Free Forbidden by Kelley Armstrong

backing off. I played submissive—head down, ears flat, tail lowered—while I bunched my legs, ready to—
    He pounced again, knocking me on my side this time. I was the one getting hold of his ruff, though, grabbing and growling as we tumbled through the woods, mowing down innocent saplings.
    I finally escaped, sprang up and started to run. Just then, Morgan stepped out from his Changing place across the clearing. I made the mistake of pausing to glance over and got plowed down by Clay. He hit me in the side and knocked me flying into the snow. Then he turned to Morgan.
    Clay lowered his head. Classic stand-off stance, but he wasn’t growling and his ears weren’t back, meaning he was just goofing around. Given Morgan’s experience with real wolves, he should recognize that, but his expression said he wasn’t so sure…and really didn’t think he should take a chance.
    Finally, Morgan’s nerve broke and he took a slow step back. Clay charged. He hit him square in the chest, nearly flipping him backward. Morgan went down. Clay zoomed back to me, paws spinning, spitting up snow in his wake. I chuffed and shook my head.
    I glanced over at Morgan. He was on his feet, shaking off snow. His gaze was fixed on Clay. Still evaluating his intent. I resisted the urge to intercede. It’s damned near impossible to communicate “he’s kidding” in wolf form. Morgan would figure it out eventually, and he seemed to do just that when Clay let him approach without knocking him flying again.
    Clay nudged my flank.
    I gave him a look to say, “If I stand, are you going to let me stay standing?”
    He exhaled, breath streaming, and backed up. I slowly rose, flicking my tail and my ears. Then I charged. He feinted out of the way. I nearly plowed into a tree. When I turned around, I swore he was laughing. Morgan, too.
    I swished my tail and snorted, then pulled myself up and growled to say playtime was over. Clay rolled his eyes to say I was only ending it because I was losing. Then he set out, racing through the snow. I loped up beside him, Morgan falling in behind.
    We only ran long enough to take off the edge that play-fighting hadn’t dulled. Then we slowed, fanning out, sniffing the air and pausing for a closer sniff at large evergreens. We’d been out there for maybe an hour when I caught a scent. I motioned to Clay and he lifted his muzzle, then shook his head. The scent was too faint for him.
    I followed the smell to a spruce. Branches fanned the ground. Carefully, I pawed one aside. The smell stayed faint, almost hidden by the astringent odor of the needles. I pushed my head into the dark cavity under the branches. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw white bone. A skeletal arm encased in a ragged sleeve.
    The skeleton’s hand was missing. As I pushed farther under the tree, I could see other parts were missing too, including the skull. Did scavengers often make off with skulls? I couldn’t recall encountering that—like the hands, there wasn’t much “meat” there.
    I eased back for a more critical look at the body. It’d been reduced to clothing-covered bones. The clothes were ripped—too badly for a struggle, suggesting predation. It looked like male clothing. The body seemed small, too. Not child-small, but not adult-sized either. On both counts, though, I was just guessing. So I backed up and let Clay in for a look.
    He spent a few minutes examining the remains. Then he came out. In wolf-form, he couldn’t tell me what he thought, obviously, just gestured that he was done and we could move on.
    We did that, making a mental note of our surroundings, then heading out in search of other bodies. Yet if there were more, it quickly became apparent that they were either a lot further in or too old for me to smell.
    I stopped to tell the guys we should head back. When I looked around, though, I only saw Clay’s golden fur. I threw back my head and howled. After a moment, a distant yip from