Free Forbidden by Kelley Armstrong Page A

Morgan replied.
    Clay chuffed and shook his head. I howled again. Morgan yipped back. Damn it, when I called, he was supposed to come. Having to go after him was really not going to impress Clay.
    I didn’t glance over to see Clay’s expression. I didn’t dare. Just gave one last howl, edged with anger, then set off after Morgan. 

Ten
     
     
    We found Morgan at the foot of a steep hillside. He was standing by a clump of bushes, staring up at a pie pan hanging from a branch. The pan twisted in the breeze, glinting in the moonlight. Great. How the hell was I supposed to convince Clay that Morgan could be Pack material if he was distracted by every shiny object he saw?
    He didn’t even seem to notice us until I let out a chuff, and he glanced over, casually, as if he’d heard us all along, but had really been more interested in the pie plate. I sighed.
    He nosed around the bushes for a moment, then looked over, head tilted as if to say, “Well, are you coming?”
    To do what? Join his rapt contemplation of baking tins? I grunted. He yipped, then dove through the bushes…and disappeared into the hillside.
    Oh.
    Clay bounded over, stuck his head through the bushes, then pushed in until the tip of his tail vanished. I followed.
    It seemed that the bushes blocked the entrance to a cave. The pie plate must have been someone’s way of marking it. When I got inside, I smacked muzzle-first into Clay’s rear end. He chuffed an apology, nails clicking on stone as he stepped further into the inky blackness.
    It was nearly complete darkness, only slivers of moonlight managing to get past the entrance. I backed out and held down one of the biggest bushes under my paw. When I did, moonlight flooded into the cave. Inside, Morgan dipped his muzzle as if in thanks. When he started nosing the floor, exploring, Clay let out a low growl.
    Morgan looked up, confused. Clay head-butted him toward me. More confusion. I released the bushes a little, then stepped on them again and jerked my head toward him. It took a moment, but he figured out what I meant. He sighed, came to the mouth and took over the job of holding down the branches while I went into the cave for a look.
    I suppose I should feel bad about that. After all, he did discover it. And I suppose it’s a testament to how long I’ve been a werewolf that I didn’t feel very guilty at all. It was simple hierarchy. He’d get his look around…after we got ours.
    We’d been standing in the mouth of the cave. It was narrow, which is why we’d smacked into each other. Now Clay squeezed to the side to let me through first. Again, hierarchy, not chivalry. That feels a little strange sometimes—taking precedence over my mate, my partner—but it’s starting to feel less weird as I manage to disentangle the Alpha-elect part of my life from the rest. We’re fine as long as the unbalance in power doesn’t extend beyond this, and I can be damned sure Clay’s never going to allow that.
    I walked into a second, bigger chamber. It stank of wood smoke, as if someone had used it for a bonfire. Everything was dark for a moment, as Clay came through the mouth and blocked the moonlight. Then he stepped aside and I looked around.
    There was a moment where I thought I’d found some ancient cave painted by Neolithic man. In my defense, it was only a brief moment. I may not have Clay’s background, but I know we’re a long way from anyplace with Neolithic cave paintings. When my eyes adjusted, I could see these weren’t even mock paintings. They were symbols, sketched with what looked like chalk and soot.
    They weren’t the same symbols I’d seen on the trees, but some looked similar. As I stepped forward for a better look, Clay nudged my flank and whined. Telling me to stop. I looked over at him. He bent his muzzle to the cave floor and nosed what looked like a white, tubular rock. Then he jerked his head toward the rest of the floor.
    We were on the edge of a ritual circle, adorned with