by Erin Hunter
There was no trace of foxes or coyotes, and for a moment Storm was almost disappointed. If she’d had to face down a bunch of sneering not-dogs, she would certainly be feeling more awake right now. . . . She bent to yank another bunch of grasses out of the muddy bank, and a sick, twisting feeling struck her, as if she might lose her balance and fall headfirst into the river. Pulling back, scrabbling on the slippery ground, she blinked and shook her head to clear the dancing lights that had formed in front of her eyes.
Panic gripped her. I can’t see! She tried to focus on the scents around her, to ground her in the real world that felt like it was slipping away, but the flowing, changeable scents of the riverbank were too elusive.
Then there was something . . . something like a dog, but different . . .
Her head snapped up and she stared, wide-eyed, at the far bank of the river. A dog was standing there. The dancing lights had faded, and now everything was gray and strange, including the dog who turned his head to look at her, hackles rising, gray fur bristling.
Am I dreaming? First Blade, and now this . . . I’m sleepwalking, I must be!
She’d seen Blade in the shadows. She could believe that had been a trick of the light, but now . . . there was a familiar, impossible dog on the bank of the river, in broad daylight. Its form seemed to grow and shrink as Storm tried to pull it into focus, but she recognized the odd-colored eyes that somehow seemed to stay still even as the rest of the dog wavered and swam in front of her.
The half wolf had died on the frozen river too, a traitor who didn’t deserve the name of Alpha, even though Storm had never known any other name for him.
“You’re not there,” she managed to huff. “You’re dead.”
Whether it was a ghost, a hallucination, or some trick of the Spirit-Dogs, her words seemed to stir the dog in front of her. It shook itself and vanished.
Storm walked to the river and slowly, carefully, dipped her paws in, then her belly, and then finally plunged her head under the water. When she raised it again, the world seemed much clearer, almost as if she’d washed away fuzz that had grown over her vision.
I was wrong. This isn’t a dream—but I’m not truly awake, either. I can’t trust anything I’m seeing.
She knew she needed to sleep, but she didn’t trust herself not to run off after visions of bad dogs. The thought of what would happen to any dog who got in her way, if she thought she was chasing Blade or the half wolf, made all her fur stand on end.
As soon as Daisy and Thorn are feeling better, and I’ve talked to Arrow about what we should tell Alpha, and I’m sure every dog is safe . . . then I’ll go out into the forest and find somewhere to lie down.
Storm ran back to her pile of grass, shook herself hard to dry her fur a little, and then hurried back to camp, her heart pounding. All the way across the meadow and through the trees, she tried to keep her gaze focused on the hill up to the camp, and not pay too much attention to the strange shapes that she saw out of the corners of her eyes. She knew that they weren’t real: The huge green beetles as big as her head were just leaves blowing in the morning breeze. The glinting yellow eyes of foxes in the undergrowth were only the Sun-Dog’s light reflecting back at her, and the strange scent that filled her muzzle was the smell of the grass she carried in her jaws.
When she got to the Patrol Dogs’ den, Daisy was inside, but Thorn was gone. Storm’s heart skipped a beat, and she dropped the grasses quickly.
“Daisy, where’s Thorn?”
The little white dog rolled over and greeted Storm with a soft whine. “Oh, please don’t worry, Storm. She’s feeling a little better. Moon and Beetle took her for a walk, to get some fresh air.”
“Oh! That’s good.” Storm sagged with relief, although her heart didn’t seem to want to slow down. It felt like it was beating high up in her throat. “Are you feeling any better?”
“A little,” said Daisy, but her eyes were fixed on Storm. Storm felt suddenly as if she was standing in a ray of bright light. “What about you, Storm? Did you eat some of the bad prey too?”
Storm’s ears flattened a little. “No. I’m fine.”
“Well, maybe it’s just me, but you look a little . . . off. Perhaps you’d better go back to your den too.”
Storm hesitated, wrestling with herself.
I already decided I wouldn’t lie down until I’d spoken to Arrow—until I knew what we were going to do to make this right.
But healthy dogs don’t see things that aren’t there. Maybe I am getting sick after all. Maybe a short rest, just a little one, would be good for me.
