We brought Jeremy up to speed while the three of us unloaded groceries, and he reluctantly agreed to let us check it out. Whether or not the FBI knew where the fake Pack was staying, the residents of Bear Valley knew and helpfully communicated it freely to warn their neighbors away.

It was dark by the time Clay pulled my Camero off the road alongside one of the nearby campgrounds. He'd driven the last mile without headlights and now quieted the engine. With one last glance at each other, we got out, easing our car doors closed.

The first thing I noticed was the smell of cooked meat. Some werewolves, if they always had to cook meat before eating it. I'd never even thought of it, let alone had the patience.

Clay hung back while I ventured into the woods, heading toward the meat. Between the two of us, I was better at dealing with people; Clay was better at brawn.

Only fifteen feet into the woods, the wind shifted, bringing with it the tang of metal and the cloying scent of motor oil. The fake Pack had brought either a load of the least environmentally-friendly cars in the world or an entire parking lot of motorcycles. I stopped and waited for Clay to catch up.

"Gang," he observed. "Wait here. I'll Change."

"Should I Change, too?"

"We'll need to warn them to call themselves something else."

"But not right now." I nodded then wandered a few yards away to start my Change.

Ten minutes later, we rejoined as wolves. Clay took the lead, and I followed a distance off his flank, easily keeping track of his blonde fur in the dark woods. Soon, the encampment appeared as the dim flickers of reflected firelight between trees. The smell of cooked meat—deer—was maddening, even with the motorcycles' scent mixed in. I smelled the air again, savoring it. Something about it started bothering me, and it took a minute to realize why: I couldn't smell werewolf. I smelled human, and I smelled wolf, but the particular scent I identified as the only combination of the two was missing.

I whined softly to catch Clay's attention then made a show of sniffing the air. One ear flicked back; he didn't know what to make of it, either, but he continued padding closer to the gang.

I followed, getting nervous. A gang that travelled by motorcycle couldn't keep wolves as pets. But if they weren't werewolves, the only other option I could conceive was that they decked themselves in wolf furs. That was a less than comforting thought, but the wolf smell was concentrated enough that I guessed they were life. So did they keep a portable kennel?

I saw the man just before he noticed me. Round-faced with long, dark hair, he sat among the underbrush, leaning against a tree. He didn't react as most did: by panicking or, worse, running away. He leveled an old pistol at me but didn't fire.

It was I who froze in fear.

We stared at one another, he impassive, I barely refraining from quaking. The last time I'd been on the business end of a gun, the serial killer on the other end had earnestly tried to kill me. He'd murdered a woman he mistook for me—shot her square in the forehead.

Suddenly, a wolf howl split the night. I flinched but was too afraid to run. It wasn't Clay's voice. It came straight from the knot of human smell. I couldn't keep my ears from flicking uncertainly.

The gunman whispered something, but I was too distracted to listen. Distracted by the steady, hollow end of the pistol.

More wolf voices joined the first. Wolves work to make their voices discordant, in order to exaggerate the perceived size of the pack. Even so, I could tell there were more of them than there were of us. Another voice joined and was lost in the others' ululations.

My eyes snapped back to the gunman.

"Go home!" he commanded, loud enough to be understood over the howling.

I took a step back, worried he might shoot me if I ran.

The gun lowered a few degrees.

With no other incentives, I ran straight away from the gunman, nudged Clay to follow me, and raced back to our clothes.

We Changed back and met up where we'd parted, still listening to the last vestiges of the fake Pack's genuine wolf howl.

"Why'd you pull us back?"

"Didn't you hear them? We were outnumbered."

Clay brushed my nose with a finger. "Didn't you smell them?"

"They weren't werewolves."

"They weren't a full pack of wolves, either. I heard nothing Peter couldn't have pulled off with the right equipment." He took another look at my expression. "Normally, you'd be dragging me back there. Why did you really bring us back?"

"They had a guard. He pulled a gun on me."

He frowned. "Did you bite him?"

"No, I didn't bite him! I froze!"

"Elena, he could have shot you even more easily!"

Of course. Why hadn't I thought of that? But the man hadn't. He'd kept an eye on me to make sure I wouldn't hurt him then shooed me away as soon as my instincts agreed. "He didn't. And if he's any indication as to how the rest of his gang treats outsiders, then we stand a good chance to go in as humans and talk to them."

"What about the whole burning people alive thing?"

"Maybe it's a different Pack."

He fitted me with a stare that made me feel idiotic.

"Maybe we should go back again and find out how they did the howling. That didn't sound like speakers to me."

"Fine, but I'm going to Change back and follow you. Just lead us around the guard."

"I've got a better idea."

A/N: No reviews yet. I'll post what I have. I have an end in mind but plenty of work to keep me occupied with other things. If anyone's interested, I'll continue.