CHAPTER THREE

Bran heard her approaching his front door and put his hand on the handle, preparing to open it. He reminded himself once again of the extremely large favor he owed to the old wolf who set up this meeting.

"Meet with her," Jack had requested, knowing Bran could not refuse. "I'm not asking you to make any assurances. Meet with her, hear her out. That's all I ask."

"That's the favor?" Bran tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice, but he was sure his old friend could hear it.

"Yes, you old dog," the old man's voice was laced with humor. "Do this and consider us even."

"What is so special about this girl?"

Jack grunted into the phone. "I've already told you all I'm going to tell. She's young – sixteen – and a new single mom. She's in a bit of trouble, and I think you can help."

Now, standing at the door, waiting for the girl to reach it, Bran re-examined his friend's words from several different angles, trying to see where this situation was headed. He knew there was more than Jack told him. The fact that he couldn't figure it out was troubling.

Bran opened the door while she was still walking up the stairs to his home. Leaning against the doorframe, he took a moment to observe her. She was short and thin, with delicate features and a small frame. She looked fragile, but he didn't allow himself to be fooled. Somehow, this little girl had convinced Jack – a wolf he knew to be completely devoid of sentimentality, especially towards humans – to call in a decades old favor. Bran narrowed his eyes at her. Was she human?

As she came to stand in front of him, he inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing her in. She smelled undeniably human. The bundle she carried in her arms, on the other hand . . . he inhaled again . . . what is that smell?

"Are you Bran?" The young mother asked, her voice shaky but strong. She met his eyes with her own, her chin raised in defiance. She was scared but was determined not to show it.

Bran allowed her to hold his gaze for a moment before his wolf forced her to look away. She gave an almost imperceptible yelp and stared hard at the floor. Ah, he thought, his old friend must have coached her on how to act around him. The thought irritated him. It showed a preference for this girl he had never seen in Jack before. What was her hold on the old wolf?

"Yes, I am Bran," he answered, "please come in. It's bitterly cold."

He allowed her to walk past him into his home. He closed the door and helped her navigate taking off her hat and coat. He moved around her and led the way into his study. He stepped aside to allow her to enter first and then gestured at the chairs nearest the fireplace.

"When Jack called to set up this meeting, he didn't see fit to share your name . . . or the name of your . . . baby."

She took her time arranging herself and her baby onto the chair. He could hear her heartbeat and see the slight shake of her hands. She was stalling out of fear, not out of some demonstration of strength, real or imagined. He relaxed and slowly sat down. He tried to look benign and harmless.

"Daughter," she spoke up finally, "she's my daughter." She cleared her throat and absently stared at the floor in front of his feet. "Her name is Mercedes – Mercy." She looked back at the sleeping bundle and smiled with obvious love and affection. He saw fear and concern flash across her face as well.

"And you – who are you?" Bran kept his voice soft and quiet, reminding himself not to lose patience, reminding himself that Jack had sent her to him for a reason, and it wasn't to torture him – or torturing him wasn't the sole motivation.

"Margi – Margaret Thompson." She paused, seeming to take a moment to collect her thoughts. "Uncle Jack said you might be willing to help me."

Ah family, he thought, the pieces begin to make sense. He hadn't realized Jack still maintained contact with his family. They would have to be into the third or fourth generation away from his own at this point. How many greats is that, he thought, Great-great-great . . . maybe one more.

He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I'm not sure yet if I can help you. Your uncle wasn't very clear with me about the nature of your problem."

Margie sat up straighter, her shoulders stiff, her mouth pursed in a tight line. She once again looked him in the eyes and held his gaze. Holding her baby away from her just a touch, she said, "She turns into a coyote." She spoke emphatically and a touch too loud, as if daring him to disagree with her.

Bran stared back, blinking at the young woman. "I'm sorry – what did you say?"

She tightened her grasp on her baby, pulling the wriggling bundle back to her, and said, "The baby, my daughter . . . she turns into a coyote."

Bran found himself taking another look at the young woman – her reddish blond hair, her pale skin and freckles. She was undeniably white. Western European. Irish, Scottish –who knows for sure. America seemed to grab people's ancestries and shake them violently until all heritage was gone. What he knew without any doubt was Margi was not Native American. Not even a drop.

He looked at the baby in her arms. She was wrapped up inside a blanket but the parts of her which remained uncovered – her face, part of an arm, her little hands – were undeniably darker colored than her mother. Most likely Native American.

He had not come across a walker in quite some time – fifty years or more, but the walkers he knew came from two parents who were also walkers. He looked into the bright blue eyes of this young girl and knew she wasn't a walker. Maybe she wasn't the baby's natural mother . . . he leaned forward and inhaled deeply, catching both their scents.

