Chapter 2
Three days later, my son was burning to death in my arms.
Blood fever.
Every pup goes through it before their first shift.
The blood remakes itself, and the burning takes their mind.
Burn too hot and the frame is ruined — they'll never shift, not once, their whole life.
Hotter than that —
and they don't come back at all.
Theo was raving.
The pack healer sat with him all night, then shook his head.
"Medicine won't hold it down anymore."
He lifted his eyes to me.
"It has to be the thread now. The blood has to carry him."
"A parent's blood-strength can be pushed down that thread."
The old man paused.
"His father's, especially."
I carried my burning son to the Elder.
By law, a summons needs an Elder to witness.
The pack gathered. A ring of them, and another ring behind it.
I closed my eyes, followed the thread, and sent the summons out.
Not a plea.
A call.
A Luna invoking the oldest command in the blood against her Alpha.
Every wolf in that pack felt it in the same instant.
I saw eyes go red around me.
They were waiting.
To them this wasn't even a question worth waiting on —
his son is at death's door. What father wouldn't come?
I know he received it.
Half a city away, I felt his end of the thread jolt.
He felt it.
He felt Theo burning.
He felt that thread straining toward him.
There was shock in that jolt. There was panic.
I waited for the warmth to come pouring back.
And then.
The door closed.
I don't know what happened on his end that night.
I only know that Sable had an emergency too.
Word came from her people: she was fading, she might not last the night.
Kane carried her into the healer's house on the west side of the city.
The Elder opened his eyes and looked at me.
His voice was very quiet.
"That's one."
I held Theo tighter.
Toward morning, the fever eased.
Not because of him.
Because seven of the pack's old ones each gave a little of their own blood-strength, and in that father's place, pulled the child out of the fire.
Seven old men, sitting up all night.
Not one of them was him.
Near dawn, Theo half-opened his eyes.
He didn't ask whether his father had come.
He just lifted one burning little hand and touched my face.
"Mom."
"Stop calling him."
"The door's shut."
"I can't even hear an echo."
I bent my head and pressed my face into his sweat-soaked hair.
Six years old.
Six years old, burning like that, and still saving me the breath.
It wasn't that it didn't hurt.
He was afraid I'd tear my own hands open reaching.
When I lifted my head, my eyes were dry.
Two left.
The first time, only the Elder heard.
The second time, I'll make the whole pack hear.