Moon Called by Patricia Briggs Page B

meant to break Adam’s neck, but the other wolf’s grip wasn’t firm, and instead he threw Adam into the dining table, sending the whole mess crashing onto the floor and giving me the opportunity I’d been waiting for.
    I shot the wolf in the back of the head from less than six feet away. Just as my foster father had taught me, I shot him at a slight downward angle, so that the Marlin’s bullet didn’t go through him and travel on to hit anyone else who happened to be standing in the wrong place for the next quarter mile or so.
    Marlin .444’s were not built for home defense; they were built to kill grizzlies and have even been used a time or two to take out elephants. Just what the doctor orderedfor werewolves. One shot at all but point-blank and he was dead. I walked up to him and shot him one more time, just to make sure.
    I’m not usually a violent person, but it felt good to pull the trigger. It soothed the building rage I’d felt ever since I’d knelt on my porch next to Mac’s body.
    I glanced at Adam, lying in the midst of his dining table, but he didn’t move, not even to open his eyes. His elegant muzzle was covered in gore. His silver hair was streaked dark with blood and matted so it was hard to see the full extent of his wounds. What I could see was bad enough.
    Someone had done a fair job of gutting him: I could see pale intestines and the white of bone where the flesh had peeled away from his ribs.
    He might be alive, I told myself. My ears were still ringing. I was breathing too hard, my heart racing too fast and loud: it might be enough to cover the sound of his heart, of his breath. This was more damage than I’d ever seen a werewolf heal from, far more than the other two dead wolves or the one I’d killed last night.
    I put the rifle back on quarter cock, and waded through the remains of the table to touch Adam’s nose. I still couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
    I needed help.
    I ran to the kitchen where, in true Adam fashion, he had a tidy list of names and numbers on the counter just below the wall phone. My finger found Darryl’s name with his work, home, and pager number printed in black block letters. I set my gun down where I could reach it fast and dialed his home number first.
    â€œYou have reached the home of Dr. Darryl Zao. You may leave a message after the tone or call his pager at 543—” Darryl’s bassy-rumble sounded intimate despite the impersonal message.
    I hung up and tried his work number, but he wasn’t there either. I’d started dialing his pager, but while I’d been trying to call him, I’d been thinking about our encounter last night.
    â€œThis isn’t the time,” he’d told Ben. I hadn’t given it a second thought last night, but had there been a special emphasis in his voice? Had he meant, as I’d assumed: not after all the effort Ben had put into being on his best behavior since his banishment from London? Or had it been more specific as in: not now, when we have greater matters to deal with? Greater matters like killing the Alpha.
    In Europe, murder was still mostly the way the rule of the pack changed hands. The old Alpha ruled until one of the younger, hungrier dominant males decided the old one had grown weak and attacked him. I knew of at least one European Alpha who killed any male who showed signs of being dominant.
    In the New World, thanks to the iron hand of the Marrok, things were more civilized. Leadership was mostly imposed from above—and no one challenged the Marrok’s decisions, at least not as long as I had known him. But could someone have come into Adam’s house and done this much damage without help from Adam’s pack?
    I hung up the phone and stared at the list of names, none of whom I dared call for help until I knew more about what was going on. My gaze dropped and rested on a photograph in a wooden frame set out beside the