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veterans of
     the war, older but no longer deemed suitable to serve on the front lines of battle,
     although that was just as well. No one, including Bosque, expected the war to come
     to the walls of Tristan’s home. His being hidden away was merely a precaution, and
     a frustrating one at that.
    Despite the frustrations of his isolated habitat, Tristan had neither expected nor
     wanted to be one of Bosque’s pack masters. He’d always found the war and politics
     that consumed the lives of a handful of his fellow Keepers to be tiresome. Particularly
     since it wasn’t much of a war at all. The nuisance of occasional Searcher attacks
     near the Keepers’ sacred sites was akin to summer flies that chanced to buzz around
     Ares’s flank. The pesky creatures might irritate the stallion, but it was only a matter
     of time before they’d be dealt with by the swat of his tail.
    “I say, man,” Frederic called out. “Should we call them off and head back to the castle?
     Looks to me like there’s nothing but blood and gristle left at this point.”
    They’ll want the blood. Every last drop,
Tristan thought, but didn’t say.
    Frederic waited for his reply sitting astride a Hanover gelding. Unlike Ares, Frederic’s
     mount seemed to have misplaced its instinctual fear of predators. The horse chomped
     placidly on grass while the wolves sated themselves a few meters away.
    Tristan half snorted in disgust. Frederic preferred the easier ride. Nary a hair of
     his shoulder-length, glossy brown locks had strayed from its place tied at the nape
     of his neck during their hunt. It seemed to Tristan that Frederic had yet to abandon
     the fashions and attitudes of the nineteenth century, wherein he’d come of age. He’d
     insisted on donning traditional riding garb for this hunt, which Tristan thought made
     him look like he was auditioning for a period film. Tristan preferred to ride in a
     T-shirt, jeans, and the black oilskin duster he favored for keeping warm and dry in
     the rainy weather so common to the island.
    Frederic hunted for the sake of appearance; that, and the enjoyment he got out of
     emptying his silver flask after the wolves made their kill. Without the challenge
     of keeping Ares in check while they raced across the rugged island terrain, Tristan
     wouldn’t enjoy these hunts at all.
    “How many is that?” Frederic tilted his flask at the white bones poking out between
     the press of growling, furred bodies wrangling for the remaining scraps of venison.
    “This month?” Tristan pursed his lips. “Six, I think. No. Maybe eight.”
    “You’ll need to replenish the herd soon,” Frederic told him. “I’ll have some yearlings
     and does shipped over. They should last a bit longer. The Guardians prefer going after
     the bigger kills, I’ve noticed.”
    “More of a challenge.” Tristan nodded. It was one way the Keepers’ wolves differed
     from their natural counterparts. Wolves in the wild would have picked out the easiest
     kill. Guardians reveled in the fight.
    Because it’s what they were made for,
Tristan thought with a grimace. Not that his Guardians got much of fighting beyond
     these hunts. He often wondered if these wolf warriors assigned to watch over him were
     as resentful of their charge as he was of being looked after.
    “Seamus!” Tristan called out, and a hulking wolf with mottled brown and silver fur
     lifted his head. “Time to head home!”
    The wolf barked gruffly at his companions and the other wolves abandoned their meal
     and disappeared into the brush. Though the wolves could easily beat the pair of men
     on horseback in a race to the castle, Tristan knew that the beasts would run beside
     them, just out of sight so as to keep Ares from spooking. But the wolves wouldn’t
     stray from their charge, would never allow Tristan to wander too far from their watchful
     eyes. Guardians had been created to follow orders, to serve and do battle at the Keepers’
     bidding. The