Some were just drawings of the pack, of the land, of everything that lived in the Sweetwater territory that came within the boundaries of where she was allowed to wander.

“My name is Hope Wolfsong,” she whispered. “I am not cs821. Not anymore. Never again.”

But the dream. There was more, and the more settled over her skin like a smothering film. Had to get it down on paper to show Jackson and Grace. The dream image of the animal had already faded from memory too much for her to describe with words.

She closed the shutters over the window and carefully felt her way back to her bed and the lamp on the bedside table. She clicked on the lamp and waited. Jackson and Grace sometimes slept on the porch with some of the other Wolves. Sometimes they slept in the cabin’s main room where they could hear her.

No one scratched at her door or growled. No male voice, rough from sleep and vocal chords that hadn’t fully shifted from Wolf to human, demanded to know what was wrong.

Moving as quietly as she could, she gathered her big drawing pad and the colored pencils and pastels that Jackson had bought for her. She started to turn the top page of the pad. Then she stopped and looked at the drawing she’d made just before going to bed last night. She didn’t know if it meant anything, but the last thing she’d added before blinking out of the trance she fell into sometimes when she drew pictures were the words “For Meg.”

She removed the drawing and placed the paper on the desk in her room. Returning to the bed, she sat cross-legged and set the drawing pad in front of her. But the patchwork quilt, which usually delighted her with its shapes and colors, was a distraction now. Pushing it aside, she pulled off the top sheet—white because the Others didn’t feel the need for colors in things that wouldn’t be seen once you turned off the light—and placed it on the floor. Then she settled down, picked up her pencils, and began to draw.

The shapes. Yes, she remembered the shapes. And the sky. And . . .

She searched through her pencils and pastels. Nothing! How could she not have the necessary shade?

She sprang up, pulled open a drawer in the desk, and removed the silver folding razor that had been used exclusively on her when she had lived in the Controller’s compound. Jackson had been told to let her keep the razor because, if she felt compelled to cut, using the razor was safer than all the other things that could be used to slice through fragile skin. Jackson and Grace had bought her paper and pencils, had allowed her to draw, so she had tried so very hard to be good and not cut, but . . .

“Need it,” she muttered, all her thoughts focused on the drawing taking shape on the paper. “Need that shade.”

When the color began to flow, she tossed the razor aside, dipped her fingers into the color, and continued drawing.

• • •

The scent of blood snapped Jackson Wolfgard out of a sound sleep moments before Hope screamed. Scrambling to his feet, he leaped for the bedroom door, aware that his mate, Grace, was right behind him. The Wolves who had slept on the porch or on the ground surrounding the cabin were awake and howling an alarm—or getting the pups away from potential danger.

Still shifting to human as he shoved the door open and stepped into the room, Jackson vaguely remembered some rule about adult males in human form not appearing unclothed in front of female puppies or juveniles, but he wasn’t concerned about human rules, not when Hope was staring at the drawing pad on the floor and blood from a deep slice in her left forearm dripped onto the paper and the sheet bunched up beneath it.

“Oh, Hope.” Grace sounded heartbroken.

Jackson wasn’t heartbroken; he was furious. And very frightened. The blood of the cassandra sangue was a danger to Others and humans alike. After taking in Hope, he’d heard that some of the terra indigene called the girls Namid’s creation, both wondrous and terrible.

Until now, he hadn’t thought of Hope as something terrible.

<Jackson?> several Wolves called, using the terra indigene’s form of communication.

<Stay out!> he ordered.

The girl herself didn’t smell like prey. None of the blood prophets did. But Hope’s blood! He’d never smelled anything quite like it, and he craved a taste of it.

Fear fueled his fury as he covered the distance between the doorway and the swaying girl. He swept up the razor she’d tossed aside. He was about to drop it on the desk when he noticed another drawing with Meg Corbyn’s name written in the bottom right corner. He set the razor away from the drawing, then turned to the girl.

Grace pulled off Hope’s nightshirt and pressed the wadded cloth against the wound, leaving the girl wearing nothing but panties.

“I needed the color,” Hope said, staring at the floor. “I needed . . .”

Jackson smacked the top of Hope’s head, eliciting a snarl from Grace. It wasn’t a hard smack, but it snapped the girl back from whatever she was seeing enough to focus on him.

“You have big teeth,” Hope whispered.

“They’re big so you’ll feel them when I bite you,” he growled, leaning closer. He wasn’t sure if there were other parts of him that wouldn’t pass for human. He didn’t care.

“Jackson,” Grace warned. <We need to get her to the human bodywalker at the Intuit village. The wound is still bleeding, and we can’t lick it to help it heal.> She hesitated. <And this is my first time dealing with an injury to a real human.>

<All right. Take her into the bathroom and put enough clothes on her that the humans won’t howl about it. I’ll clean up as much of the blood as I can.> He waited until Grace hustled Hope into the bathroom. Then he went to the window and opened the shutters, relieved to breathe in untainted air. Wolf faces peered at him through the screen.