A Pack Divided (15 page)

The undergrowth prickled Storm's nose as
she pushed through it, scenting for prey. The bushes were still sprouting new leaves, and some of the tiny green thorns that grew with them could be unexpectedly vicious. She winced as one jabbed her mouth, but at her side, Mickey growled encouragingly.

“These thorns would drive a dog mad, I know. Storm, check that fallen tree over there, will you? There might be something living in it.”

She spotted the large trunk, which must have fallen a few Ice Winds ago; it was thickly covered in moss and the forest had grown up around it. It did seem like a good prospect for prey, but when she investigated it thoroughly, she discovered nothing more than old traces of shrew.

“There's been a nest of something there, Mickey,” she told
him, drawing back, “but they've moved on.”

“Don't worry.” He sounded disappointed, though. “Woody might find something.”

Storm glanced to the side. Despite the thickness of the underbrush, she could make out the brown-and-white dog snuffling around for prey. The hunting party was moving too slowly, she thought with frustration. Now that each hunt patrol included a scout dog, the rest of them could take more time investigating the terrain in detail; but although it might prove more efficient, Storm found the new routine infuriating. When another dog ran ahead to find prey-heavy areas, or to warn them of an approaching threat, Storm herself had no excuse to race across meadows, searching creatures out with her own nose.

I'm sure my legs will stiffen up altogether if we go on like this
, she thought dolefully.

She gave a silent sigh, annoyed at herself. Lucky's idea had been a really good one, and she knew it was a more efficient way of hunting. Indeed, she'd been honored and excited to be chosen for the first hunting party to go out with a scout dog. Even when Lucky had assigned Dart to be their scout, Storm hadn't minded. She knew she could handle the skinny chase-dog's snide remarks about Fierce Dogs, so long as Dart did her job properly. But Dart
hadn't ended up being their scout after all.

Storm pricked her ears. Ahead of her there was a crashing in the undergrowth, a rustling of leaves and a snapping of twigs, and suddenly Whisper burst into view, his jaw open in a grin as he panted. Storm tried not to wince as his eyes lingered adoringly on hers.

“What's up, Whisper?” she managed to growl.

“Nothing, Storm. All's clear up ahead. No threats that I can smell—and I've smelled all around, for at least two or three rabbit-chases!”

Mickey's throat rumbled disapprovingly. “Whisper, why are you telling this to Storm? I'm the hunt leader today.”

Embarrassment drove all the eager cheer from Whisper's features. His ears drooped. “Sorry, Mickey.”

“That's all right.” Mickey gave Storm a long-suffering glance. “Do get it right next time, though.”

“I'll go and check again!” said Whisper, and bolted back the way he'd come.

“Oh, in the name of the Earth-Dog,” snarled Storm, when his gray rump had vanished into the undergrowth. “I'm really sorry, Mickey. I wish he wouldn't defer to me all the time. He
knows
I'm not in charge of this hunt.”

Mickey gave a growling laugh. “It's not your fault, Storm.”

“But I don't know what's
wrong
with him! I wish he hadn't volunteered to be a scout today. Why couldn't he just let Dart do it?” Dart had been all too quick to agree to the swap, and now here was Storm, stuck on yet another hunt with the dog who wouldn't leave her alone.

“I think it's obvious why he couldn't leave Dart to it,” growled Mickey, but she could hear the amusement in his voice.

“What?” Storm snapped her head around to stare at him. “What's obvious? I wish you'd explain it to
me
.”

“Nothing. Not my place to point it out.” But the Farm Dog was still repressing his mirth, she could tell.

“Mickey, what do you mean?” Exasperated, Storm halted.

“Oh, Storm.” Sighing, Mickey grew more serious. “Don't you see it yourself?”

“See what? I don't—”

“Whisper's feelings for you might be . . . well, they might be more than normal affection for a Packmate. Do you understand?”

“Not really. I—
oh
.” It hit her like a falling branch. She sat back abruptly on her haunches. “No. No, Mickey, that can't be it!”

“I think you'll find it is, Storm. Every dog can see how he looks at you.”

“Whisper wants to be my
mate
?” Her jaw sagged with horror. “I don't want a mate!
At all!
Especially not Whisper!”

“Oh come on, Storm, you must have thought about having a mate at some point.” Mickey twitched his whiskers in surprise.

“I can't think of anything I want less!” she exploded. “Why does a hunter need a mate? What's the point? And . . .
Whisper
!”

“All right, all right.” The laughter was back in Mickey's voice. “But I still think it explains his, um . . . affection.”

There was a sinking sensation in Storm's gut as she got back to her paws. Mickey was only trying to explain—trying to be kind— but now she felt worse. What was Whisper
thinking
?

At that moment her unwanted admirer returned, panting, through the bushes. Whisper gazed at her, tail wagging happily, but he managed to turn to Mickey before he spoke.

“There's a strong prey smell up ahead, Mickey. In a part of the wood near Twitch's old territory.”

Mickey nodded. “All right. This area's not proving very fruitful, so we may as well move on. Well done, Whisper.”

The gray dog almost glowed, and he darted his eyes at Storm, as if making sure that she'd heard the hunt leader's praise. “Thanks, Mickey!”

“Woody!” Mickey turned to give a sharp bark, and the thickset
dog came bounding over. “Whisper says there's prey ahead—you and I will check it out. Let's go.”

Before Storm could protest, the two of them had sprung ahead and disappeared into the undergrowth, and her yowl of desperate appeal stuck in her throat.
They've left me alone with Whisper! Mickey, how could you?

She could run away, she thought dismally, and try to catch up with Mickey—but Whisper was a fast dog. Why else had he been picked to be a scout? She'd never outrun him. Storm heaved a sigh.
I'm stuck with him till we get to the new prey territory.

