Unhappily Ever After

Chapter 11 - Friend of the Family

I went slowly so that Alex could follow or start a fight, if he wanted, but he did neither. Hopefully, nobody would remember Doug from Scouts, nobody would wonder where he'd disappeared to, and nobody would ask awkward questions of the man who'd vouched for him. Hopefullies didn't help Alex, but they sure helped my conscience.

The rogue came to a standstill after five minutes, affording me the opportunity to catch up. I didn't take the lead because I didn't know the terrain, although he made a show of offering me the place. It seemed that he had not forgotten the feeling of my teeth on his pelt.

We kept running long after the border. I was nearly treading on the rogue's heels, but hell was he quick. Sprinting, I could do. Long-distance loping, I could do. This long-distance sprinting, however, was a struggle. Before three miles were up I could feel my muscles stretching that little bit too far, making those achy complaints. I'd be sore tomorrow. It was worth it, I reckoned, for this feeling of flying, my paws not seeming to touch the ground.

My scent had been off since the border. The flockies were welcome to think I'd chased him that far, diligent little scout that I was. They were less welcome to mark my scent as a rogue sympathiser. Somehow, I knew I'd be coming back to this pack ... whatever it was called.

The rogue hurdled through a copse of willow trees, coming out on a breezy slope. Moorland. Okay, this felt like home. Very little of Anglesey wasn't moorland. Finally, he slowed to a stop beside a hollow in the ground. It was sheltered, dry and scattered with pieces of kit: rucksacks, sleeping bags and eating utensils. This was somebody's camp. A dozen somebodies at least.

I stood quietly and fixed my eyes on a heap of glowing embers while the rogue shifted and dressed himself.

"Take these," a voice muttered a minute later, the cue to turn around. It was an oddly familiar voice, and one glance at its owner told me why. I knew him.

The dark-eyed, handsome teenager stared at me impatiently. He was holding out a handful of clothes and wore an expression of lazy arrogance, exactly as he had beside the bridge to Anglesey two days ago.

Well I never. It's a small world. I seemed to remember this lad wanting to kill me, but I'd saved his life and there wasn't a drop of recognition in that stare. Maybe I hadn't made much of an impression. No, I thought indignantly, I'd started a fire the size of a football pitch and that was about as extreme as impressions got.

I took the clothes in a snap of my teeth, just missing his fingertips, and trotted away to shift. When I came back to the fire in my human form in a shirt and jeans, the lad grudgingly stuck out a hand.

"Mortimer Morris. You'd best be calling me Mort, though — everyone does."

I took the hand but didn't offer him my own name. That would have to wait until I'd decided whether I would be Douglas or Joe or Rhodric.

Instead, I remarked, "Raiding alone seems like a risky business."

"I wasn't alone," he muttered. "I was the distraction. Just didn't expect to get found so quickly, is all. It was my first time."

"Mine too," I told him cheerfully. "So. Where are your friends?"

Mort, who I decided must have been about sixteen, jerked a thumb towards the copse. "They'll be along soon. You'll be gone before then, if you know what's good for you."

"Ah, yes, you're probably right. I'll be leaving just as soon as you answer a question for me. Sound fair? Your life for a few words?"

"Depends on the question," he said cautiously.

I noted the change in him. Muscles bunched, stiff shoulders, a resident scowl. Little did I know how often rogues were asked for information, and usually by flockies. The name of a raider. The location of a camp. The time of a raid. Not answering could get you killed. Answering could also get you killed, because betrayal was the ultimate crime amongst rogues.