Hunting Ground (Alpha & Omega 2)

"Arthur's coat of arms," Anna said dubiously. She doubted the real Arthur had ever worn chain mail; maybe the British Master had read Le Morte d'Arthur a few times too many.

Sunny nodded. "King Arthur, not my Arthur. But my Arthur didn't want to use his own family's coat of arms-"

"A pig," said Arthur over Sunny's shoulder.

"A boar," said Sunny, unperturbed. "There are still some members of his family about who might recognize him... a younger cousin and his littlest sister."

"Who is eighty-four, this coming May," Arthur spoke with obvious affection. "I'd visit her, but she's still sharp as a tack and can shoot skeet without wearing glasses. So I chose The King's coat of arms."

He said it with implied capital letters, as if there had never been another king.

"There were no coats of arms back in the era of Arthur," said Charles. "Wasn't he supposed to be sixth century?"

"Or late fifth," agreed Arthur. "The hero of the battle of Mount Badon, and that was in 518 or so. Heraldry and all its trappings were much later. Still, there is a tradition... and I had the whole thing made for fun, anyway." His eyes were dreamy. Anna wondered if he wore it and played with the sword he'd dug up when no one was around to see him.

Her older brother used to sneak downstairs at night and take the old Civil War cavalry sword her father had hung up on the wall over the fireplace and fight invisible foes. And once, memorably, his little sister, whom he'd armed with a broom. She'd gotten sixteen stitches-and he a broken nose. Men, she thought, had a strange yen for long, pointy, sharp things. She kept her smile to herself.

"Now for the piece de resistance." Arthur paused. "I often find that people are disappointed with Excalibur. I think it is because of all the movies. This is not a prop, it is a weapon made for killing."

He went down to one knee and moved the carpet and pulled up a section of hardwood flooring. Underneath was a floor safe. He put his hand flat on the safe, and after a moment it beeped and opened in a slow, steady motion. Inside was a narrow wooden case a little more than three feet long.

He picked it up and set it on top of the display table. The case itself was beautiful, a handcrafted blend of light and dark woods.

He opened the latches that kept the case closed and took the top completely off.

And she understood why a man might think that this... this was Excalibur. It bore as much resemblance to her father's cavalry sword as a jaguar to a lion-both very effective predators.

Arthur's Excalibur was shorter and wider than her father's blade-and it was sharp on both sides. The blade was dark down the center, where it was indented, and she could see the patterns in the steel as if it were Damascus -and perhaps it was. The edges were smooth and bright, though, running parallel to each other for most of the length of the blade. The grip was made of steel and, in comparison to all those Excaliburs of film and TV Arthur had mentioned, was very utilitarian-and short. It was a sword meant to be swung with one hand, a sword meant to kill.

"Did they have steel in the sixth century?" she asked.

"They had steel swords, in some places, at least a thousand years before that," answered Arthur. " Toledo steel swords were mentioned by the Romans back in the first century B.C."

"It is-" She was going to say beautiful, but that wasn't right. Her father's sword had been long and graceful-a weapon designed for beauty as well as function. This was different. "Powerful."

"No gems, no gold or glittery parts." Arthur sounded pleased.

"It doesn't need them." The impulse to touch it was strong, but she kept her hands behind her back.

"The sword wasn't the only weapon that Arthur carried," Arthur said, his voice fervid with passion. "Just the most famous. There was the Sword in the Stone, which recognized Arthur as rightful king. That is probably also the sword known as Clarent, which was used to bestow authority-such as kingship or rank. Some of the early Welsh tales mention the dagger, Carnwennen, with which he slew the Very Black Witch."

A buzzer sounded. Sunny let out a squeak, checked her watch, and ran out of the room ranting about timers and burnt offerings.

"Your mate is lovely," said Charles.

"She is," Arthur said. "She brings me joy." He touched the handle of his sword. "Excalibur is over fifteen hundred years old, and she will be with me another fifteen hundred years. My Sunny..." He swallowed. "My Sunny is dying slowly every day."

It was late when they left. To Anna's relief, the evening had passed mostly without incident. She'd been worried that Charles's earlier mood would continue, but he'd been perfectly civil over dinner.

He hadn't said much, but when Arthur ran out of King Arthur stories, he managed to get the British wolf talking about the difficulties the CCTVs-the cameras that Great Britain was installing all over the place to keep an eye on her citizens-were causing the werewolves.

"Well," she said, as they approached the battered Toyota, "that was almost civil-"

The man who'd been sitting behind the shrubbery rose a little stiffly. She recognized his scent a moment later and swallowed the sound she'd been about to make.

"Michel," said Charles.

She'd met him in the restaurant last night, but without the others around, she read him better. Alpha, but not very dominant. In her old pack, the Chicago Pack, he might have ranked halfway up, but no more than that. His face was battered and his blackened eyes said that someone had broken his nose. He was healing, but for some that happened more slowly than others. He hadn't straightened all the way up and had an arm over his stomach.

"Charles," he said in a low voice. "The Beast took my cell phone, and I wasn't sure how else to contact you."

"What do you need?"

The Frenchman shook his head. "Came to deliver a warning to you. Your mate, he wants her. You understand? He kills women and the innocent-and he has fastened on her as a victim. He thirsts for her. You must keep her out of his way if you can."

"Thank you for your warning," said Charles. "Come, we'll give you a ride wherever you need to go."

But the French wolf took a step back. "No. If I return smelling like you, he will kill me."

"But not if you smell like me," said Arthur.

Anna hadn't heard him, but neither of the other wolves were surprised.

"I found you hurt by the side of the road," continued Arthur, glancing at the street that ran past the end of the driveway. He made a soft sound between his teeth. "For shame, Jean, not taking better care of your wolves." He looked at Charles. "By the time I finish with him, Jean will be so enraged with me he will forget about hurting Michel."