She let her tongue loll, and forced herself to sound upbeat but casual. “Come on then. We should go after them.”

Whisper showed no sign of moving. He cocked his head and stared at her, his eyes full of affectionate concern. Storm felt like disemboweling him on the spot.

“Storm, are you all right? After last night?”

Her jaw opened, then closed again. “What? You mean, after the big argument? That was nothing to do with me.”

“No, no!” He panted encouragingly and tilted his head. “I mean later, when you walked in your sleep. You didn't hurt yourself, did you?”

Storm's head reeled. She felt as if she'd fallen off a high cliff,
and hadn't hit the ground yet. She blinked at Whisper, aghast. At last she managed to draw breath and stammer, “I—I did what?”

“Walked in your sleep. I saw you!”

“No.” She shook herself vigorously and tried to push past the gray dog, as panic rose in her chest. “You were dreaming, Whisper.”

“I wasn't!” He hurried alongside her as she paced after Mickey. “I was worried, and I waited up, and I saw you come back to the hunters' den. And you were walking, but you were kind of stumbling. You were obviously fast asleep! Storm, I'm worried about you!”

Her mind whirled. Storm felt sick, and there was a lump of dread in her stomach. Whisper clearly had no idea how bad this might be; he was only worried about her safety. “It's nothing, Whisper! Just a bad habit.”

“But you could have walked off a cliff, or anything.” He pushed in front of her, forcing her to stop.

Storm wanted to sink her teeth in his scruff and fling him out of her way. Instead she gritted her fangs hard. “I said it's nothing! Leave me alone!”
What might I have done
, she thought with sudden horror.
And would I remember doing it? I could have done anything and I'd have no memory of it!

And why did Whisper, of all dogs, have to see me like that?

“Storm, you can talk to me! Honestly, don't worry. It's no big deal.”

“I don't know how you can even say that!” she barked in his face. “I asked you to forget it and leave me alone, so
do that
. Please!”

She barged past him, to find the brush opened out just ahead into a desolate wasteland littered with dead trees and fallen branches. Taking a deep breath, Storm trotted on as fast as she could, but as she'd feared, there was no losing Whisper. He bounded alongside her for a rabbit-chase or more, then at last ran ahead, casting her one final worried glance.

She ignored it, turning her head away with the pretense of searching for Mickey. All she wanted to do was hunt—why did the dogs of her Pack have to make that so difficult?
Why can't they do as I ask, and leave me be? I don't want to think about what Mickey said, and I don't want to think about Whisper, and I
certainly
don't want to think about my stupid dreams, and the way I seem to act them out. . . .

“Storm!” Mickey's voice cut into her agonized thoughts. “There's a rabbit trail over by that rotten stump—can you follow it, please?”

I'll do better than that
, she thought grimly as she bounded away across the litter of white branches in the direction he'd shown her.
I need to catch some prey. I need to stop thinking!

The scent trail was easy enough to pick up, but it wound away across the wrecked stretch of land, and Storm found herself entirely uninterested in traipsing after it. Her eyes were younger and better than Mickey's, and she knew what that smear of shadow was beyond the silvered trunks of dead trees.
A warren entrance!

Storm swallowed down all her anxieties and frustrations, and sprinted over to the burrow. Plunging her muzzle in, she breathed deeply.
Yes! There's a rabbit in there!

She needed no further incentive. Letting excitement sweep through her muscles and veins in a great tide, she hurled herself at the burrow. She dug ferociously, thrusting her claws in, dragging up the earth till it showered around her and her chest and shoulders were spattered with soil.

Still she dug, tearing at the ground, her muscles working furiously. The scent of the rabbit was almost overpowering now, and there was more—there was the reek of its fear as she dug closer. It made Storm heady with desire. Her mouth and nostrils were full of soil and her muzzle must be filthy, and mud was clumped between her paw pads, but she didn't care.
So close!

One last yank with her forepaws, and a huge lump of earth came loose and crumbled. With a yelp, Storm shoved her head and shoulders deep into the burrow, snapping wildly. And sure
enough, her jaws closed around soft fur and warm flesh. The rabbit was kicking, flailing desperately as it struggled to burrow deeper, but it was too late. Storm's teeth crunched on its spine. She felt it go limp in her mouth, and she backed out swiftly, the rabbit clenched in her fangs. Storm flung it down and slammed her forepaws onto it.

It was dead, of course. She should feel satisfied, now—so why was she still so angry? Snarling, she seized its haunch in her jaws and tore, feeling the limb come away.
So easy, so weak.
She bit again, ripping at its head, then at its back. Blood and entrails mixed with the mud that caked her muzzle. She clamped her jaws on the rabbit's shoulder and pulled—

“Storm!
Storm!
” Mickey slammed into her shoulder, making her stumble. In shock, Storm let the rabbit fall from her jaws.

“What's wrong with you?” Mickey was in her face now, barking furiously.

Storm's head spun. She blinked hard, staring down at the prey she'd caught.

There was almost nothing left of it to take back to the Pack. The rabbit between her forepaws was in shreds, its flesh torn and pulped into the ground. What remained of it wasn't even worth eating.

With a wrench of horror and shame in her belly, Storm raised her head. Mickey's shoulders were hunched with fury, and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. Storm shivered with appalled misery.

What have I done? How could I let Mickey down like this?

“Fierce Dogs,” muttered Woody behind him. “What can you say? No surprise there.”

At once rage fizzed through her bloodstream again, and Storm had to take a sharp breath and hold herself still to keep herself from turning on the other dog. Her whole body quivered with the effort.
Why can't I ever control myself? Maybe Woody's right!

What had gotten her so worked up, after all? A dog being nice to her? A dog expressing some affection and concern? And that had thrown her into such a rage, she'd take it out on this helpless piece of prey . . . ?