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incompetent wolf would turn from his opponent like that. I was young, though, young and hopeful. When Jeremy turned, I scrambled up and dove at his flank, jaws open. At the last second, he dropped to the ground, and I flew over his back and pitched muzzle-first into the ground. While I lay there, sulking with a noseful of dirt, he prodded my hindquarters and gave a soft growl, telling me the game was over, we had to go find Peter.
    When I got to my feet, Jeremy jerked his head, making an arc to the left. Then did the same to the right. Communication in wolf-form is never easy, but we’ve learned to supplement the basic growls, yips and snorts with enough motions to get across a more complicated message. Jeremy was telling me that the game wasn’t really over—it had just changed form. Since there was no rush to find Peter, we could make a tracking sport of it. One of us would go left, the other right, neither following the easy trail Peter had left. We’d see who could find him first. I answered by tearing off to the left.
    After about a hundred feet, I stopped and set to work. Tracking by secondary clues is much harder than following a trail. You have to use all your senses: listening for twigs crackling underfoot, sniffing for a scent on the breeze, looking for movement in the shadows. Being overanxious to beat Jeremy, I took off after the first noise I heard, and startled a couple of field mice. That was embarrassing—mistaking two mice for a hundred-and-seventy pound wolf. After that, I forced myself to take a sixty-second breather. When I felt calm enough to continue, I set out again.
    I found a path and padded along it, nose and ears twitching for some sign of Peter. I’d gone about fifty yards when there came a noise so loud that I dove for cover, fearing gunfire.
    When my heart stopped thudding, I realized that the sound came from something crashing through the undergrowth. Had Peter frightened a buck? Or a stray dog? Whatever it was, it was large, and it was running full out, not caring how much noise it made. I crept from my hiding spot and moved a few cautious steps down the path. The wind shifted then, bringing a scent that made my eyes widen in shock. Jeremy? No, that couldn’t be right. Jeremy would never crash through the forest like a panicked deer. I snorted, clearing my nose to sniff again. Then I caught Peter’s scent . . . and that of another werewolf, one who definitely shouldn’t be out here.
    A yip rang out, the high-pitched yelp of a surprised wolf. I didn’t recognize the voice, so I knew it was Peter. A growl followed. I knew that growl.
    I shot forward, running as fast as I could. I veered off the path to take the shortest route. Twigs whipped my face. One caught my left eye, the sudden sting forcing it closed, but I just narrowed the other eye and kept running.
    I made it to the clearing first. There, inside, was a wolf with dark red fur—Peter—lying on his back. Looming over him was a massive black wolf.
    Peter twisted and bucked, hind legs kicking, but Malcolm had him pinned. Malcolm growled, lowered his face to Peter’s and looked him square in the eye. Peter struggled wildly and managed to claw Malcolm in the belly. With a roar, Malcolm grabbed Peter by the neck ruff and dashed him, headfirst, into a boulder. Peter went limp. Malcolm stepped over Peter’s prone body and pulled his head back for the throat slash that would end Peter’s life. Then the bushes behind him parted, and Jeremy leapt through.
    Player
    Jeremy sprang at Malcolm and hit him in the left flank, knocking him to the ground. Malcolm’s surprise lasted about a millisecond. Then he jumped to his feet and charged. Jeremy tried to feint, but the momentum of his spring left him off-balance and Malcolm hit him square in the side of his ribcage. Jeremy’s breath flew out in a groan and he skidded sideways to the ground. Malcolm lunged for a throat-hold, but Jeremy managed to scuttle backward fast enough to get out of