had made his mind grow weak, and I think that’s why he started calling me Shannon.

My wounds had healed over the past week, and I was testing out my weakened limbs. Mark sat smiling strangely at me from the seat of the rocking chair he had carved himself, and suddenly said, “You know, Shannon, after you’re done healing, I reckon you could turn out to be a fine hunting dog. I need all the help I can get. Yes, you’ll be my hound. What do you say to that, Shannon?”

I stared at him. I had grown used to responding to the name Luna. Now that the White Storm pack was behind me, could I start a new life with a new name? I knew the answer to that question almost instantly.

I barked in reply to Mark’s inquiry. His grin broadened to wrinkle his face even more, and he stroked my back gently. “Attagirl. We’ll start as soon as you’re healed enough.”

I shivered almost happily as his rough fingers ran down my back. I had never experienced the tenderness of human touch before, and now I knew why dogs were so loyal to their owners. Being petted was a good enough reason for me to stay at least another week.

I stayed for more than a week. Months went by as I played, hunted, and ate with Mark. I accepted the name Shannon and the fact that Mark had started calling me by his old dog’s name because his mind had started to go after living alone so long. That I was being substituted for a dead mutt bothered me at first, but I eventually forgave my new master and came when he called.

The first thing I discovered about Mark was that he loved to tell stories. Sitting in his rocking chair, fingering his gun, his rough voice would spin tales that made my fur stand on end. Most of his stories were Inuit myths from the tribes that used to live here long ago. My mind would run wild, especially when he told stories about wolves. The villain would become Jaydor, the hero would be Cyan, and I was always either the victim needing rescue or an innocent bystander helpless to do anything but watch.

I hated those stories and loved them at the same time. They reminded me too much of Luna, my White Storm self, but Luna gave me the ability to see the stories clearly, to know the characters and understand the plot and watch the colors of the scenery fly by as the tale moved.

The best time was when Mark would end a story as the coals of the fire died down to blackened hunks, and he would pet my head and say, “You have to hand it to those Inuits. They really knew how to make a story.” I would lick his hand in full agreement even as Jaydor’s and Cyan’s faces swam in my mind.

The first thing Mark learned about me was that I was an exceptional hunter. On the very first hunt we trooped out into the snow and patrolled his trails. Mark swore violently when he found he hadn’t trapped anything, and then excused himself to his foul language (he had this thing about manners, even with dogs).

I sniffed at the weird metal contraption. Its silver teeth gleamed in the pale sunlight. Mark covered the trap with snow again before I could investigate it further, but then I saw movement at the corner of my eye. I whipped around to see a snowshoe hare streaking softly through the white. It stopped suddenly, and started to pull at some small sprigs of plant life it had found beneath the snow.

Everything else fell away. My eyes locked onto the wriggling creature. My body stiffened. I slunk down the slope and crouched behind a snowdrift. I clenched my teeth, and a drop of saliva splashed noiselessly onto the ground.

The hare sat up, frozen. Its pink eyes slowly turned to its left, then to its right. It smelled the air carefully, but when nothing attacked it resumed its meal.

I stole forward and propelled myself through the snow until I was not two feet behind my prey.

The hare spun around and looked straight into my gleaming eyes. I felt its puny heart stop, and then it leaped away, hopping for all it was worth. For the first time the blood lust captured me in its claws. I shot after my prey as if possessed, and pursued the hare for a few feet. I could feel its heart beating wildly as it ran from its worst nightmare, but all in vain.

I snatched the creature up in my teeth and broke its neck with a crack!

Hot blood dribbled down my throat as the chase came to an end, and the blood lust reluctantly freed me from its gripping clutches. I surfaced from the hunter in my heart to my old self, dazed and blinking. I hadn’t thought I had it in me to kill something so innocent.

Mark ran down the slope and over to me, sliding to a stop. Without a word he put his gloved hand out, and I silently dropped the dead hare into his palm. The hare’s pink eyes were still open; they were empty and dead. I shuddered. I wouldn’t have admitted it, but I was scared of this unpredictable killer lurking inside me. What other situations could it come alive in again and inflict torture on others, torture that I couldn’t control?

Mark tousled my head in wonder. “Good girl.” I waited for more. He patted my back. “Good girl.” He was proud of the beast that I had unleashed from within? Then I realized. I was a hunter. When I killed, I was keeping Mark and I alive.