Storm looked around for Arrow as she came out of the patrol den, but she couldn’t see him. That helped her make up her mind. She would just lie down—not in the den, where it was cool and dark and she might fall asleep, but at the mouth of the den, in the sunshine. She could watch the Pack and rest her bones until she was seeing things more clearly.
The camp was quiet, and very little moved in the clearing as Storm lay down and lowered her head onto her front paws. Most of the dogs seemed to be out on some errand or other, or maybe simply stretching their legs, keeping out of the way of the sick dogs. Storm saw Moon, Beetle, and Thorn returning to the patrol den, walking slowly, their tails flicking at one another. It was strange, she thought, how the two younger dogs were so much like their mother, both clearly Farm Dogs with their long fur and black-and-white coloring; and yet she could see Fiery in them both too. He was there in the extra few paws of height and breadth that they had, and in the way Thorn’s ears folded down, rather than standing up like Moon’s.
A commotion broke out near Alpha’s den, and Storm’s focus snapped to the source of the high-pitched yaps, her muscles bunching to leap up if she was needed.
But it was only the four pups coming out to play.
“Shush,” said Alpha gently, following on their heels and settling down in a patch of sunlight. “Play quietly now, pups. There are dogs who need to sleep.”
Nibble, Tumble, Fluff, and Tiny seemed to obey their Mother-Dog’s words, rolling and playing on the grass in front of her with quiet enthusiasm. A warm feeling stirred in Storm’s heart as she watched them. They were like little bundles of pure energy—it seemed impossible to keep track of them all at once.
Tumble seemed to be growing every minute. He was already up on his paws, running and bouncing all over the place. Nibble stalked a beetle—or maybe it was some invisible prey—in and out of her Mother-Dog’s legs, while Fluff wandered from spot to spot sniffing at everything, as if every pebble and flower and twig were incredibly fascinating. Tiny struggled to run alongside her littermates, stopping every few steps to catch her breath, but Storm still couldn’t keep track of her—she moved in fast bursts of energy, like a darting golden shadow. Somehow, despite her weakness, the little pup seemed to be everywhere at once.
And Wiggle . . .
Storm blinked, feeling as if a freezing wave from the Endless Lake had washed over her spine.
She could see him—her litter-brother, Wiggle, a dark shadow moving between the bright golden pups. He was playing too, chasing his tail or Tumble’s, sniffing and stalking alongside Fluff and Nibble.
Storm knew that he wasn’t there, that she was only seeing him because the sleeplessness was showing her visions of dogs who could not be real—but the more she watched him, the happier she felt.
We didn’t get to play like this. We didn’t get to enjoy the safety of our Mother-Dog’s den, or live in a Pack that treasured us. Wiggle died so young—he never even got to choose his dog name. He never got to be part of a Pack at all.
Play, Wiggle. You deserve to have littermates for a while. . . .
Storm tracked the shadow-pup’s progress across the ground as best she could, watching as he scampered across the grass and then clambered over Alpha’s legs . . . and suddenly her eyes met the swift-dog Alpha’s, and Storm realized that Alpha was watching her, one ear cocked in a puzzled expression.
Storm looked awa
y, her fur prickling with awkwardness. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them for another quick look, the shadow-pup was gone.
She let her eyes fall closed again and slumped down onto her side. If she was going to see nice visions like that, perhaps imagining things wasn’t so bad . . . but she knew that she couldn’t pick and choose. If she wanted to see Wiggle again, she would also have to see Blade, and the half wolf, and imaginary foxes watching her from the trees. . . .
Storm shuddered, wishing she hadn’t thought of foxes. She could almost hear them now, their strange not-dog words barely audible above the beating of her own heart. Or perhaps it was actually one and the same?
Waits. Watches. Waits. The moment comes.
Storm rolled over, suddenly jittery, as if she’d been asleep and a sudden noise had woken her. But she hadn’t slept—she was still in the sunlit camp, could still hear the faint yipping of the four pups. She wriggled, twisted on her back with her paws in the air and her eyes shut tight, and then rolled again, but it was no good. Something was keeping her awake. She opened her eyes and her stomach dropped—she wanted to jump up and run far away, but she couldn’t move.
