Erica woke on the bathroom floor, six wolves waiting in her shed, and her body refusing to move. Her stomach had turned traitor again. She barely reached the toilet before the vomiting started. Between waves, her gut cramped and forced her onto the seat. She gripped the small sink and breathed. The wolves needed feeding. She was the only one who could do it. Erica had promised Lydia. Six wolves hid in her shed now, safe from the town hunters who shot any wolf they found. Lydia lay in the hospital with the same sick stomach Erica knew too well. Rest for a week, the doctors said. That left Erica alone with the pack. If she failed, the hunters would win. Worse, the horses she wanted to gentle would never learn that wolves weren't monsters. Another cramp folded her double. She pressed her cheek to the cool tile of the little washroom and counted. The bite had cured her seizures. It had not cured this. Being a werewolf did not stop her guts from betraying her on the worst morning. A scratch came at the bathroom door. Then a whine. Lydia's Pomeranian nosed inside, orange fur puffed like a small fox. The dog stared at Erica with bright, worried eyes. It had followed her home when Lydia went to the hospital. "I know," Erica whispered. "They're hungry." The little dog trotted to the door of the cottage and scratched again, insistent. It would not stop. Erica understood. The dog was telling her the same thing her promise told her. Get up. Erica pulled herself to the sink and drank straight from the tap. Small sips. Her hands shook. She waited for the next cramp, but a gap opened. She used it. She crawled first, then stood, one hand on the timbered wall of the cottage. She filled a jug with water and grabbed the meat from the cold box. The Pomeranian ran ahead through the flowered garden, barking her toward the shed. Erica followed slow, stopping twice when her stomach lurched. She swallowed it down. She did not vomit again. At the shed she slid the bolt. Six pairs of eyes turned to her in the dark. The wolves crowded close, whining, and she poured the meat into their trough. They ate. She sank against the doorframe and watched them, sweat cold on her neck. She had done it. The pack was fed. The dog leaned against her leg. Then she saw the water bowl. Empty and bone dry. She had brought the jug, but her arms shook too hard to lift it far. The wolves would drink today. Tomorrow she would have to do this all again, sicker or not, and she could not keep it up alone. She needed help. And the only people close enough to ask were the ones who feared these wolves most.

Erica made it back inside the cottage, but the shed win did not last. By afternoon her skin burned. She lay on the bathroom floor and shook. The Pomeranian pressed close, warm against her side. When she tried to stand, her stomach heaved her back down. She could not cross the room, let alone reach the phone across the cottage. Then a knock came, weak, on the front door. Erica dragged herself to it. Malia leaned on the frame, one of Lydia's pack, a brown-haired girl who ran the woods on four legs during the full moon and walked on two the rest of the time. Now she was gray-faced and folded over her own belly. "I came to help feed them," Malia said. "But I can't stop throwing up either." She sank onto the step. Erica understood then. This was not just her. The moon had dropped, the pack had turned back to girls, and the same sick stomach hit them all. Lydia in the hospital. Malia here. Her. She pulled out her phone and dialed Lydia. It rang a long time. When Lydia finally answered, her voice was thin. "I can't get out of bed," Lydia said flatly. "I can't help you today. Don't argue." Then she was gone. Three of them down. Erica could not drive to town. She could not walk to the shed again. And the town hunters shot any wolf they found. If no human stood guard, the pack was one open gate away from dead. She thought of Deacon. Their emissary. A kind-eyed man who knew what they were and never feared it. He lived beyond the trees. No phone. But Erica was a werewolf, even if her guts didn't care. She crawled out into the flowered garden with Malia watching. She tipped her head back. Her stomach clenched, but she pulled a breath deep and let it out as a howl. It came thin and cracked, half a whimper. She tried again. The second was stronger. The Pomeranian lifted its small nose and howled with her, a high yip that carried. They waited. Erica's arms gave out. She lay in the flowers with Malia's cold hand in hers. Minutes later, footsteps came through the trees. Deacon walked into the garden, sandals in the grass, a jug of something pale in one hand. He crouched between the two sick girls. "I heard you," he said. "Ginger and salt water. Small sips. You'll keep it down." He looked at the shed. "I'll feed and water the pack. Every day this week. You rest." Erica let go of the fear she'd carried since morning. The wolves would live. She swallowed a sip and it stayed. But Deacon frowned as he stood. "Six wolves, one shed, right beside a town that kills them," he said. "That won't hold much longer. We need to move them somewhere the hunters can't reach."

