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Montay found safety in the cottage’s shed, just managing to slither his way through the woodpile stacked and placed against the east wall, and into the shed itself through a small hole near its base. In the coolness of the northern evening, he was subject to the vicissitudes of the cold-blooded form he’d chosen to transform into; add that to his bad planning to shapeshift into a snake blinded by molt and he was screwed.

“Ferah, careful planner that she is, would never have been caught in this situation, damn her eyes,” he hissed, his tongue tasting the air for soft shelter and finding a hint of burlap that was a few degrees warmer where it rested against the wall.

“She’s the younger sibling—and a female to boot—and is supposed to be supporting me,” he groused as he wriggled his way into the pile of rough material, adding, “Just because everyone likes her better doesn’t mean she gets to be the leader of the pack…and by the Gods, I’ll force her to accept that truth if I have to…”

He shivered in pleasure as the burlap caressed his itchy skin, and dropped in exhausted torpor, dreaming of happier days when he and his younger sister, as wolves, ran their homeland woods together under the full moon’s glow.

He didn’t really want to kill her; he just wished there was another way to resolve his leadership problem.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026)

(To be continued)