“The pack’s situation is precarious,” Adam said. He glanced at Sherwood and then away. It was a look that human males don’t do much—good werewolf manners, one Alpha to another—equal to equal.
Sherwood nodded slowly, giving Adam the same look-and-away deliberately, completing the acknowledgment of equality that Adam had begun. A step back from the assertion of superiority that both wolves could accept better than mere words. A lot of communication between werewolves was nonverbal. That was why this conversation was happening in person instead of over the phone.
“Everything hangs by a thread the fae have managed to spin here,” Adam told Sherwood. “Not just our pack’s fate or the fate of the peoples—wolves, fae, human, and other—who live here in our territory. It may be the thread that leads the entire world away from the probability of annihilation of whole categories of sentient peoples. We, all of us, stand upon a precipice. If our pack can continue the illusion that this, our home, is a safe place for all, the Gray Lords might manage to negotiate a peace that holds.”
Sherwood’s lips twisted, but it wasn’t a smile, not really. “I hadn’t thought you were that much of an optimist. How many witches have you met that you think peace is possible with them? Vampires? The fae barely look up from assassinating each other.”
He didn’t sound like Sherwood, I thought, but what he said still sounded familiar, like listening to a few lines from an old movie I couldn’t quite place.
“I know you understand what I mean,” Adam said impatiently, his voice a little hoarse with the wolf, though his eyes were still dark. “Isolated violence is different from genocide. A battle is different from a war.”
Sherwood tipped his head in admission. “Yes. But you know and I know that even if the Gray Lords manage to work out some kind of peace—it will not last. The humans are just beginning to remember what their ancestors understood. And they are afraid. In this case, knowledge will not make them less afraid.”
I’d grown up listening to variants on the theme. Sherwood sounded, I thought, like someone who had been watching world events for a very long time, like Bran.
“You think like an immortal,” Adam said, echoing my thoughts. “Of course, peace doesn’t last any more than war does. We”—he waved a hand around in a swirling gesture as if indicating every thinking being on the planet—“tire of peace, eventually. But I know war. And every day I can hold it off is valuable to me, and to its victims.”
“Fighting becomes a habit,” I offered, more to break up the intensity that had developed between Adam and Sherwood again than because I really had something to add. “But so can peace, if you give it time.”
But Adam nodded at me as if my point had been important.
“Peace kills fewer people,” he said. “And if we get a peace that lasts for a century or a decade, it is worth fighting for.”
Sherwood raised an eyebrow at Adam. I frowned at him. There was something about that expression.
Adam nodded. “Fighting for peace—I know how stupid it sounds. I fought in that war, and it didn’t seem to help anyone at all.”
He sighed, took another drink. When Adam spoke again, his words had weight, though he spoke quietly. “I am responsible for my pack. For the lives of those living in my territory. For those I love. That responsibility gives me a duty to strive for peace.”
Sherwood scowled at the corner of the room. “You didn’t bring me here to discuss the possible outcome of the Gray Lords’ politicking.”
“I think that might be the heart of the matter,” Adam said, soft-voiced. “The Gray Lords’ politicking leaves us operating on the edge of what we can do, with failure not an option if our pack is to survive.”
He allowed Sherwood to think about that for a minute. The other wolf shrugged, managing to convey sympathy rather than indifference.
“Because our pack is standing between those who live in our territory and those who would harm them, held there by honor and by a bargain with the fae, my actions are limited,” Adam said. “And I think that yours are, too.”
“I don’t want this to happen,” Sherwood said. “But avoidance has obviously gotten me nowhere.” He waved a hand to indicate the discussion we were having. “You are a good Alpha, but I am not going to die tonight.”
A pack could not have two Alpha wolves. One of them would have to submit to the other, or die.
“There are the usual choices,” said Adam.
None of them would work, I thought bleakly. Adam had already been through them with me.
When Adam didn’t continue, Sherwood turned one palm up in invitation. Despite the tension of the situation, I found my attention drawn inexplicably to him again.
Sherwood took up space, physically as well as metaphysically. The only one in our pack bigger than Sherwood was Darryl. Unlike Darryl, Sherwood wasn’t handsome, but there was something about the structure of his face that inspired trust. It was, I suddenly realized, the face of someone people would follow off a cliff, a Rasputin, maybe.
Or a Bran.
A cold chill traveled down my spine as my subconscious stirred.
“You can leave,” Adam said neutrally, and his words brought my attention back to the matter at hand with a jerk.
Here we go. I offered up a prayer, and helpless to stop myself, I put a hand on Adam’s thigh. Hopefully, he wouldn’t find it distracting, but I needed to touch him.
“Is that what you want me to do?” Sherwood asked, but not as if he were seriously considering it. There was a subtle challenge in his tone that made the room harder to breathe in.