Deacon walked to the shed with his jug and his kind, tired eyes. Erica watched him go, then turned back to the step. Malia was still there, folded over her belly. But now she was crying. Small, hiccuping sobs. She was the youngest of the pack, the baby, and when the sickness took her she had no walls left to hide behind. "Hey," Erica said. She crouched down, though her own skin still burned with fever. "Hey. I've got you." "My stomach," Malia whispered. "It hurts so bad. It's worse than the others. It always is." Erica knew that was true. After the moon dropped, the whole pack got sick, but Malia flared hardest. Her body was the newest to the change. Erica pressed one hand flat against Malia's back and rubbed slow circles. "I know," she said. "Come inside. The step's cold." She got an arm under Malia and pulled. Her own stomach heaved, but she swallowed it down and kept lifting. They shuffled through the door of the cottage together, two sick girls holding each other up under the thatched roof. Erica steered her to the couch that faced the back wall, the one angled toward the old boxy television. Malia sank into the cushions and curled small. Erica pulled the blanket off the couch arm and tucked it over her, up to her chin. Sweat stood on Erica's own forehead. She was just as sick. But Malia was younger, and crying, and that settled it. "There," Erica said. She reached for the television and turned the dial. The screen buzzed and warmed to a soft cartoon, colors moving, a low friendly sound. "Something to watch. You don't have to think about your stomach." Malia's sobs slowed. Her eyes went to the screen. "You're sick too," she said. "You should lie down." "I will. In a minute." Erica sat on the floor beside the couch and leaned her head against the cushion. "I keep thinking. Deacon says we can't stay here. The shed's too close to the hunters." Malia sniffed. "Where would we even go?" "We don't have to move the pack anywhere," Erica said slowly. The idea came to her clear, through the fever. "We're only wolves on the full moon. The rest of the month we're just girls. Nobody hunts girls." She sat up straighter. "So the pack doesn't need a new home. They just need to be hidden on those three nights. Somewhere the hunters never look." Malia watched her from under the blanket. "You think that'll work?" "It has to," Erica said. "One safe place. Just for the moon." Malia's eyes drifted shut. Her breathing slowed and evened. The television murmured on. Erica pressed her hot forehead to the couch and let herself rest at last. She had stopped Malia's tears. And she had her answer. She only had to find the place, and convince Deacon it was enough.

Malia's breathing stayed slow and even. Erica pulled herself up from the floor. Her stomach twisted hard. She made it three steps toward the little washroom before it hit. She bent over the toilet and threw up, gripping the cold sink beside her. When it passed, she rinsed her mouth and stared at herself in the mirror. Pale, sweating, but steady enough. She had the plan now. She needed Deacon to hear it. She pulled on her boots and walked out past the shed. Deacon was the pack's Emissary, the human who cared for them and worried over their sick stomachs like a nurse. He lived in the woods beyond her cottage. She found him near the trees, setting down his empty water jug. He looked up at her with tired, kind eyes. "You should be resting," he said. "You're still sick." "I figured it out," Erica said. She stopped in front of him, one hand on her belly. "You said we can't keep six wolves near the hunters. You're right. But we don't have to move the pack anywhere." Deacon crossed his arms. "Erica—" "Listen." Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. "We're only wolves three nights a month. On the full moon. The rest of the time we're just girls. The hunters don't kill girls. They kill wolves." He went quiet. His eyes stayed on her face. "So we don't need a new home," Erica said. "We just need one hiding place. Somewhere far from town, for those three nights. Then everyone comes back and lives normal." Deacon was quiet a long moment. He looked toward the shed, then back at her. "You've thought this through more than I have," he said. "I kept trying to move a whole life. You only need to hide three nights." "So you agree?" Erica asked. "I do." He nodded slowly. "It's smaller. Simpler. It might actually work." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But that place has to be real, Erica. Far enough that no hunter walks past it on a full moon. And it has to hold six wolves who are scared and sick." "I'll find it," she said. "There's one more thing." Deacon met her eyes. "You want to keep the pack out here for good. That means living near the farms. Near the horses." He paused. "Horses hate the smell of wolves. They panic. A spooked horse brings farmers, and farmers bring hunters. If you want this plan to last, you can't just hide the wolves. You have to make the horses stop being afraid of them." Erica felt her stomach drop, and not from the sickness. She hadn't thought of the horses. But she nodded. "One safe place for the moon," she said. "And I'll teach the horses too." Deacon almost smiled. "Then you'd better start soon. The next moon won't wait." Erica turned back toward the cottage. The plan was agreed. Now it had teeth, and one of them was the horses.

