Vixen crouched low in the scrapyard, one hand resting on the matted fur of her oldest dog. The pack pressed close around her, ears pinned flat, eyes fixed on something past the fence she couldn't yet see. They had been like this since Kane's crew left an hour ago — quiet, watchful, wrong. Whatever was out there, her dogs already knew it. She just needed them to show her. She rose slow. The pack moved with her, fanning into a wide line across the cracked lot. Nine sets of glowing eyes, all pointed the same way. Past the rusted cars. Past the chain link. Into the dark beyond the gate. Then it stepped into the light. Tall. Too tall. Slender legs, a jaw full of teeth, eyes burning yellow through the haze. A hellhound, but wrong — stretched, hungry, watching her pack the way her pack was watching it. Vixen's hand dropped to the blade at her hip. Her oldest dog growled, low and certain. They had named it before she'd even seen it. "Hold," Vixen said. The pack held. The thing did not charge. It only tilted its long head, turned, and slipped back into the dark — marking her, marking them. Vixen let out a slow breath. Whatever Kane had pulled her into, it had followed him here. And now it knew where her dogs slept.