Whisper’s face was so close to hers she could have licked him on the nose. He wasn’t wounded. He was lying beside her as if they were simply taking a quick nap together in the sunshine, his clumsy paws tucked up against his chest, his flank rising and falling gently. His short gray fur wasn’t marked by a single scratch or drop of blood, and his eyes were alive again, not the terrible glazed dead eyes she had seen before.
Storm tried to pull away, but Whisper’s gaze seemed to hold her fast.
“Storm, listen,” he said. “You have to listen. . . .”
Storm woke with a yelp, her legs flailing as she rolled onto her paws and scrambled away from the spot where Whisper had been lying.
The camp wasn’t drenched in sunlight now—it was still daytime, but the Sun-Dog had gone behind the trees and the light was softer and dimmer.
I was asleep, right in the middle of camp, Storm thought, half-hysterical. I could have hurt some dog . . . I could have hurt the pups. . . .
But there were no howls of pain or fear. She turned anxiously on the spot, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong at all. She could see Lucky and his hunting party standing near a new prey pile made of several large rabbits and a brown-feathered bird. Daisy was sitting outside the patrol den, looking much less shaky than she had before. It would be time to eat soon. Everything seemed to be fine.
So why did Whisper want me to listen? What did he want to tell me?
Storm shook herself hard. It wasn’t really Whisper. It was just another imaginary dog, an invention of her exhausted mind, like Wiggle and Blade. Even now, she could see something moving in the shadows under the trees, and she made herself look away.
Enough. I’ve been seeing things all day, and I’ve had enough now. She sat down with her back firmly turned to the spot where she’d seen the movement. I’m still so tired . . . whatever you are, just go away.
There was a panicked growl from behind her, and a scuffling of paws against the ground. Storm flinched, half-convinced that it was still in her head, before she heard Bella’s awful howl.
“I smell foxes!”
Storm spun around, nearly tripping over her own tail, just in time to see every member of the Pack rise to their paws with their hackles up. There was a rustling and a nasty, angry yowl, and then the scrawny red creatures burst from the undergrowth, sharp teeth snapping.
They were furious—and very, very real.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The foxes seemed to come from every direction at once. To Storm’s shocked eyes they looked like they were swarming, like ants on a piece of rotten fruit. They snarled and snapped at the dogs, and several of them started tearing at the dens, digging out the bedding and breaking off pieces of the bushes that surrounded them.
“Pack, to me!” Lucky’s bark rang out across the camp, startling the dogs into action. Storm stumbled over to him. “Stay together. Protect the camp. Protect Alpha!”
Oh no . . . The pups!
Two foxes were approaching Alpha’s den, their skinny shoulders hunched. Alpha stood between them and the entrance, growling deep in her throat and showing her teeth.
Storm threw herself at the two foxes. She was still clumsy with exhaustion, but sheer momentum was on her side, and the foxes went sprawling under her. She got to her paws and stood flanking Alpha, making herself as Fierce-looking as she could and willing the foxes not to realize that she couldn’t seem to focus on them properly.
“If you hurt my Pack,” Alpha snarled behind Storm, “if your teeth graze so much as one hair on their coats, I will make you pay!”
“Bad dogs,” the closest fox howled, fixing its yellow eyes on Alpha and the den mouth behind her. “Kills our cubs, drives us out. Foxes will have revenge!”
The creatures surged forward, their sharp teeth bared. Storm tried to get between the not-dogs and Alpha, knocking one back with a toss of her head that sent it flying. But the other fox swerved around her, its claws skittering on the earth, and Storm wasn’t quick enough to stop it. She tried to catch it and drag it back, but her jaws closed on empty air.
“No!” Moon’s howl of fear and anger rang in Storm’s ears as the Farm Dog leaped and landed on the evasive fox’s back, throwing it to the ground with one leg curled awkwardly under its body. The fox let out a whimper of pain, and a savage feeling of relief ran through Storm as she heard it. She stumbled back into her position flanking Alpha, wobbling on her paws.
Thank the Earth-Dog for Moon.
