Interlude – Aunt Pixie

  Okay. So. Emergency.

  Buster was barking in the bond like a broken bell, Moose was already moving like a very serious statue with a mission, and Ethan—Ethan wasn't moving at all.

  He was just lying there at the edge of the tent, face pale, one hand open with something shiny and way-too-important-looking in it. The big shiny spiky thing. The platinum bit. The problem.

  "ALPHA DOWN! I REPEAT, THE ALPHA IS DOWN! INITIATING PLAN 'DON'T PANIC BUT MAYBE PANIC A LITTLE,'" Pixie shouted through the bond, leaping onto Ethan's chest like a worried cannonball, sniffing furiously at his face, ears, mouth, neck—anything that might help wake him up.

  "ETHAN. I COMMAND YOU TO UNPASS OUT."

  When that didn't work, she tried licking his face, then pawed at his cheeks, then hopped in three rapid circles around his head. None of these expert medical interventions produced any results.

  Moose padded over, his expression grave. "He's breathing. Just unconscious."

  "WHY ISN'T HE WAKING UP?"

  "Mana exhaustion, I think," Buster said, sniffing at the platinum bit still clutched in Ethan's hand. "He pushed too much into this."

  "THEN MAKE IT PUSH BACK OUT," Pixie insisted, headbutting Ethan's shoulder.

  "It doesn't work that way," Moose said quietly.

  Pixie froze, reality sinking in. Their alpha was down. Someone needed to take charge. She glanced at Moose—dignified, wise Moose. She looked at Buster—strong, impulsive Buster. Then she looked at the tiny wolf cub peeking out from behind her blanket nest, Light blue eyes wide with fear.

  "Okay. Okay okay okay. I am in charge now. Aunt Pixie. That's me. I read a book about leadership once. Well, I licked a book. Same thing. I am pretty sure they said the lady that wrote the book was an Aunt too."

  She zipped to Ethan's bedroll, grabbed the edge of his blanket in her teeth, and dragged it over to his unconscious form, struggling to cover him properly. It took seven attempts, three falls, and one accidental somersault, but she finally got him covered up to his chin.

  "Good. That's step one of Emergency Alpha duties. KEEPING WARM."

  Moose sighed. "Pixie, I think we should—"

  "AUNT PIXIE," she corrected, already moving toward the wolf cub.

  She approached the cub with uncharacteristic gentleness, slowing her usual bouncing pace to a careful walk. The cub shrank back as she approached, a tiny growl forming in its throat.

  "Your big squishy human is sleeping because he did something dumb. Like magic. Or thinking too hard. Same thing," she whispered, nose-to-nose with the cub. "But don't worry. Aunt Pixie is here now. I'll take care of everything."

  The cub blinked at her, confusion and fear mingling in its young mind.

  "Here's the new Pack Emergency Plan," Pixie announced, bouncing back to the center of the tent. "Ethan rests. Moose guards. I manage. Buster doesn't touch anything sharp. Any questions?"

  "Yes, several," Buster began, but Pixie had already moved on.

  "FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS. Get Ethan all the way inside. He can't sleep half-in, half-out like that. It's bad feng shui. Also, predators."

  It took all three of them working together to drag Ethan fully into the tent—Pixie alternating between "helpful" tugging at his collar and shouting encouragements, Moose carefully pulling at his sleeve, and Buster awkwardly pushing from behind. The result was Ethan stretched diagonally across the tent floor, not quite on his bedroll but at least fully inside. With his butt up in the air slightly and sort of laying on his face.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "PERFECT," Pixie declared, circling her handiwork with obvious pride. "That's probably good for blood flow to the brain. Very scientific positioning."

  Moose stared at their human's awkward pose with obvious concern. "I'm not sure that's—"

  "TRUST ME," Pixie interrupted. "I saw a picture of this in a yoga magazine once."

  "Now for breakfast. The cub needs milk!"

  She darted to Ethan's pack, somehow knowing exactly which pocket held the specialized waterskin. Dragging it out proved challenging, but she managed with determined tugs of her teeth.

  "Moose, I need you to help me with the milk. You're the only one tall enough to reach it."

