Moon Called by Patricia Briggs

Montana, cursing the heavy wet snow that had distracted me so I missed my turnoff, which should have been several miles earlier. I topped off my gas tank, got directions, chained up, and headed back the way I’d come.
    The snow was falling fast enough that the snow crews hadn’t been able to keep up with it. The tracks of the cars preceding me were rapidly filling.
    The gas station clerk’s directions fresh in my mind, I slowed as I crossed back over the Yaak River. It was a baby river compared to the Kootenai, which I’d been driving next to for the past few hours.
    I watched the side of the road carefully, and it was a good thing I did. The small green sign that marked the turnoff was half-covered in wet snow.
    There was only one set of tracks up the road. They turned off at a narrow drive and, after that, I found my way up the road by driving where there were no trees. Happily, the trees were dense and marked the way pretty clearly.
    The road twisted up and down the narrow river valley, and I was grateful for the four-wheel drive. Once, a couple of black-tailed deer darted in front of me. They gave me an irritated glance and trotted off.
    It had been a long time since I’d been that way—I hadn’t even had my driver’s license then. The road was unfamiliar, and I began to worry I’d miss my turn. The road divided, one-half clearly marked, but the other half, the one I had to take, was barely wide enough for my van.
    â€œWell,” I told Adam, who was whining restlessly, “if we end up in Canada and you haven’t eaten me yet, I suppose we can turn around, come back, and try again.”
    I’d about decided I was going to have to do just that, when I topped a long grade and saw a hand-carved wooden sign. I stopped the van.
    Aspen Creek , the sign read in graceful script, carved andpainted white on a dark brown background, 23 miles . As I turned the van to follow the arrow, I wondered when Bran had decided to allow someone to post a sign. Maybe he’d gotten tired of having to send out guides—but he’d been adamant about keeping a low profile when I left.
    I don’t know why I expected everything to be the same. After all, I’d changed a good deal in the years since I’d last been there. I should have expected that Aspen Creek would have changed, too. I didn’t have to like it.
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    The uninitiated would be forgiven for thinking there were only four buildings in Aspen Creek: the gas station/post office, the school, the church, and the motel. They wouldn’t see the homes tucked unobtrusively up the draws and under the trees. There were a couple of cars in front of the gas station, but otherwise the whole town looked deserted. I knew better. There were always people watching, but they wouldn’t bother me unless I did something unusual—like dragging a wounded werewolf out of my van.
    I stopped in front of the motel office, just under the Aspen Creek Motel sign, which bore more than a passing resemblance to the sign I’d followed to town. The old motel was built the way the motor hotels had been in the middle of the last century—a long, narrow, and no-frills building designed so guests could park their vehicles in front of their rooms.
    There was no one in the office, but the door was unlocked. It had been updated since I’d been there last and the end result was rustic charm—which was better than the run-down 1950s tacky it had been.
    I hopped over the front desk and took a key marked #1. Number one was the Marrok’s safe room, specially designed to contain uncooperative werewolves.
    I found a piece of paper and a pen and wrote: Wounded in #1. Please Do Not Disturb. I left the note on the desk where it couldn’t be missed, then I returned to the van and backed it up to the room.
    Getting Adam out of the van was going to be rough no matter what. At least when I dragged him into it, he’d been unconscious. I