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 Chapter One

Greyhounds are not normally night owls – nor, for that matter, are they particularly fond of getting up in the morning – and Tweeter was no exception.  At this hour, she should have been stretched out on her back on her bed, legs tastefully akimbo, the delicate tip of her tongue protruding from the side of her mouth, dreaming of rabbits and running and rabbits and running and … well, you get the idea. 

            But instead of being comfortably catching up on her sleep after a hard day of napping, Tweeter stood ankle-deep in damp grass – damp! – staring at Moon.  There was something she was supposed to notice, but she wasn’t quite sure what. 

Moon was like that sometimes, waking her up and dragging her out into the night to make some obscure point, the meaning of which was rarely obvious until days later and not always particularly useful even then.  Moon had a rather odd sense of humor at times, too, and Tweeter was never entirely sure when she was joking.

Tweeter had the feeling this was going to be one of those times.  Moon was lurking behind the trees, larger than she had any right to be, playing chameleon.  Rather unsuccessfully, in Tweeter’s estimation, but there was no accounting for tastes.  No doubt Moon thought that the muddy orange color she’d achieved was an exact match to Tweeter’s glorious red coat. 

A good try, but no rabbit. The craters and gashes in Moon’s surface sparkled with hard edges instead of the subtle sheen of a good coat and there was entirely too much yellow in the hue. 

Still, Tweeter appreciated the gesture and took it as an acknowledgement of their long friendship. Years ago, Tweeter had even considered trying to reciprocate the gesture as a show of solidarity, but changing her coat color wasn’t something she’d yet learned how to do. (Although she’d watched Nancy Catherine carefully several times, trying to puzzle out how her human managed to pull it off.  Nancy Catherine was quite a bit better at it than Moon.)

            It had been several months since Tweeter had spoken to Moon.  As Alpha of the pack, Tweeter did not participate in the midnight patrols of Hardin Creek Farm. She scheduled them, of course, and received the reports from the other Greyhounds and occasionally conducted spot checks to ensure that the others were being diligent. But ever since she’d banished Bran the Fox to the far side of the creek, the pack had been remarkably conscientious about its duties.  There’d been no need for Tweeter to be up and about this late at night.

In fact, Kennicait had just completed a complete tour of the grounds not fifteen minutes ago.  Tweeter had roused from a deep sleep long enough to received his gently whuffled report of “all secure” and settled back down to go back to sleep, only to hear Moon’s light tapping gently on the wooden floor, demanding her attention. 

Tweeter tried ignoring Moon, and that worked about as well as it always had before.  She tried rearranging her blankies, and that had earned her a  muffled “Settle down!” from Nancy Catherine.  With a resigned sigh, Tweeter had taken advantage of the unlocked doggie door to go and speak with Moon.  Now, standing in the front yard, dew chilling her ankles and toes, she waited for Moon to speak. 

As Tweeter watched, Moon’s color faded to dull bone-white, the sparkle still present in flashes. Moon grew larger, approaching her, the features on its surface resolving into a face. The features were neither kind or cruel but something completely alien – remote, passionless, uncaring.

            The scar on Tweeter’s side ached, pulsating in time with the beat of the moon’s light. The gash, the result of a clash with Bran the Fox and a struggle for control of Hardin Creek Farms, had healed well.  Her fur had grown back around most of it, leaving only a thin streak of dark skin visible when she ran.  Most of the time, she didn't even notice it.

            Moonlight seared the scar. Tweeter turned away from Moon, leaving her unmarked side to face it. Moon bent her light around the Greyhound’s body, seeking out the scar, surging into her body through the healed tissue.  The light filled her, shining out through every pore and opening, seeking out the weaknesses in her flesh and in her character. For a moment, Tweeter thought she might drown.

            Tweeter's toes twitching, urging her to run, run, RUN.  She held her ground, forcing herself to riffle through her memories, searching for some explanation of Moon’s conduct.

            Like almost all Greyhounds, Tweeter had virtually complete access to all of her ancestral memories.  She remembered the days back in ancient Egypt, and later in England, living in the courts of queens and the palaces of kings, an honored and revered member of royal society.  Her kind had been feted above all other canines, prized for their beauty, delicate bone structure, and astounding speed.  Fortunes were won and lost on the strength of her ancestors’ bone and muscle, wagers made and forfeited in an unbroken string that stretched through the centuries even during the darkest times in man's history.  While several modern breeds were descended from ancient Greyhounds, none carried more of that royal lineage than Tweeter. 

            Tweeter herself had been a champion racer until a broken hock forced her into retirement.  Her trainer, Jack Dowd, had convinced Nancy Catherine Brubaeker, an adoption rep with the local Greyhound rescue group, to take Tweeter home. 