Erica made it back to the cottage with the horses on her mind. But the plan had to wait. Inside, Malia was sick again. She had thrown up on the floor by the couch. Erica knelt beside her and felt her forehead. Hot. Too hot. Malia was running a fever now. Erica's own stomach lurched, and she barely made it before she threw up too. When it passed, a headache pounded behind her eyes. Malia burst into tears. "My stomach is spinning," she said. "Everything's spinning. I can't stop it." She grabbed Erica's sleeve. Malia was the youngest wolf in the pack, small and scared, and Erica had promised to look after her. "I know," Erica whispered. "I've got you. Just breathe." She pulled a blanket over Malia and helped her onto the couch that faced the wall. Malia curled up, shaking, still crying. Then Erica heard it. Footsteps on the path outside. Slow, heavy, coming closer. A knock hit the cottage door. "Hello? Is anyone home?" A woman's voice. Firm. "I'm from the school. None of you girls came to class today." Erica's chest went tight. If a teacher saw two sick girls and a house full of secrets, she would ask questions. Questions led to nosy people. Nosy people led to hunters. She had to keep Malia quiet. Malia let out a sob. It was loud in the small room. Erica pressed her hand gently over Malia's mouth. "Shh. Please. Please be quiet," she breathed. Her head throbbed. Her stomach rolled again. She swallowed hard and held it down. The knock came again. Erica moved fast. She switched on the old boxy television and turned the dial until sound filled the room. A cheerful voice covered Malia's crying. Then she went to the door and opened it just a crack. A woman stood there in a neat coat, holding a clipboard. Her eyes searched past Erica into the house. "We're sick," Erica said. Her pale, sweating face made it easy to believe. "Stomach flu. All of us caught it. That's why nobody came in." The woman frowned. She heard the television. She saw Erica sway on her feet. "You do look ill," she said slowly. "You should be resting, not answering doors." "I will," Erica said. "I promise." The woman wrote something down. "Get well. I'll mark you all excused." She turned and walked back down the path. Erica shut the door and leaned against it. Her legs felt like water. Behind her, Malia had stopped crying. The teacher was gone. The secret was safe, for now. But Erica understood something new. Being sick together, all at once, was a danger of its own. It drew eyes. If the pack fell ill every full moon, people would keep coming. She could hide wolves. She could hide girls. She could not hide a whole house of sickness forever. That was the next thing she had to solve.