Mark drew himself up, a satisfied grin dancing on his face. “I sure wish I knew where you came from, because if I had a whole team of you, I doubt I would ever have to worry about food again!”

That remark stung a little, but I had to agree with him. I wished I knew where I came from, too.

The thought gnawed at me, and I couldn’t help wondering if Mark was the only family I would ever have.

As the months passed I couldn’t help thinking about finding my real family. Were they all still alive? Could I one day find them? But these thoughts only saddened me, especially when I remembered my father was dead.

One day I was hunting an Arctic fox. I chased it across the tundra, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t catch up with it. It was the fastest thing on legs I’d ever seen.

After awhile I could tell it was tiring, so I changed my strategy and circled around. The fox saw me coming, and it wearily sped away. I went after it, but of course the sun chose that very moment to shine through the clouds.

I was blinded by the fierce glitter of the snow, and I lost the fox in a sudden whirl of white. I couldn’t see anything but white! Cursing softly, I waited, and then opened one eye. The sun had waded back behind the clouds.

After my eyes had adjusted, I looked around. In my moment of disorientation, I had lost the fox.

I listened. Heavy breathing pounded inside my ears. I sniffed. My prey’s scent was still heavy on the wind and snow. I followed this trail of senses ahead and then sharply to the left and around in circles, as if my prey had been wondering where it should go.

The heavy breathing stopped with a sharp intake of breath. I lunged at the snow-covered rock behind me and bared my teeth at the white fox cowering in the space beneath it.

“No! Please don’t kill me,” he pleaded.

I simply glared. I had learned not to listen to my prey’s words. Besides, the fox was too far in beneath the rock for me to kill him. Mark would have to do that with his gun. I howled long and loud so Mark could find me.

The fox’s face lit up. “Oh! You’re a wolf-dog!” he cried, recognizing the small difference between my howl and a pure wolf’s howl, “You wouldn’t happen to be that half blood who ran out on the White Storm pack a few months ago?”

That got me. “How do you know about that?” I asked, suspicious and amazed all at once.

He flashed me a knowing smile. “News travels fast, and I make it my business to know all that goes on in this region.”

A new idea bloomed inside my head. I eyed him warily. “So you’re saying you know all the inhabitants of this area?”

He nodded vigorously. “Wolves, foxes, wolverines, lynx, wolf-dogs, you name it.” A look of cunning snuck across his face. “Ah. You wish to know where your family is. I was told you were an orphan. And kidnapped by Roan and Soran, no less!”

Uncalled-for memories forced themselves into my brain, snapping at me like biting wolves. I pushed them back out with all the will power I had, and tried to hang on to this opportunity glimmering ever so faintly on the horizon. “My father is dead,” I said woodenly, “And I don’t know where my mother is. But I was told I had a brother…” A certain wolf-dog would be easier to find than a certain wolf.

The fox’s grin stretched wider. “He would be another wolf-dog like you, I’m guessing. Well, I know the location of three wolf-dogs…but why should I help you?”

Thousands of reasons flamed my mind. Because I had always been alone. Because I had never had a family. I lunged towards him, and he flinched. “Because I decide whether you live or die. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll…” I raised my head as if to howl and bring Mark and his gun even closer.

“Alright, alright!” he protested, “I can tell you where those wolf-dogs are. But if none of them are your brother, he’s most likely dead. With that, of course, I cannot help you.”

“Just tell me where they are,” I snapped.

“Ah, ah, not so fast,” the fox said, shaking his head, “What benefit is there for me?”

I glared at him, flexing my paws. “Your life.”

“That, indeed, is a fine benefit,” the fox stammered. His face filled with slyness. He regarded me with a practiced eye. “The first wolf-dog is called Shadow. He lives in the town of White Mountain, to the west of here. I can’t tell you the specific place; you’ll have to ask around for that. The second half blood lives out in the wilderness a couple miles…northeast of White Mountain. His name is Fire Eye, and he will just be in his cave. The last one is in a town called Nome, west of Fire Eye’s territory, and his name is Balto. He’ll either be in a house on the very edge of town, or on an old boat on the beach. I can’t say I envy you if any of those half-breeds are your brother.”

“You know, I said I’d spare your life,” I growled, “But that doesn’t mean