s side.

  Some of the dogs had glanced uneasily in her direction as they passed her. But some dog had to stay with him, and most of Twitch’s Pack was busy planning their revenge or patrolling. Despite Moon’s insistence that they couldn’t keep the double patrols up for long, five dogs passed by Storm on their way to check every inch of their territory for any sign of the foxes’ den.

  Storm seemed to be the only dog who felt capable of sitting still. Without orders from Alpha or Beta, the other dogs not on patrol were trying to keep themselves busy with small jobs around the camp, or by forming little knots of worried chatter at the edge of the clearing or by the pond. She couldn’t always see them, but she could hear their whimpers and scent their unease.

  One by one, they would come to sit by Storm and Whisper for a little while, their heads bowed and silent, as if each of them wanted to pay their respects but wasn’t sure how. Then, without a word to Storm, they would get up and hurry away.

  “How are you holding up, Storm?” a kind, quiet voice said now. Storm looked up to see Mickey sitting down beside her.

  “I’m fine,” Storm said, although she felt about a hundred rabbit-chases from fine.

  Mickey nodded, and they passed a few moments in silence before he spoke again.

  “We couldn’t find the foxes’ trail.” He blinked sadly down at Whisper. “We saw where he must have been attacked, but there’s no sign of the killer.”

  Storm scratched her ear uneasily. She ached to tell him that they never would find the foxes’ trail, that she was sure no foxes had been in the Pack’s territory last night.

  Blade, Wiggle, and Grunt are all dead. Apart from Lucky, Mickey is the dog I’ve known the longest in my whole life. I don’t want to keep secrets from him!

  But her Beta had given an order, and Storm was a good Pack Dog. Anyway, trying to tell Lucky hadn’t exactly gone very well.

  “Whisper would have been so grateful to you for sitting with him like this,” Mickey said. “I know you didn’t like him the way he liked you, but you were a good friend to him anyway. We will make sure his death is avenged, I promise.”

  Storm nodded. “Thank you,” she said, even though the words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  I wasn’t a very good friend, she thought. But now I will be. I’ll make sure justice is done, somehow.

  Rake joined them, his thin shoulders hunched, and they fell silent. A few moments later, Twitch appeared between the trees and walked over to them.

  “It’s time,” he said. “Whisper has lain here too long already. We must give his body to the Earth-Dog. Will you three find a place deeper in the woods and dig the hole?”

  “Yes, Twitch,” Storm yapped gratefully, dipping her head to the Third Dog. At least some dog was taking charge.

  Mickey was the highest-ranking dog out of the three of them, but he and Storm let Rake lead the way as they left Whisper’s body and headed out between the trees.

  “I saw a good place when we were patrolling,” the tall, wire-haired dog explained, his tail wagging. “Whisper would . . . he would have liked it there.”

  “Good,” Mickey said quietly. Storm stayed silent.

  After about half a rabbit-chase, Rake barked, “Here,” and stopped in a small clearing where the ground was spongy with moss. The trunks of the trees were green and soft too, and smelled fresh and slightly sweet.

  Rake clawed at a patch of mossy earth between two tree roots, and they began to dig. Storm pulled up a big clump of moss with her teeth and then sank her paws into the damp ground. It came away easily, almost as if the Earth-Dog herself was opening a space between her paws for Whisper.

  Storm and Mickey dug in silence, but after they had removed a few pawfuls of dark earth, Rake let out a quiet whine.

  “I never thought I would have to bury Whisper,” he said.

  Storm didn’t know what to say in reply, so she just focused on digging.

  “After everything we went through together. It’s such a waste, for a good dog like Whisper to have survived as long as he did, and then to die like this. Of course, you know something of what . . . he was like. Terror.”

  Rake shuddered, as if saying his name was almost too much to bear.

  “But you don’t know what we went through to stay alive when we knew that our Alpha was a mad dog. When the Fear-Dog took him over, there was no way to tell which dog he would turn on, who he would scar or order to be starved. He used to make us chase imaginary prey that no dog but he could even see, until our paws bled and we couldn’t run anymore. We should have risen up, I suppose, but—well, we were afraid. We were never safe from him. All we had was each other.”

  Storm paused in her digging to stare at Rake—scruffy, thin, slightly rebellious Rake. She hadn’t realized, or perhaps she had just forgotten, that Twitch’s Pack was bonded together in a way that no healthy Pack should have to be.

  Of course
they always seem to be fighting to protect Twitch’s position—Twitch was one of us once, but he survived Terror too. He’s one of them now, in a way Alpha can never be. No wonder they still act more like a separate Pack than a part of ours.

  There was a rustling in the undergrowth, and Storm looked up, sniffing the air nervously. But it was only a patrol emerging from behind a bush—Breeze, with Daisy padding at her heels.

  The two Patrol Dogs paused by the hole for a moment, watching solemnly as Storm, Rake, and Mickey continued to dig. Finally Daisy whined, “I just can’t believe it.”

  “I know,” Breeze said. She trod the ground in front of her, her claws pulling up small clumps of moss. “It’s Whisper.”

  “I didn’t know him very well. He was a good dog, but I didn’t really know him. I always thought I would have a long time to get to know him better.” Daisy flicked back her ears and blinked up at Storm. “I’m so sorry, Storm. I know that the two of you were good friends.”

  Storm hung her head.

  I always found him irritating, when he was only trying to be nice. Some friend I was.

  “Yes, Whisper certainly had a soft spot for you, Storm,” Breeze said. “Our savior, slayer of Terror . . . he was so grateful for the new life you gave us all. You must have been one of the last dogs to see him alive, when you settled down to sleep near each other. Was he happy?”

  Storm stared at Breeze. Of course, she was right—Storm had been the last dog to see him alive. Apart from his killer, of course. . . .

  A jolt of fear and doubt shot through her, as that terrible voice that seemed to come from deep inside her spoke up again. Last to see him alive. Are you sure you weren’t also the first to see him dead? She had dreamed that night, dreamed of fighting, and woken far from camp.

  No! Storm swiped at the nasty thought, and it retreated again.

  “Yes,” she said softly, “Whisper had enjoyed the hunt that day. We all did, even though we didn’t find the Golden Deer. He was happy.”

  “I’m so glad,” Breeze said. “He must have suffered, when he was killed—it’s comforting to think that his last hours were happy ones.”