            Almost immediately, Tweeter had seen that Hardin Creek Farm needed sorting out.  Under the then-Alpha, things had gotten out of control.  A fox by the name of Bran, a red fox at that – though privately Tweeter knew he was not actually a real red, not the way she was – was in the midst of a midlife crisis and had usurped almost every one of the Alpha’s prerogatives.  Bran had put together a tenuous coalition of wildland critters and threatened to take complete control of the farm.  Only Tweeter's ability to rebuild a strong pack structure and coordinate the actions of the other Greyhounds had saved them.

            But victory had come at a price.  The scar on Tweeter’s side and the ache in her shoulder were constant reminders of the night.

            Nor were Tweeter’s injuries the only repercussion of the victory. Ever since the night of the final battle, when Tweeter had been injured, Jack Dowd had been coming around Hardin Creek more and more often. 

Now, that alone was not a bad thing.  Tweeter liked Jack and he had treated her well when he was her trainer, allowing her to run every third day, giving her biskies, rub-downs, and the other prerequisites that went with the Grey Queen's position in life.  Standing on his own, Jack was an acceptable addition to Hardin Creek Farm.

            But he wasn’t standing on his own, and that was the problem. The simple fact of the matter was that Jack Dowd took up entirely too much of Nancy Catherine's time.

            It made no sense.  With two people, you would think that a deserving Greyhound would get twice as many pats, twice as much attention, and infinitely more consideration.  Especially considering that Tweeter herself was responsible for the continued existence of Hardin Creek Farms.  That's the way it should work.

            But no, that wasn't how things were at all.  Instead of having two humans, it was like having an extra dog around. 

Nancy Catherine not only cooked special meals for Jack, serving them up in the good bowls without giving the Greyhounds so much as a taste, but she also spent valuable free time that could have been spent petting Greyhounds doing other things.  Like teaching him how to change the oil on his own car, or how to repair buttons that came off his shirt, or demonstrating the correct way to stake a tomato plant. All the essential skills that most people should have learned from their mothers are long time ago.

            Oh, true, Jack had his own talents, true.  He’d taught Nancy Catherine the best way to give Tweeter a rub down. Yes, his fingers were talented, and with his years of experience as a trainer, he knew exactly what felt best, how to stroke lengthwise along the long muscles, how to stretched her legs gently and move them through the full range of motion to relax tight muscles.  He knew that Tweeter disliked having her belly touched and preferred an ear rub.  He even brought special treats, biskies with delectable mackerel bits in them. But he had spent the entire time talking to the woman instead of paying attention to Tweeter. 

            Yes, there were a lot of things about Jack Dowd that Tweeter liked and she had no objection to his spending time at the farm.  She was even willing to grant him a little bit extra attention, since he was a relatively new arrival to Harden Creek. 

In a way, it was like having a new foster dog on the farm. Tweeter had seen several come and go already, dogs she had integrated into the pack structure, assigned duties to, only to have them leave for permanent homes within a week or so. 

At first, it had irritated her know and, as it increased her workload immensely.  But now she had settled into routine, one that was quite similar to Nancy Catherine's, had Tweeter bothered to notice.  Now new arrivals were not assigned any duties nor was much expected of them -- apart from honoring the most obvious pack rules and acknowledging Tweeter as Alpha -- until they’d been there several weeks.  Then, if they were still there, the honeymoon was over and they were expected to pick up their share of the burden.

            If only Jack Dowd could remember exactly whose farm it was!  It was Tweeter’s, not his. Tweeter’s by virtue of the fact that she’d saved it from Bran. Tweeter’s because she was Alpha and that’s just the way things were.

            Running Hardin Creek Farms was not in easy job, but Tweeter relished the challenge.  There were regular patrols to ensure that those animals who belonged on the other side of the Creek respected the boundaries and did not intrude on the Greyhound side.  On their side, they were allowed a certain amount of control, as long as it was understood that it was simply at Tweeter's discretion.  She had wisely found that allowing them the illusion of autonomy and the feeling of ownership in their property resulted in their taking better care of their land than they would have had she been heavy-handed about her authority. 

            In addition to regular patrols, there were always minor pack conflicts that arose, especially with younger dogs, Kennicait and Hardy.  Tweeter suspect that their brains were still slightly smooth and sometimes she wondered if they would entirely grow up.  She found herself irritated occasionally at Hardy, whose obvious hero worship of Tweeter could be more than a little annoying.  She had found Boca to be more than sympathetic, suffering from similar adoration from Kennicait.  (Privately, Tweeter thought that Hardy was a bit more mature than Kennicait,  probably due to Tweeter's influence.)