The camp was a blur of fangs and fur. The shapes of the foxes seemed to shudder in front of Storm’s eyes, blurry streaks of red-brown, while the Pack Dogs were outlined with painful bright and dark shadows that trailed in the air behind them. Part of the patrol den was gone, torn away by foxes, but the dogs were fighting back: Through the trembling haze she saw Twitch’s long hair and three legs, a blur of gold that could have been either Lucky or Bella, and a small tan-and-white ball of furious muscle that must be Snap.
Another fox lunged for Storm and almost caught her off-balance, but she made her legs stiff and refused to be knocked over. She let the fox hit her, and when its paws were tangled up in hers, she twisted her head to sink her teeth into the creature’s neck. It gave a brief howl of pain before she shook it hard, one way and then another. The fox was as skinny as the others, but it felt suddenly heavy to Storm—she could barely drag it from side to side across the grass, and certainly couldn’t shake it hard enough to snap its neck. The threat of it was enough to send the fox into a panic. It yapped and squirmed, and when Storm let go, it scrambled to its paws and fled the camp.
“Fox Coward!” shrieked another not-dog voice, and Storm turned to see a larger fox, the side of its face already bleeding, howling at the back of the creature she’d just driven away. “No dogs, no more!”
“Sunshine!” Alpha cried, the etiquette of rank forgotten in her panic. A fox had the Omega cornered and trembling. A vivid drop of blood ran down her shoulder, dark and sticky against the little dog’s long white fur. Alpha bounded forward and raked her claws down the fox’s pelt, opening deep wounds and dragging the creature back. It twitched and twisted to get away from the swift-dog’s fury.
Storm felt sick with relief for Sunshine’s safety, and sick with sadness at the memory of wounds just like those—the dog-claw wounds that had killed Whisper. She stared at the scrapping foxes and dogs and felt as if the ground had dropped out from beneath her paws.
This is happening because Whisper and a fox cub were both murdered. We drove the foxes out because of Whisper’s death . . . but we were wrong. The dog who made this happen is here, right now, fighting alongside us.
Is that dog happy with what they’ve done?
The large fox that had howled after its retreating Packmate was staring at Storm, and she tried to pull herself together. Its eyes didn’t quite meet
hers—it was looking past Storm’s shoulder, toward . . .
The pups!
Alpha had moved away from the den entrance to help Sunshine. Storm glanced behind her. Were those tiny golden ears she could see in the dimness beyond, and tiny glinting eyes peering out at the chaos?
For a moment, the large fox looked at the den mouth, and then at Storm. Everything went still, except that the not-dog creature itself seemed to pulsate, growing light and dark in time with Storm’s thudding heartbeat.
Storm tried to leap for the fox, but somehow the fox had moved first. Her paws became huge and clumsy, and she fell, hitting the ground muzzle-first with a smack that rang through her head as if she’d been struck by a falling rock. She struggled onto her belly, but she couldn’t get a grip on the ground to pull herself up, even when she heard the faint, high-pitched shriek of “Revenge!”
Even when another fox streaked past her toward the mouth of the den, even when the pups began to howl and cry . . .
A brown-furred dog landed heavily between the pups and the slavering jaws of the foxes. Her four paws hitting the ground sounded, to Storm, as loud and sudden as a roll of thunder.
Breeze!
“Back!” Breeze snarled, and lunged for the larger fox. “You won’t touch these pups!” She ducked and bobbed and sank her teeth into the fox’s front leg and tugged, twisting her head so that the creature was pulled off its paws and thrown aside. It struck a tree trunk and lay dazed as Breeze turned to the second fox. It was smaller, and already backing away, but Breeze didn’t hesitate—she charged, bowled the fox over, and bit fiercely into its throat. Blood bubbled up and ran into the grass.
Storm finally found the strength to get to her paws, and she staggered over to the mouth of the den and stuck her head inside. All four pups were there, pressed up against the thick branches at the back of the den, clinging to one another in a trembling bundle of gold and brown fuzz. The den stank of terror and of blood—Storm’s vision swam with panic again, until she found the source of the smell. Four pairs of liquid eyes stared up at Storm, so wide they seemed like black pebbles in the pups’ faces. Tumble was lying awkwardly between his litter-sisters, one leg wet with blood. He was whimpering, but awake.