  Moose, perhaps recognizing that Pixie's chaotic energy had found a productive outlet, obliged. Between the two of them, they got the waterskin filled with milk and honey, though not without considerable spillage.

  "Now for the tricky part," Pixie muttered, approaching the cub with the leaking waterskin in her teeth.

  Surprisingly, she showed remarkable patience, positioning the spout near the cub's mouth and waiting. The cub, hunger overriding caution, eventually began to drink.

  "See? I'm AMAZING at this," Pixie thought proudly through the bond, though her muzzle was now thoroughly soaked with milk.

  As morning became afternoon, Pixie divided her time between checking on Ethan (which involved running circles around him, occasionally licking his face, and providing loud updates about his unchanged condition), and tending to the cub.

  "Okay, lesson time," she announced to the cub after its second feeding. "You're doing growls all wrong. This is a GROWL." She produced a sound that was more squeaky toy than menacing. "And this is a BARK!" Her bark echoed through the tent, startling the cub into retreating to its blanket nest.

  "Maybe we'll try again later," she conceded, before darting over to where Buster was shifting restlessly near the tent entrance.

  "WHERE do you think you're going?" she demanded, planting herself in his path.

  "Just... stretching my legs," Buster replied unconvincingly, his gaze fixed on something outside.

  Pixie followed his eyeline to a squirrel perched on a nearby branch.

  "BAD. We don't hunt squirrels. They have tiny hands. And they remember things."

  She lowered her voice in an ominous way.

  "They... remember."

  "Remember..."

  "Remember..." Pixie echoed, her voice dropping lower each time.

  Buster blinked. "That doesn't even make sense," he muttered, unconvinced but vaguely unsettled.

  "I'M MAKING A NEW LAW," Pixie declared, standing as tall as her small frame allowed. "Nobody leaves the tent radius unless they are named Moose or Pixie or also Moose."

  "You said Moose twice," Buster pointed out.

  "EXACTLY. He's twice as responsible as you."

  Moose, to his credit, maintained his watch from the tent entrance without commenting on Pixie's increasingly bizarre proclamations.

  As afternoon dragged into evening with no change in Ethan's condition, Pixie's frenetic energy began to wane. She'd fed the cub four more times, created a complex system of "patrol routes" around the tent that only she followed, and reorganized Ethan's pack three times "for optimal emergency access."

  Now, as shadows lengthened, worry began to creep past her defenses.

  "Why won't he wake up?" she asked quietly, nudging Ethan's hand with her nose.

  "His body needs to recover," Moose explained gently. "The mana has to rebuild."

  "Yeah, well it's rebuilding like a one-legged turtle," Buster muttered, tail flicking with irritation. "He's sitting at three mana. And it's crawling up—like, one point every forty-seven minutes."

  He glared at Ethan’s status bar, then squinted. "Although… maybe it’s speeding up? Just a little?"

  Buster shook his head, growling under his breath. "Stupid inefficient system. Makes no sense."

  Pixie's ears drooped. She looked at the platinum bit, still clutched in Ethan's other hand, and growled at it.

  "Bad shiny," she whispered. "You broke my human."

  In a last desperate attempt, she placed her paws on Ethan's chest and tried to channel what little magic she understood. "Wake. Up. Please."

  When nothing happened, she sighed and curled up beside him, her small body pressed against his side. "Okay. But just for a minute. Because I'm watching. Because I'm in charge."

  The wolf cub, perhaps sensing Pixie's distress, cautiously approached and settled next to her. Pixie's tail thumped once in surprised appreciation.

  "You're lucky, y'know," she whispered to the pup. "You get me."

  As night fell, Pixie maintained her self-appointed vigil, even as her eyelids grew heavy. She'd insisted on being the one to stay awake, sending Moose and Buster to rest on their bedrolls. The cub had fallen asleep curled against her side, its tiny form rising and falling with each breath.

  Just as the twin moons reached their zenith, Ethan stirred slightly, a small groan escaping his lips. Pixie's ears perked up, but he didn't wake fully. Still, it was something—a sign that he was fighting his way back.

  "It's okay," she whispered, resting her head on his chest. "I got this. Aunt Pixie is on duty."

  And for once, she didn't feel the need to shout it.