Nope. The two individuals in front of him were unquestionably related – closely related. The girl was unmistakably the baby's biological parent.

"Her father was named Joe Old Coyote," Margi continued, speaking rapidly, "He died several months back – he never got to meet Mercy. He didn't even know about her. I never saw him change into a coyote or anything. I didn't know him for very long." (She blushed a little. Then raised her chin up as if daring her complexion to blush one millimeter further) "He was a Blackfeet Indian – or at least that's what he told me – but when I went in search of his people, after she turned into a coyote for the first time – no one had ever heard of him. No one seems to have heard of babies turning into coyotes – or any other animal for that matter. But I'm not crazy."

Bran pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The young mother obviously believed what she was saying. And she did not give off any of the smells he associated with the mentally ill. She smelled clean and fresh, full of good health and youth. But what she was saying . . . it tested his substantial base of knowledge.

He reached out to his son. Charles, please join me up at the house. Quickly please. Let's see what he made of the pair sitting in front of him.

Throughout the girl's speech, the baby had been getting fussier and fussier. She was awake and obviously hungry and unhappy. Her tiny arms flailing, her face scrunched up in displeasure. Bran opened his mouth to offer Margi privacy so she might feed her daughter – and just like that, the baby was a puppy . . . a coyote puppy.

"Damnit!" Margi bit out, gently shaking the puppy out of the blankets she was wrapped in, pulling off clothing and the diaper.

Once the puppy – Mercedes, Bran reminded himself – was free, she happily wagged her tale and jumped to the floor.

"I never know when she's going to do that," Margi said, pointing at her daughter. "I can't work because I can't leave her with anyone. How do I explain that?"

Mercedes happily bounded around the room, exploring the new environment, sniffing around, taking in the new smells. She was most certainly a coyote. And based on how quickly and painlessly she changed from human to coyote, she was undeniably a walker. Bran was fascinated. More astonishing, his wolf was delighted, like a child who discovers a new toy with which to play.

Mercedes had managed to get herself caught up in the fringe of a blanket and began making little sounds of distress. Before he realized what he was doing, Bran found himself at her side, gently untangling her. She sniffed at his hand and growled at him. Once she was loose, she backed away from him, giving her best sneer as she did.

"Good for you," Bran said, affectionately patting her on the head. "Trust your nose." He looked over at the door and without waiting for him to knock, told his son to come in.

Charles is intimidating to everyone, even those who do not know he is his father's Justice. The moment he entered the room, Margi shot to her feet and scooped up her daughter. The pup wriggled and nipped to get free but Margi held her closer to her chest.

"Charles," Bran began as he rose to his feet, "I would like to introduce you to Margi," he gestured to the young girl, "And her daughter, Mercedes," he gestured to the wiggling puppy in her arms.

Charles' eyes widened ever so slightly. Bran knew only he would notice. Charles nodded his head towards the mother and daughter in greeting. Then he turned to his father and ever so slightly raised an eyebrow.

"When I asked you to come, Margi was explaining to me that her daughter, who was a human infant at the time, randomly turns into a coyote . . . I thought your knowledge would be useful. Since then, the situation has altered slightly – the baby is a coyote."

Charles nodded his head, deep in thought. "You're white?" It came out as a question, though Margi obviously was.

Margi nodded her head. "You're asking me if I am Indian – like you or her father. You're not the first one to ask since this mess began. I don't know why that makes a difference but no, I am not – not even a little bit. As far as I know, I don't have any Native American ancestors at all."

As he turned to look at his father, Charles' expression was perplexed.

"I see you are reaching the same stumbling block I am," Bran said, "Obviously, she's a walker . . . but how is she a walker?"

Charles raised one shoulder slightly in a shrug. "Is that why she's here? To figure out why her baby is a walker? Has she tried the baby's father or his people?"

At this point, the puppy had become unmanageable, so Margi gently placed her daughter on the floor and flopped herself back into the chair. "Oh gee," she said belligerently, sounding her age for the first time, "why didn't I think of that? And really, I don't care why she turns into a coyote. I went to my uncle hoping he could help me figure out how to stop it. He told me that there is no cure or whatever. She will always do this." Margi made a vague gesture towards the pup with her hand. "She will be part dog or coyote or whatever for her whole life. It's been less than three months, and I – I don't know what to do. What do I do?"

"The baby's father died before he knew Margi was pregnant," Bran explained to Charles. "She looked for his people but since she and the father hadn't known each other long, she had very little to go on. No one seems to know him."

Something tugged at Bran's pant leg. He looked down to see the little coyote attacking him. She backed up and crouched, butt wiggling in the air. Then she pounced onto his shoe, grabbing a mouthful of pant, shaking her head back and forth.

