Willow Redmane had until dark to find a den, or the cold would kill her. She crouched in a hollow of frozen roots, red and white fur matted with snow. Her breath fogged the air. She was a werewolf, but she looked more like a lost husky than a hunter. She had left the last valley for the same reason she left every place. No one had wanted her there. She wanted a home. She had never found one. The hollow was too shallow. Wind cut through it and stole her warmth. She dug at the earth with her claws, but the ground was iron-hard. Night came fast in these hills. Somewhere behind her, a branch snapped. Willow froze. A black hound broke through the brush, ears up, eyes locked on her. It did not bark. It stood between her and the trees, still as stone, waiting. Then it lifted its nose and howled once, sharp and low. A man followed the sound. He was old and broad, with salt-and-pepper hair and braids twisted into his beard. A long fur coat hung to his boots. He carried a crossbow, and the arrows in it gleamed silver. Willow knew what silver meant for her kind. She pressed low against the roots. "Easy, Shadow," the man said. The hound stopped growling but did not move. The man raised the crossbow. He studied Willow down the shaft. Her legs shook. She could run, but the hound would catch her, and the silver would find her back. She did the only thing left. She let the change take her. Fur pulled back into skin. Bone shifted. In seconds a girl knelt in the snow where the wolf had been, shivering, bare arms wrapped around her knees. The man went still. He lowered the crossbow an inch. "Well," he said. "You're a long way from anywhere." "I don't have anywhere," Willow said. Her voice cracked. "I was only looking for shelter. That's all." He watched her a long moment. The wind screamed through the roots beside her. He looked at the failing light, then back at the shaking girl. "You'll die out here tonight," he said. It was not a threat. It was a fact. He eased the crossbow down. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it across the gap between them. It landed in the snow at her feet, heavy and warm. "Name's Philip," he said. "I've got a cabin over the ridge. It's warm. There's a fire." He paused. "I hunt things like you. Remember that." Willow pulled the coat around her shoulders. She stood on unsteady legs. The hound fell in beside its master and watched her every step. She had a roof for the night. But she was walking into the home of a man who killed werewolves, and he knew exactly what she was.

The fire cracked in Philip's cabin. Willow sat close to it, still wrapped in his coat. Deer skulls stared down from the walls. Traps hung on iron hooks. She had a roof now, but the man who owned it hunted her kind. She warmed her hands and watched him. Philip crossed the room. He carried a small wooden box and set it on the table. His braided beard caught the firelight. He opened the lid without a word. Inside lay a silver collar. Faint runes glowed along its band, blue and purple. Willow felt her skin crawl at the sight of the silver. She pulled the coat tighter. "You can stay," Philip said. "Winter's long. I could use another pair of hands." He lifted the collar. "But you wear this." "What does it do?" Willow asked. Her voice stayed low. "Holds you in human form. You won't shift while it's on." He turned it in his hands. The runes brightened. "I sleep easier that way. So do you, once you understand each other." Willow stared at the metal. She knew what the collar meant. No claws. No wolf. If Philip changed his mind, she could not run and she could not fight. She would be a girl in a hunter's house, and nothing more. "And if I say no?" she asked. Philip nodded toward the window. Snow beat against the glass. Somewhere outside, his hound paced the porch. "Then you take your chances out there. I won't stop you." He said it plainly. It was not cruel. It was only true. Willow's hands shook. The wind screamed. She thought of the frozen hollow, the iron ground, the cold that had nearly killed her. She had run from every place that would not have her. Here was a place that would keep her, if she gave up the one thing that made her free. She stood. Her legs felt weak. She crossed the floor and stopped in front of him. "Put it on," she said. Philip studied her a moment. Then he stepped behind her and lifted the collar to her throat. The silver touched her skin. It stung, cold and sharp, like snow pressed against a burn. She flinched but held still. He fastened the buckle. She heard the clasp click shut. The runes flared once, then dimmed. Willow reached for the wolf inside her, the way she always could. She pushed. Nothing came. Her fur, her claws, her escape — all locked away behind the metal. She touched the band with two fingers. It would not come loose. "There," Philip said. He returned to his chair by the fire. "Now you've got a bed and a fire. Better than most." Willow sat back down. She was warm. She was safe. She had a place to stay for the first time in a long time. But she could no longer become the wolf. And the only key hung from the belt of a man who killed wolves.