Wounded and in human form, most people would be forgiven for thinking that the other wolf would have the advantage. They would be wrong.
If she'd really been Asil's mate, he would have been in a quandary. But she wasn't. Charles knew it, even if poor Asil was caught by his mating bond, confused by the ability of this poor imitation to ape a living creature. The spirits of the mountains knew she was dead, and they sang it to him as they gave him back some of his strength.
She caught him with a claw along one side, but she was, in the end, a simulacrum of an Omega wolf, while Charles had spent most of his life hunting down other werewolves and killing them. Even wounded, he was faster than she was, moving out of her way as water moves around a rock. Thirty years of various martial arts gave him an advantage her age could not, by itself, overcome.
He drew the fight out as long as he dared, but he was tired, and the worse fight was still ahead.
* * * *
Anna fumbled at the bindings of the snowshoes to get them off. The snowpack on the ground between them and Charles was broken up and no more than six inches deep anywhere she could see. She'd be faster without them. If only she could figure out when she would be of use.
If she'd had the damned, clunky snowshoes off earlier, she'd have run out when the female wolf attacked Charles. But as Anna ripped and tore at the snow-crusted catches, it soon became apparent that Charles had that fight well in hand. He stood relaxed and at ease while the battered female wolf circled him, looking for an opening. A little calmer, Anna ripped off the second snowshoe. She wouldn't be wearing them again, no one would, but she could move now if she had to.
Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one who saw who was in charge of the fight.
"Asil," said Mary. "Help her."
The Moor looked at the witch for a moment, then pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the ground. He stalked to the battle with the ease of a warrior who understood death and welcomed it. If Anna hadn't been so worried about Charles, if she'd been watching a movie, she'd have sat back, eaten popcorn, and enjoyed the view. But the blood was real.
She leaned forward and realized she had a death grip on the back of Walter's neck. She loosened her hand and rubbed his fur in apology.
One minute Asil was walking toward the fight, the next he was at full speed. He passed Charles at an oblique angle and hit Sarai with an elbow strike on the side of the neck. She went limp and he snatched her up over his shoulders and ran.
"Asil!" But the witch gave no command, and Asil jumped off a rise and hit the steep side of the mountain on the edge of his feet. At the speed he was going, he might as well have had skis on.
Help, Anna realized, could have a lot of meanings. From the shelter of the tree, Anna couldn't see Asil, but she could hear the sound of something moving very fast down the side of the mountain, away from any further orders he might be given.
The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds. If Anna had been distracted, Charles was not. He ran at the witch, but she threw something at him that brought him down into the rucked-up snow. The force of his attack kept his body moving toward the witch in an awkward tumble.
"No!" the witch shrieked hysterically as she rapidly backed away from him. Anna had to remind herself that this witch was old. As old as Charles for all that she looked fifteen or sixteen. "I have to be safe. Sarai! Sarai!"
Anna braced herself to intervene, but Charles put his hands on the ground and levered himself up. Whatever she'd done to him had hurt, but she couldn't see it in his face, just in the slowness of his movement. Surely if he needed her, he'd find some way to signal?
She glanced at the werewolf beside her, but though he was alert and focused, he didn't seem worried. Of course, he didn't know anything more of witches than she did-and he'd only known Charles for a day.
Anna wasn't the only one who had noticed how slowly Charles was moving. The witch put both of her hands to her face.
"I forgot," she gasped, half-laughing, and then she pointed a finger at him and said something that didn't sound like Spanish to Anna. Charles flinched, then clutched his chest. "I forgot. I can defend myself."
But Anna wasn't listening to her, she was watching Charles's face. He wasn't breathing. Whatever the witch had done to him would be fatal if allowed to continue. She didn't know much about witchcraft, and doubtless most of it was wrong. But the witch had released Charles once, with sufficient distraction. Maybe it would work one more time.
Anna was through waiting for a signal.
She erupted from the shelter of the tree and reached full speed within two strides; her old track coach would have been proud of her. She ignored the nagging ache of her over-used thighs and the bite of cold in her chest, focused only on the witch, only dimly aware of the wolf running at her side.
She saw the witch drop her hands and focus on Anna. Saw her smile and heard her say, "Bran, Marrok, Alpha of the Marrok, slay me your son, Charles."
Then she raised a finger and flicked it at Anna. Anna had no time to prepare when something hit her from the side and knocked her to the ground, out of the pathway of the spell.
It came at last, Charles thought. The witch's command rang in his ears-which were well and truly ringing anyway with whatever she had done to him. It came at the worst possible time because he was half-blind and stumbling, and he had no idea how long it would take his father to break her command over him.
If he broke it.
But he could not burden his father with his death, so he gathered his wits and figured out from where the wolf was attacking with his nose and the sense that told him when something hostile was watching, because nothing else was working properly.
He reached out, grabbed fur as tightly as he could, and let the force of his father's nearly silent charge push him over on his back, then used his feet to make sure Bran continued over and past him.
It wasn't that neat of course. His father was quicker than Sarai had been. Quicker, stronger, and a damn sight better with his claws. Still, his da's most formidable weapon-his mind-was fogged by the witch's hold, and Charles was able to throw him without taking too much damage. The leftover momentum was sufficient for him to roll to his feet and await his father's next attack.
* * * *
Walter was a deadweight on Anna, and she rolled him aside as gently as she could. If she hurt him, he didn't show it. His body was limp and moved without resistance, and she could only hope that she wasn't damaging him further. He'd knocked her out of the way and taken the witch's spell himself.
She came to her feet and scrambled toward the witch. She couldn't afford to stop and make sure Walter was all right until she'd done something, anything, to keep the witch from doing more harm.