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was only a helpless pup called Lick; she had shared the warmth of her body, consoled her, protected her from the hostility of the other Pack members.
    I miss Martha. . . . When she died, it was like losing my Mother-Dog for a second time.
    Alpha’s voice penetrated Storm’s wistful thoughts, and she was glad. “Only the Wind-Dogs may hunt and capture the true Golden Deer, who runs free through every forest. But she casts a shadow. And if we run hard and run fast, we can catch that shadow, a living Golden Deer, as the real one races on into the sky. That’s when a Pack is truly blessed by the Spirit Dogs.”
    Storm liked this story. I’ll catch a shadow of the Golden Deer one day. And when I do, I’ll remember to thank the Wind-Dogs for it. I never knew about them before. . . .
    It was odd, yet strangely reassuring, to know that the swift-dogs had stories of their own, stories about Spirit Dogs that other dogs had never heard of. Perhaps all dogs had their own Spirit Dogs. Storm’s eyes ranged around the Pack until they fell on Arrow, sitting proud and alone as he listened in silence to Alpha’s tale.
    Do we have our own Spirit Dog, he and I? Storm wondered. Perhaps there’s a Fierce-Dog Spirit that I don’t know about. . . .
    Her hackles sprang erect, and she shook off a thrill of suspense.
    What does it matter if there is some unknown Fierce-Dog Spirit? This is my Pack! I belong here.
    She drew in a breath, and clenched her jaws, feeling the soft night wind ruffle her short fur as if a Wind-Dog had licked her as it passed.
    The stories of my Pack: Those are my stories! Their Spirit Dogs are my Spirit Dogs.
    They’re all I need; they’re enough for me.

CHAPTER THREE
    â€œWhat will we do today, Martha? What will we do?” Storm leaped excitedly around Martha’s sturdy legs, nipping at her fur with her baby teeth. “Let’s do something fun. I know! You can teach me to swim!”
    She was so tiny next to Martha, Storm thought with amazement. Then she realized: she wasn’t Storm at all, not yet. . . .
    I’m still Lick!
    One huge webbed paw swiped her gently, making Storm tumble over on the soft grass, but she wriggled up again, forequarters lowered, tail wagging eagerly. Martha bowled her over once more and Storm lay on her back, squirming with delight as the big dog nuzzled her belly affectionately.
    I’m a pup again . . . !
    A wave of happiness rippled through her short fur. This was better! This was life when it had been fun, and so much simpler. Hopping to her paws, she panted eagerly as Martha licked her face.
    â€œWhere are Wiggle and Grunt? I want to play with them! Where are my litter-brothers?”
    Martha gave a soft, gruff laugh, wrinkling her muzzle. “Patience, little one. I’m sure they—”
    Then her huge head jerked up, and her dark eyes narrowed. Storm stopped, quivering as she watched her foster-mother snuff the breeze. She pressed close to Martha’s flank, feeling the big dog’s fur bristle.
    Something was wrong. . . .
    The clearing that had been so sunny and bright and warm seemed suddenly full of shadows. Darkness shifted at the edge of the trees, and the wind was cold now. A darker shadow slipped between the trunks, or so Storm thought. It was hard to see, hard to think clearly, but there was something out there. Something terrible.
    â€œMartha?” she whispered, her whine trembling. “What is it?”
    â€œQuiet, little one. Wait . . .”
    â€œIs it Blade? Has she come back? Oh Martha, what will we do?” Her whole small body felt cold and vulnerable, and the trees seemed so very big.
    Martha turned, dipping her great head to Storm’s tiny one. “Oh, Lick,” she murmured. “Little dog, I don’t know what to do. There’s no danger out there.”
    â€œBut Martha—”
    â€œNo danger, little Lick, no darkness in the forest, I promise.”