Chapter 20: Scent Lost

Bernard walked to the middle of the Stone and stopped with his boots beside his son's head.

He did not look at Brock.

He looked at the ring, one wolf at a time, and his face was gentle and wet and wounded.

"Ashgrove," he said. "My boy has been beaten on a rock by a girl with a wolf in her hands that isn't hers, and he'll say anything tonight."

"He said it under the moon," said the oldest elder.

"A child's memory. A scared man's dream. Brock was eleven. I have fed this pack for twenty years."

"You pushed her," I said.

He turned.

"Sweetheart."

"You pushed me."

"I held you on the edge of the river to say goodbye to your father, and you slipped. I've lived with it every day."

"You're lying."

"I'm grieving."

"You could do both," I said.

A few wolves in the ring laughed, low, and stopped.

Bernard spread his hands.

"Where's your proof? A cousin crying on a rock? A stolen shoebox?"

Headlights swept across the trees.

Engines came up the logging road, one after another, until the whole edge of the clearing glowed.

Doors opened.

Seven Alphas came out of the trucks in their winter coats, with the white-haired Alpha from the north in front.

Wynne climbed down behind them, and behind her came the old scent-keeper, on her cane, with the great roll book held against her chest.

"I telephoned every one of them," Wynne said to me. "They were all still on the road."

Corbin's hand found my back.

I leaned into it for one second.

The white-haired Alpha walked to the Stone.

"Bernard Aldren," he said. "We have been told something on the road that we should like to hear from your mouth."

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