Bran couldn't help himself, he laughed. His son stared at him like he'd never seen him before. Bran didn't blame him; he felt a little foreign to himself too. The coyote managed to scrape his ankle with her teeth, causing him to wince. Bran bent down and picked her up by the scruff of the neck. As he did, Margi rose to her feet in alarm. Bran waved her back to her seat with his free hand as his other hand brought the pup to his chest.

"I mean her no harm, little girl. I mean her no harm."

Proving that she was braver than he had given her credit, Margi stepped over to him and removed her daughter from his grasp. She cradled the pup in her arms, similar to holding a baby and carried her back over to her seat. She placed the pup on her lap and absently stroked her fur.

Bran took a moment to reign in the wolf who wanted to punish the young girl for taking the coyote away just as she was starting to get interesting. As soon as he was sure he was under control, he took the seat across from Margi and gestured for his son to join them. While Charles was lowering himself into the seat next to his father, between one blink and the next, the pup turned back into a baby . . . a naked, cold, hungry baby . . . with a strong set of lungs.

She wailed and wailed as her mother redressed her and wrapped her up in blankets. Margi looked around a little frantically. "She's hungry. I need to make a bottle for her." She looked over at Bran. "Can I use your kitchen?"

"Of course," Bran replied, "Charles will show you the way." He nodded toward his son, who did not look happy at the suggestion. Just for fun, Bran added, "He'll be happy to assist you in any way you need."

Margi stood up and pulled a large bag all new mothers seem to own onto her shoulder, juggling bag and baby.

Bran hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I could – I could hold the baby while you get things ready for her . . . if you want." He held his breath and waited. He and his wolf wanted Margi to say yes. Bran couldn't remember wanting anything this strongly before – ever.

Margi eyed him nervously for a few heartbeats before agreeing. She slowly approached Bran as if she suspected the dangerous animal within. Bran kept himself absolutely still, fearful that if he moved, she would change her mind. Both adults kept their eyes on the baby as Margi lowered her daughter into the Marrok's arms. He was pretty sure only his son knew how eager he'd been.

Margi turned and followed Charles out of the study, presumably to go to the kitchen, but Bran did not even mark their exit. The moment the full weight of the tiny creature (what little there was of it) was pressed into him, both beast and man claimed her. MINE.

We will keep her, his wolf said eagerly, That little girl is too young. What does she know of an animal who needs to be wild and free to run and hunt.

Mercedes had quieted in his arms. She had one hand in her mouth and was intently sucking on her fingers. She stared up at Bran with large, dark eyes, holding him completely entranced.

We can't take a baby away from her mother, he tried to make it sound like he hadn't been contemplating that exact thing.

We won't have to, the wolf practically purred at him. Bran could feel the wolf trying to push his will onto the man. She is struggling with mothering one such as this.

Bran considered the situation for a moment. Margi was only sixteen – young by today's standards. Other than a distant uncle (who had pawned her off on Bran), she seemed to be completely alone. A single mother with no support. A difficult position for a teenage girl with a human baby. Add a baby who randomly turns into an animal . . .

Yes, the wolf agreed, we will keep her. She will thrive here. Her mother will thank us. She will be grateful.

Bran shook his head and chuckled softly. His wolf was not the best at understanding humans. Bran wasn't so sure about the gratitude. But, he realized with horrifying certainty, he did not care how the baby's mother felt – this child belonged to him.

"Mine," he whispered.

Yes.

But how . . . Bran started wondering about the logistical nightmare keeping the little coyote was going to cause . . . the less stable wolves who would see her as prey. Leah, who would resent Mercedes existence and actively seek her death . . . and Margi . . . what to do about Margi . . .

We will make this work. We are Marrok. No one will defy us. Including the mother. She will leave the pup with us and go live her life away . . .

Bran chuckled as he realized the wolf did not have a thought about where away was – the wolf didn't care. Neither did Bran really. Both man and wolf agreed the young mother could not stay in Aspen Creek, could not remain in Mercedes' life. He could not guarantee long term safety for a human with no connection to any wolf or wolf family. Aspen Creek had enough issues without inviting an untethered human to stay.

Bran sighed. And he was about to compound those issues by taking in a coyote walker. And he was going to take her in. He may not have all of the logistics figured out – he knew the infant could not stay with him. Leah would see his affection for the baby and would destroy her the first moment his back was turned. He needed a home, parents to raise her. He needed . . . thoughts spun around in his head . . .

Mercedes reached up with her tiny hand and grabbed onto Bran's finger. He was a little startled by the strength in her grasp. He didn't normally hold babies – not even the children of pack members. He smiled down at her as she crept into his heart.

I will make this work. Whatever it takes. I will make this work, Little One.