I Cut My Alpha's Bond, So the Lycan King Came Hunting novel · Chapter 7 of 24
Chapter 7: Grey Coats
Mercy's uncle kept a hunting cabin six miles up a Forest Service road, and by evening we were in it.
Ansgar couldn't touch the diner on neutral ground, but he could burn the road to it.
Mercy had left four vets and a very sick Alpha in the cold room.
She had brought two others with us, a woman in a trucker's cap and the cook, who had insisted on bringing a skillet.
The cabin had one big room, a woodstove, a table and a bunk loft.
Dacre sat at the table with his coat off.
The silver had torn out through the meat of his shoulder, and the wound stank of scorched metal.
Mercy cleaned it with a pair of tweezers and a look of pure professional delight.
"You Lycans are tough," she said. "I'd have screamed the roof off."
"I did scream."
"You did not," Mercy said.
"Internally."
The cook laughed so hard he had to put the skillet down.
I stood at the window with a rifle, watching the road, and said nothing.
My own Marshal had put a silver round in a man who had stood between me and it.
I could not make that sentence come out in any order that let me sleep.
When Mercy had stitched him and gone to the stove, Dacre looked across the room at me.
"Tell me the color of the coats," he said.
"What?"
"On the ridge," he said. "Lowwater. The men you saw in your scope."
"Grey."
"Grey."
"Grey field coats," I said. "The Marshal told me before the parley. Your scouts wear grey when they stalk."
"Did he."
"Don't you?"
"Lycans wear black at a parley, Sergeant," Dacre said. "Always. It is the oldest custom we have. A Lycan who walks to a peace table in any other color is called a liar by his own people before he opens his mouth. My brother wore it. Every one of his eleven wore it."
The room had gone very quiet.
I turned from the window.
"The Marshal said..."
"The Marshal told you what he needed you to see. I'm sorry." He seemed to mean it. "Grey is the winter issue of a single army in these mountains."
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