Chapter 8: The Cove

"Cornwall," I said. "That's four hundred miles."

"Four hundred and twelve," said the Coldwater Alpha. "The Lizard. The Trevail Pack. Ninety wolves, a harbour, and a rum works that's going under."

"The rum your gran puts in her tea."

"That's the one. Their Alpha's a friend of mine. Proud as a cat and broke as a plate."

"Does he know I'm coming?"

"He knows somebody is. I said I'd send help."

"Does he want help?"

"No," said the Coldwater Alpha cheerfully. "That's why he needs it."

It took me ten hours and four charging stops.

I bought an egg sandwich at a services in Yorkshire with Paul's twenty, and kept the change for him.

My wolf rode with her nose to the open window the whole way.

By the time I crossed into Cornwall the sun was going down behind me, orange over the moors.

Then the land ran out. Fields, stone walls, and then sky and sea on three sides.

The road to the cove went down so steeply the MG whined.

At the bottom there was a gate. Old wood, silver with salt.

A man was leaning on it with his arms folded.

He was tall and rangy, in a navy fisherman's jumper with a hole at one elbow. Dark curly hair going grey at the sides. A short dark beard.

I stopped the car and got out.

My wolf went very quiet inside me. Not asleep. Listening.

He looked at me. Then at the MG. Then at me again.

"Northern wolf," he said. "On her own. In a car the size of a biscuit tin."

His voice was low and slow, with the Cornish lift at the end.

"You lost, my love?"

"I'm your accountant."

"I haven't got an accountant."

"You've got one now. Coldwater rang ahead."

His eyebrows went up. "He said he'd send help. I thought he meant a man with a van."

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