The little white-haired pup is hidden right where I left her. I lick her cheek in a slobbery dog kiss; she wipes it away with a smile and giggle.

“Silly doggie,” she says.

My tongue lolls out, Hop on, my little rider. Time to find your mom.

Her adorable little face perks up. “Mamay?”

She scrambles on faster than I can brace and I end up on two knees, bowing like some uptown show dog.

It takes more energy than I’m willing to admit, getting back up with the extra fifty pounds on my back.

The way back to the little one's mother is uneventful. I smell her trail and find her in a little alcove beneath a storefront. I pointedly avoid the remnants surrounding my jailbreak, thankful that all the little pup should see are blobs of darkness in the night.

A sharp bark alerts the mother—it's not smart to sneak up on an injured Shifter.

Her wide-eyed head pokes out of her hiding place.

“Shasta?” she asks, voice cracking with emotion as tears fill her eyes.

“Mamay!” the little pup squeals.

She hops off, ignorant for the moment of her little burnt feet, and buries herself in her mother's shoulder.

“Oh honey. You’re safe now. You’re safe,” she repeats as if to remind herself. She looks to me with such deep gratitude shining in her eyes that I turn immediately sheepish and wish to draw my tail to the ground or poke at the dirt with a paw. “Thank you. Thank you ever so much,” she whispers, throat choked with emotion. Her love for her pup... it warms something in my heart.

I nod and turn to limp off into the night.

“Doggie, where you going?” Shasta hop, skips, and collides into me, throwing her arms around my shaggy mane.

I must leave now. You won’t be safe with me here.

“But you’re hurt bad,” she turns, “Mamay, he’s hurt real bad. Can we keep him and take care of him forever and ever, pretty please? I'll take care of him and take him out and play ball and—and so many other things!” she asks with all the innocence of a sweet, if slightly manipulative, child.

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I'm blushing. Didn't realize wolves could blush. I'm grateful the fur covers it. I force down a chuckle, knowing it would sound strange with my current vocal chords.

The mother pierces me with her silver eyes. She sniffs. Her eyes widen a fraction in the moonlight, reflecting it as her mouth draws into a thin line.

“Silver?” she questions, coming closer with brows furrowed.

From my paws, my veins, and my back, I think morbidly.

“He said from his paws, his veins, and his back. What’re veins?” Shasta screws her face up in confusion.

Didn’t mean for you to hear that, little one. I almost grin, but hold myself back from such a show of teeth. Instead, my tail wags slightly. Ugh. So dignified.

The mother walks over. She seems almost healed. The wound to her shoulder is half the size it was, and the rest is scabbed over.

She touches the crustiness on the outside of the arrow wound in my thigh, the arrow shaft still sticking from it. She winces and jerks her hand back as if stung.

“How are you not dead?”

I’m a half-breed, I think with a numbness invading the sorrow the thought typically brings. I fit neither with the Kursk nor the humans; at least for once it helped me stay alive.

“He said he’s a half-breed, Mamay. What does that mean?” Shasta asks, watching me with all the curiosity of youth and then some.

“Just like my little Shasta here. But you’re an alpha? How?" I once again attempt to ignore the sharp glance she shoots my way. I cock my head, but she waves a hand before I can form an answer. "Nevermind that now. Even for a half, you will die from that silver. I'm Heather and this, as you know, is Shasta. Come with us." She demands.

I take a step towards her without even realizing it. I’m not the only Alpha around here.

No, I say with steel in my voice she can't hear. You’ll only be in more danger. Shasta interprets for me—without the steel and not without some confusion as to my big word she takes a moment to form and pronounce.

“But you will die if you go out like that. Can you do anything dead?” she replies gently but firmly, speaking logic to my emotional turmoil that demands action now.

I think of my family and where they might be. They need help. But she’s right. I’m weaker than I wish to admit. Right now, I need help—which batters against any pride I have left.

I give a soft snort in acquiescence.

A satisfied smile graces her lips. “Come with me.” She grabs Shasta by the hand and pulls her along.

The little one winces from every step against her blistered, bleeding feet. I wince in empathy.

Shasta, do you think you could ride with me? I ask her.

Her head tilts. Her wolf heritage shows in that small gesture. “But, you’re hurt.” Her voice turns up at the end in question.

I think you could help me with that. Just by being on my back, you make me feel better. Because on my back I can get her to safety faster if we are attacked.

“Ok,” she says, limping over. She hops on and we move forward, following a trail of my own bloody footprints. Her mother gives me a grateful, if strained, smile.

My ears twitch at the sounds of battle far ahead of us.