She had picked up what she needed and was walking along the far end of the store, looking at a couple of endcaps that displayed different items each week—an exercise that allowed her to see other things the store offered without seeing too much—when she spotted two youngsters she didn’t know. Must be Cyrus Montgomery’s children. But what were they doing in the Courtyard unsupervised?

The boy was touching things on the shelves. The girl stood next to him, looking up and down the aisle. When she saw Meg watching them, she whispered to the boy, who slipped something into his pocket before they hurried toward the door—and toward Sam, who had been standing at the other end of the aisle, also watching the strangers.

The boy looked older and bigger than Sam, but the leader of the puppy pack stepped in front of the door, blocking it in what was a clear challenge.

The pins-and-needles feeling filled Meg’s lower lip. She hurried to the checkout counter near the front of the store and dumped the soap and shampoo. The Hawk behind the counter ignored her, his eyes fixed on the two boys squaring off at the door.

“You didn’t pay for that,” Sam said. “You can’t take things from the store until you pay for them.”

“Get outta my way, freak,” the boy said.

Sam bared his teeth and growled. “Nobody steals from us.”

“Boys,” Meg began.

“Fucking freak!” The boy gave Sam a hard shove and bolted outside.

Sam went after him, grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt.

The next thing Meg knew, they were rolling around outside, punching each other. She rushed to the door, but the girl was there, pushing at her, getting in the way while she tried to get outside and stop the fight.

“No!” she shouted, finally getting out the door. “Boys! Stop this!”

Adults were coming out of the shops around the square, but none of them seemed to be in a hurry to reach the fight. The Hawk from the general store had the girl by the arm, preventing her from running away or helping the boy.

Sam ducked quickly enough to avoid a fist in the face, but he took a hard blow to the side of his head.

“Enough!” Meg shouted. Couldn’t anyone else see this wasn’t a little scrap about dominance? That older boy really wanted to hurt Sam!

She saw a glint of metal on a couple of the boy’s fingers right before he hit Sam again, splitting the skin along Sam’s cheek.

Oh gods, Meg thought, seeing the blood on Sam’s face. We need to find a doctor.

She didn’t think, didn’t wait for help from the other adults. She just waded in, intending to grab an arm, a shirt, anything to pull the boys apart and stop this. As she reached for them, Sam grabbed the boy’s wrist and bit the meaty part of his adversary’s hand before jumping out of reach, ready to attack again.

Screaming, the boy stumbled away from Sam and flailed his arms.

Meg didn’t feel the blow, didn’t even know she’d been hit as she staggered back and sank to her knees. Then she tasted blood, felt the agony that was the prelude to prophecy. She didn’t want to swallow the words, didn’t want to swallow the pain.

“Our Meg! Our Meg!” Jenni Crowgard knelt in front of her.

Shouts. Snarls. Motion all around her now. But all she really saw was Jenni, who took her hand and said, “Starr has chalk. Speak. We will listen.”

So she spoke, describing the visions. And as she spoke, she drifted on the euphoria that came from speaking prophecy, veiled from the visions she had seen . . . and the turmoil that surrounded her.

• • •

<Pups are fighting in the Market Square,> Blair growled.

Blessed Thaisia, Simon thought as he shelved stock. Did they have to misbehave today? <Who?> he asked, because it suddenly occurred to him that Robert was at home, being fed the midday meal.

<Sam and that Cyrus’s pup.>

But Sam was with . . . “Meg.” He hurried out the back door of Howling Good Reads, followed by Vlad, who had also heard the warning and flowed out the window of HGR’s office.

By the time Simon reached the Market Square, adult terra indigene were converging on the youngsters and Meg was way too close to the fight—because even from a distance he could tell this was a real fight, not a scrap or rough play.

He ran toward the boys. So did Blair, in Wolf form, and Nathan, who was wearing swim trunks—probably the first piece of clothing he could grab when he shifted to human. Vlad veered off to intercept Skippy before the juvenile Wolf joined the fight.

They were Wolves, and they were fast. But not fast enough.

The human boy hit Sam and broke skin. Sam grabbed the boy’s wrist and sank his teeth into the boy’s hand—a punishing bite, even if delivered with human teeth.

Mostly human teeth, Simon amended, seeing Wolf fangs when Sam leaped away and snarled.

The boy screamed, flailed—and hit Meg on the mouth.

“Meg!” Sam howled as fur suddenly covered his face and limbs and his head began to change to accommodate a Wolf’s jaws and teeth. He leaped on the boy, and Simon, feeling the same fury as he caught the scent of Meg’s blood, knew what would happen if Sam managed to get his teeth into the boy’s throat.

He grabbed Sam and hauled him away from the boy. “Enough, Sam. Enough!”

Sam snapped and clawed at Simon, trying to get away and reach his enemy. <He hit Meg!> Sam howled. <He hit Meg!>

Simon wrapped a hand around Sam’s throat, a loose collar to prevent the pup from biting him. He snarled, “Stop. Now.”