The teacher was gone, but the horses still needed checking. Erica remembered Deacon's warning. If the horses spooked, farmers would notice, and then hunters would come. Her stomach churned, but she pulled on her coat anyway. She stepped out into the snow and started toward the red barn where the horses were kept. She made it halfway. Then her stomach seized like a fist. She doubled over and threw up across the white snow. She wiped her mouth, but it wasn't enough. Her belly was swelling now, hard and hot, pushing against her coat. The pain spread up her sides. Her knees buckled. The barn tilted. Then everything went dark, and Erica dropped into the snow. Lydia had come outside to be sick too. Her own stomach was inflamed and swollen, and she hadn't wanted Malia to watch her throw up and feel worse. Lydia was the oldest, the one who held the pack together, and she never let the little ones see her weak. She bent behind the cottage, one hand on the wall. Then she saw the shape in the snow. Blonde hair. A still body. Erica. Something hot shot through Lydia. Her own sickness dropped away. She ran. Her soft shoes filled with snow, but she didn't slow. She dropped down beside Erica and pressed two fingers to her neck. A pulse. Erica was breathing, fast and shallow. "Erica. Wake up." Lydia's voice was flat and hard. She rolled Erica onto her side so she wouldn't choke. Erica's belly was tight and round under her hand. Lydia had felt this before, on herself, an hour ago. The sickness after the moon, worse this time. "Not out here. You'll freeze." Lydia hooked her arms under Erica's shoulders and pulled. Erica was dead weight in the snow. Lydia's own stomach twisted, warning her, but she gritted her teeth and dragged. Foot by foot, she hauled Erica back across the yard, away from the barn, toward the cottage door. Erica's eyes opened when they reached the step. "The horses," she mumbled. "I have to—" "You can't even stand," Lydia said. "The horses can wait a day. You can't." Inside, Lydia laid her on the couch beside Malia. The little Pomeranian jumped up and pressed against Erica's side. Lydia knelt, breathing hard. Now that the fear was fading, her own sickness came roaring back. She swallowed it down. "We're all going down at once," Lydia said. "Every moon. It's getting worse." She looked at the two sick girls on the couch, then at the window, at the barn she couldn't reach. "The horses can't be trained by someone who keeps passing out." Erica shut her eyes. She had failed to reach the barn. But she wasn't alone anymore. "Then we do it together," she whispered. "When we're stronger." Lydia nodded once. The plan wasn't dead. It was only waiting.

Erica lay on the couch, too weak to stand. Beside her, Lydia shivered under a blanket, her face pale and hot with fever. Both girls had thrown up again on the way back from the yard. Neither could reach the barn. Neither could even sit up straight. Then a new sound cut through the cottage. A door banged. Small feet slapped the floor. Malia ran past them and into the little bathroom off the hall. The door hung open. Erica heard her hit her knees. Retching. Then worse. Malia was sick from both ends at once, gripping the trash can while her body shook. "Erica," Malia sobbed. Her tummy was swollen and red, pushed tight against her shirt. She couldn't stop crying. "It hurts. Make it stop." Erica tried to rise. The room tilted and she fell back. Lydia grabbed her wrist. "You'll pass out again. We can't reach her." Her voice cracked. "We can't do anything." Erica shut her eyes. She thought of Malia in the woods, months ago, stuck in wolf form and terrified. One thing had calmed her then. A stuffed animal she'd carried everywhere. It had gotten torn apart. Erica had never replaced it. She fumbled for her phone. She called the one person who could still walk. Stiles. He and Erica butted heads often. He thought she took too many risks. She thought he talked too much. But he'd hauled four wolves across town when no one else could. "Erica?" His voice came fast. "You sound awful." "We're all sick. All three of us. Malia's the worst." Erica forced the words out between breaths. "I need you to go to the general store. Get a stuffed animal, the softest one they have. And tummy tea. As much as you can carry." A pause. She waited for an argument. "A stuffed animal," Stiles said. "You're dying and you want a toy." "For Malia. Just trust me. Please." Another pause. Then, softer, "Yeah. Okay. I'm going." The wait felt endless. Malia cried in the bathroom. Erica talked to her through the wall, telling her to breathe, telling her help was coming. Her own stomach twisted with every word. The door finally burst open. Stiles came in with snow on his shoes and a paper bag under his arm. He'd run. He knelt by the bathroom and pulled out a soft plush wolf, gray and floppy-eared. He pressed it into Malia's arms. Malia clutched it to her chest. Her sobs shrank to hiccups. The stuffed wolf soaked up her tears. Her shaking slowed. Stiles set the kettle on and made tea. Steam filled the small kitchen. He carried mugs to Erica and Lydia, then one to Malia on the floor. Erica held the warm mug in both hands. Malia was quiet now, hugging the wolf. The three of them were still too weak to train a single horse. But the worst had passed. And Erica knew now the pack could lean on Stiles when they broke down all at once.