            Moon’s light faded. Tweeter shivered, suddenly released from Moon’s scrutiny.

            Most disturbing.  Moon had never before acted so oddly and Tweeter could see no reason for Moon to be quite so demanding and intrusive. There was no reason for it.  For the most part, things were going smoothly at the farm, no major crises that should have precipitated closer scrutiny by the Mood.

            Tweeter’s ancestors had known Moon well.  Long before the dawn of Christianity, their people had worshiped the Moon goddesses, primarily Diana, known as Artemis to the Romans.

            Diana was the huntress, patron goddess of not only the moon but of hounds as well.  Tweeter’s ancestors had served as models for ancient paintings that now hung in museums around the world, and more than one of her ancestors had called upon the Goddess for help during times of need. Tweeter had always felt a deep kinship with Diana and a sort of friendly respect, one Queen to another.          

            While Tweeter’s own experience with Moon had been limited – racing Greyhounds, after their puppy years, don’t normally have much freedom to roam on their own – she knew through her ancestors just how close the connection between Moon and the Greyhounds was. 

            Was Moon angry?  Was it something Tweeter had done or said?  She cast her mind back, trying to pinpoint what might have offended Moon and could come up with nothing.

            Suddenly, Moon flared into brilliance.  Tongues of silver light licked Tweeter, scorching her fur. The Grey Queen, the bravest and most courageous of Greyhounds, could not control her fear.  With one yelp, she turned tail and ran, heading for the house, hoping against hope that somehow the wooden structure could shield her from Moon’s light, knowing in her heart it was futile.

The doggie door in the kitchen slammed and jolted Nancy Catherine from a deep sleep. She knew the dogs roamed in and out of the house all night but they were normally considerate enough to come in slowly through the doggie door and not wake her up.  The door stayed unlocked since the days of the invasion by the possums and mice to allow the dogs to patrol the farm at night.  While Nancy Catherine had overcome a good deal of her fear of possums, she still shuddered at the thought of one rampaging through her house at night.  That long pinkish snout, the teeth – she shuddered at the memory of Hermione a possum crouched on her kitchen table hissing at her. 

            (Although Nancy Catherine couldn’t know it, the possum who’d been crouched on her kitchen table was named Hermione Piney, and Hermione was actually a quite pleasant being.  (Apart from the hissing bit, which was pretty much genetic so there was not much Hermione could do about it.))

Tweeter raced into the room and threw herself down on the corner dog bed, panting like she’d just finished back-to-back races.  Her breathing was harsh and fast.

Nancy Catherine threw back the covers and went to Tweeter, moving deliberately so as not to startle her. She knelt down beside the Grey Queen and slowly stretched out her hand.

No sign of blood.  Her pupils look fine, her skin a bit flushed – gums dark red, so she’s not going into shock.  But that wild, panicked look in her eyes – what put that there?

            For a moment, Nancy Catherine wished she’d grabbed the gun in her nightstand before checking on the Grey Queen. Nancy Catherine was no stranger to Greyhounds and this particular one had more than proven her bravery. 

            But even the most courageous Greyhound sometimes got spooked about the oddest things.  Boca, for instance, had issues with the ceiling fans.  His dark suspicious glances at them betrayed his inner conviction that the fans were just moments away from launching a serious attack.

            Tweeter had her own idiosyncratic dislikes, as Nancy Catherine had discovered when she’d thoughtlessly changed from plastic garbage cans to metal ones.  Tweeter immediately began refusing to use the back door until they were moved far enough away from the door. While Nancy Catherine was careful to avoid laughing at her, she’d had a good chuckle when she’d figured out that it was Tweeter’s own reflection on the garbage cans that had disturbed the Grey Queen so.

            But the look on Tweeter’s face said this was far more serious than ceiling fan paranoia or garbage can panic. Nancy Catherine let her hand settle gently on the Grey Queen’s head.  She stroked the sleek red fur, marveling as she always did at how the coat could be so hard and shiny and yet feel like silk to her fingertips.

            “What’s wrong?” Nancy Catherine ask, her voice pitched low and soothing.  “What’s got you so spooked, Tweets?” 

            Tweeter curled up into a tight ball, the fact that Nancy Catherine was petting her barely penetrating her consciousness.  Moon’s light pounded on the wooden floor, the light becoming sound, enveloping her completely.  The photons washing over her carried a clear and ominous message.

The peace that reigned at Hardin Creek Farms was far more tenuous and fragile than Tweeter had suspected.  All of Tweeter’s hard work, all the trials and tribulations of battling Bran and rebuilding her pack structure, Tweeter’s still-weak shoulder and aching scar: none of it mattered.

Moon was furious with her and Tweeter had no idea why.