“So why are you here instead?” He kept his eyes on his plants—which were only barely sprouts. They had a while to go before they would be plants.
“I like greenhouses,” she said.
Ah—not a lie. Refreshing in a child of, what? Twelve or thirteen, he thought.
“And no one would look for me here.” There was a little pause. “I am sorry for trespassing.”
He heaved a sigh and turned off the switch at the business end of the hose, which would temporarily shut down the water. “And I am sorry I am a responsible adult—at least today. I must insist we telephone whoever is watching out for you so that they do not worry.”
He looked at her for the first time. She was scrunched in the corner of the building, sitting on an upended five-gallon bucket. She was bundled up in one of those jackets that made everyone look like marshmallows even though the temperature was still fairly mild for early fall in Montana. He had not bothered with a coat when he headed out of his house. Her arms were wrapped mutinously around herself, so maybe the marshmallow effect was for something other than warmth. She’d been staring at him until he looked at her, but she couldn’t hold his gaze and shrank back farther in the corner.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, curious. He was pretty sure that the Marrok, their Alpha, warned all the youngsters away from the big bad wolf.
She nodded. “You’re Asil. You’re the black wolf I saw on the last hunt. I can smell it.”
It had not been a moon hunt, those he no longer allowed himself; if the moon’s song was disturbing to those who were young, it dug in deep to those who were as old as he was. But he’d participated in the last training hunt, a few weeks ago. He was dark brown, not black, but he allowed that at night the difference was subtle, so he decided to let it pass.
She’d known nothing about being a werewolf when she’d come to Aspen Creek two months ago. She was learning to use her nose. She was also afraid of him, which normally he wouldn’t mind. But he didn’t like scaring children.
“Pack is different from the real world,” he told her. “No one in the pack will hurt you because the Marrok will not allow it. Other wolves you have to be wary around, but not pack.”
She raised her eyes to him.
“I can tell you are afraid,” he advised her gravely. “Otherwise, I would not have said anything. I will not hurt you. Nor will anyone in the pack.”
“You are dangerous,” she said. “I’m not the only wolf afraid of you. He warned me specifically to stay away from you.”
And so she, having been warned, had decided to hide in his greenhouse. It was not an atypical reaction for an adolescent.
He nodded gravely. “Yes, I am dangerous. The Alpha doesn’t talk just to hear himself speak. But I do not mind that the other wolves are afraid. To you I will say that there is no need to fear me or my wolf. I do not hurt women without grave cause and never children.” He could promise so much, he was almost certain. When he could not, then it would, indeed, be time to end his existence.
“Pack is safe,” she said, trying to believe it.
He sighed. “At other times and places you might have cause to worry about harm coming to you at a pack member’s hand. But in this time and place the Marrok has let it be known that you are under his protection and out of bounds for the usual snarls and dominance fights that come from being a werewolf. No one in the pack will defy him—and so you are utterly safe.”
“He is treating me different?” She sounded as if she wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.
“You are different,” Asil told her. “And this pack is different. The Marrok has collected a bunch of misfits who are not suited to most packs, and that is combined with the newest wolves—next month is the month when the Marrok Changes those who wish to be werewolves.” Idiots, every one of them. “Some of us are very dangerous, so it is necessary for the Marrok to draw this line. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“And so it is that you do not need to be afraid of me.”
“What about Charles?”
Asil laughed. “Everyone is a little afraid of Charles except Anna.”
Her lips curled in a smile. “I got that, yeah.”
“So whom do I call to inform them you are here?” Asil asked. “This is not negotiable. Someone worries over you.”
She shrugged, unhappy again. He’d heard that her father had been sent back into the real world because his fear of her wolf was interfering with her ability to control herself. Neither she nor her father had been happy, but even the most experienced werewolf had trouble with a terrified human about. The idea that she even could control the wolf was very, very new to her, and real control was months if not years away. He didn’t know whom she was staying with now.
When she didn’t tell him, he took out his cell phone and called the Marrok.
“Asil?” said Bran.
“I have Miss Kara here in my greenhouse,” Asil said. “She is restless, and I think an afternoon of potting plants might suit her better than sitting in a desk with thirty children who are scared of her.”
She looked up at him, surprise on her face, as if she weren’t used to someone defending her.
“Of course,” said Bran. He sounded tired. “I should have thought of that. You are willing?”
Able is what he meant. It was a good question. Asil was very old, and his wolf was given to fits of rage, both of them nearing the end of their very long life. He tested his wolf, who seemed perfectly happy with an afternoon in the greenhouse with an unhappy adolescent.
“I think it shall be delightfully entertaining for both of us,” he told his Alpha.
Bran laughed. “All right. Bonne chance.”
Asil disconnected.
“Who was he wishing good luck? You or me?” She sounded wry.
“Knowing Bran, it could be either of us,” he said. “But it is probably you because he knows me. I do not need luck to deal with one young wolf.”
He put her to work deadheading roses because there wasn’t much she could do to screw it up. In his hothouse, with deadheading, he could keep roses all year long, though most of them he eventually let go dormant in the winter for the health of the plant.
It was early fall yet, so the rose section of his greenhouse was filled with flowers and heady perfume. He wished for the great gardens he’d grown in Spain, but most of his beauties would not live through a Montana winter without protection. He made do with the greenhouse and some hardy specimens planted near his house, where they were sheltered from the worst of the weather.