Disclaimer- Patricia Briggs owns what is hers. I am just manipulating things a bit for my own fun.

Check out her other books= Moon Called, Blood Bound, Iron Kissed and Cry Wolf as they are all loads of fun!!

Chapter One

The Girl

This was bad.

Her breath came in rapid and shallow pants as she looked at her horrified reflection in the glassy eyes of the dead wolf.

This was very bad.

It was a mistake to leave Nebraska. It was an even bigger mistake to head north toward the Marrok's territory seeking asylum. It was a down right catastrophe that she had just shot and killed said Marrok's mate!

She hadn't known who the female was to begin with and had she been informed, she would have whipped right around and high tailed it out of Montana like the dogs of hell were after her.

Which they would be when the Marrok found out whom exactly had snuffed out his mate.

The wind shifted and she lifted her stunned eyes from the dead females' corpse to stare at the racing clouds above; He knew what had happened and He was on the move.

The Marrok was going to obliterate her when he got there. The killing of one's mate was a grievous crime among werewolves. A sentence would be given equal to the crime.

She could run.

She should run. She had inherited that nifty little ability from her mother that would hide her scent from all. It took a great deal of concentration to achieve though, and she was never able to completely grasp the ability being what she was. Werewolf olfactory senses were not something to be underestimated as they could smell ants at fifty yards in a high breeze. All that would accomplish would be for her to die tired and frustrated on top of being scared witless.

Looking back at the fallen queen, she resigned herself to her suddenly stunted future prospects. This wasn't how she pictured dying; it almost seemed too ridiculous to be reality. Dying by the hands of the Vampires or falling to the assassins of nearly half the werewolf packs in the Midwest and South seemed more appropriate.

Getting entangled in the killing of the mate to the Alpha of Alpha's was never even considered a remote possibility.

A swelling of power bubbled up from the south- He was getting closer with each second that passed, and he wasn't alone as the energy from his pack was tangible even from behind the raw power of the Marrok himself.

The panic that she'd been fighting down from the moment she intercepted the insane werewolf from killing the frightened campers was beginning to consume her. She had still been in human form when the gold and silver huntress turned her blood lust onto her stupid interfering self. She didn't have a chance to change and properly defend herself and was thus a standing slab of moronic meat waiting for the deadly swipe of claws to end it all.

What she hadn't counted on was stumbling backwards over the campers' grill with a werewolf latched onto her shoulders, the hard impact of the rock strewn ground and the accidental discharge of her shotguns silver slug into the brain of her attacker. The resulting echo that filled the space between them as the tattered remains of the back of the females' skull were blown high into the air only to plummet back down as chunky rain was deafening.

Shaken, bleeding and terrified, she had eased out from under the female's crumpled form only to be assaulted by the sweeping maelstrom of power only attributed to an Alpha: the call of the dying wolf to her much stronger mate. The only Alpha in this area of the country was the Marrok himself.

It didn't take a brain surgeon to know she was in serious trouble having jumped from the frying pan into the extremely pissed off fryer. That little piece of 'common knowledge' would have been much appreciated ten seconds earlier.

She shrugged the shotgun's shoulder harness off of her injured shoulder, where the werewolf had embedded a set of gleaming claws, and dropped the weapon onto the rocky earth beneath her feet with a rattling clunk. She didn't know how to properly use it and that fact was horrifyingly obvious being presented to her in the form of the dead female.

He was getting closer. It wouldn't be long now.

She was going to die. She didn't want to die!

She was panting now as white-hot panic started to flood her brain while her heart pounded out an increasingly escalating rhythm. She needed a distraction; something to focus on so she didn't hyperventilate or have a heart attack.

She cast around to see if the campers had taken her shouted command of "It's mad! Run for it!" at face value. Only the deep troughs of dirt left by their SUV's frantic exit, and the fallen smoking grill, were the only visual signs left that humans had even been there.

The wind shifted again, bringing the metallic scent of fresh blood towards her nose. Normally, blood would be a titillating aroma. Being that she was a werewolf with part of the make-up of a vampire, she should have been itching to have a go at the fresh meat.

It did nothing but make her retch until she was dry heaving and trembling worse than before. Her heart still struggling against her ribs as if trying to escape its confines and run for it.

Death wasn't something she revealed in. It was something she had drug behind her everywhere she happened to go since she was a very little girl after the death of her mother. Like an anchor, it hindered her and warped her life miserably by its dragging power.

Taking a few calming breaths to steady herself, she reached for her forgotten bag that she'd shed when the werewolf had charged the humans, and dug around looking for her bottle of water that she had filled up at the last stream she'd crossed.

A flash of light caught her eye and she took in the cracked remains of her mother's hand held, silver mirror with a sinking feeling of despair on top of everything else.

Forgetting her original mission for water, she snatched the afforded distraction and sank to the ground with the bag still clutched in one hand and stared numbly at the spider web of breaks that spread out across the reflective surface. Lifting the, now useless, heirloom from her pack with almost reverent hands, she peered at her own image that was distorted by the many hair fractures.

A pair of greenish eyes set in a pale face, smudged with dirt and splattered in blood, framed by a copper mane of frizzy hair stared gloomily back. Taking a long time to study her own appearance, she huffed in anger and tore her gaze away with disgust.

She had once been so happy. Her eyes, that had once held laughter and radiated curiosity, now broadcasted a certain weariness and constant fear that was unbecoming on her. Then again, she figured weariness and constant fear would be ugly on anyone, not just her.

Well, at least not many more people would have to tolerate the eyesore that she presented to the world on a daily bases for much longer once the Marrok got there.

A shiver raced up her spine at the thought.

Her eyes became unfocused again as she took in the bright silver under the spots of tarnish that held the pieces of mirror in place still. Moving her hands so she could ghost her fingers over the embroidered silver and cracks of glass down to the ornate handle, she brushed her thumb over the name carved into the precious metal in a delicate script that subtly proclaimed the original owner of the vanity piece: Gloria Odorisio.

Her mother.

How she missed her mother. The mirror had been a gift from her father to her mother as a wedding present. Considering that it was made of pure silver, and that her father was a werewolf, she often wondered at the symbolism behind such a gesture. Werewolves didn't care for silver a whole lot as it was sometimes very painful for them touch it. She could touch it with no problem even though she was a werewolf as well, and she had long ago put it up to her mother being turned into a Vampire when she was pregnant with her.

Long ago her mom had held this mirror. So had her dad.

Sighing quietly, she moved her eyes back to her fissured image in the mirror and felt her face drain and heart freeze in mid pump.

There, in the puzzle pieces of reflective glass, the figure of the Marrok himself stood not more than five feet from her huddled form. Golden eyes raging in a calm face as they fixed on her person with such intensity that she could almost feel the burns they left on her chilled skin.