Maybe it’s Kate, who did indeed find a way out but couldn’t get back in, and now she’s knocking to tell us the hounds are gone, the coast clear.
Bang-bang-bang.
The raps shiver down my spine. That’s not my sister or anyone who’s here to help us. It’s three perfectly spaced bangs with a pause between each.
I stride to the front entry and call, “I’m not opening this door. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
“Well, that’s good,” a woman’s voice flutters in. “Because I can’t come in that way, anyhow. I’m at the window, Mr. Danvers, which you’ve opened enough for us to have a civil conversation.”
I’m already running into the living room. There’s the window we broke in with the board we stuck awkwardly back in place. A shadow moves beyond it.
I hesitate. That board wouldn’t stop anyone. The only reason the hell hounds didn’t come through is the warding.
I wave the others back. Allan and Holly stay near the hall. Mason sets his jaw, strides over and shoulders me back. Before I can protest, he takes out the board and blocks the space between me and the opening.
“What do you want?” he says to the person outside.
“Not you, Edward . . .” The voice trails off, and then she whistles. “Oh my, what happened to you, little vampire? Someone uncorked your magic . . . and then tried to stuff the cork back in. How fascinating.”
I push Mason out of the way and plant myself there. On the other side of the window stands a woman, maybe forty, long dark hair streaked with gray and braided, her skin tanned and weather-beaten. She wears a T-shirt and shorts and boots with thick socks.
I could mistake her for a hiker who spotted the cottage and stopped by. Those unnaturally bright green eyes tell another story, one of a woman out hiking, only to have her body hijacked. Beside her, the air shimmers where the hell hounds wait at her heels.
“What do you want, demon?” I say.
“Demon?” Her brows rise. “I have a name, you know.”
“Will you give it?”
“Certainly. I am Marchocias, the she-wolf.” She bares her teeth in a smile. “And you are trespassing on my territory, cub.”
Chapter Eight
Kate
I stand at the fork between two passages. When I turn toward the left one, Elijah starts to say something, but then I notice a bright red dot in the dirt. I bend and fish out . . .
I lift it to him. “Apparently, whoever is toying with us likes M&M’s.”
“Uh, no, that’d be mine.” He takes it and puts it back in the dirt. “I’ve been laying them behind you, showing which passage we took the last time.”
“You have M&M’s?” My voice rises like a desert-island stowaway spotting a water canteen.
He takes out the bag . . . a Halloween-sized one. When he jingles it, only a few candies click at the bottom, and I sigh.
“Hungry?” he says.
“Starving and trying very hard not to think about it.”
“Well, there’s a room full of jars . . .” He makes a face. “Bad joke. Sorry.”
“Hey, at this point, if we found the first room again, I’d be ripping into those cans of ten-year-old peas.” I pause. “Or, possibly not, since I’m no longer convinced they were cans.”
He frowns. “You think that was an illusion? That we really did climb down into that room with the . . . other stuff? I’ve been wondering that, but I don’t know enough about magic to say whether that’s possible.”
“Making jars of eyeballs look like onions? Totally possible. Hiding a hatch? Also possible. But the illusion should have broken when I touched it. I think it’s a different room, made to look like the first.”
“Why?”
I throw up my hands. “I am beyond theories and guesswork. I just want to find a hatch or a back door, one of which must exist, except . . .” I notice a yellow dot beside the second passage and bend to confirm that, yes, it’s an M&M.
“We’re going in circles, aren’t we?” I say.
“I think so. I was waiting for another couple of those before I mentioned it.”
“I’d say we should stop walking and come up with a plan, but I might just be looking for an excuse to eat those, dirt and all.”
He chuckles and empties the tiny bag into his hand. Four brown M&M’s plus a green one. He tucks the green candy back in and holds out the brown ones to me.
“We can’t use these, anyway,” he says. “Enjoy.”
I take two. He smiles and pops one into his mouth as I do the same, savoring the tiny burst of chocolate. When I look up, he’s watching me with an odd expression on his face.
“I’m Logan’s brother,” he blurts.
I blink. “What?”
“Logan Jonsen,” he says with a strained chuckle. “The other one wouldn’t make sense. I’m Logan Jonsen’s half-brother. That’s what your brother was going to tell you. He figured it out.”
“Huh,” I say as I munch the second M&M. “So, you’re my brother’s namesake’s half-brother. Complicated, but also cool. I’ve heard a lot of stories about your Logan.”
“That’s . . . not the reaction I expected.” He peers at me. “You’re not upset?”
“That you hid it from us?” I shrug. “I’m not thrilled, but you don’t owe me anything.”
“Thanks.” His gaze dips. “I just . . . It’s awkward, right?”
“Why? Did you think we’d make a big deal about it? Or do you mean it’s awkward because I made out with my mom’s best friend’s little brother. Logan Jonsen was Pack, Elijah. Not a blood relative.”
“I know. That’s not it.”
“Oh, shit,” I say. “I know werewolves age slowly, but please don’t tell me you’re actually a whole lot closer to my parents’ age.”
He chuckles. “Definitely not. I’m seventeen. A high-school senior. My dad was well into his golden years when he met my mom.” He rolls his shoulders. “It’s just . . . awkward, and I’m uncomfortable with it. But you and your brother aren’t your parents. You aren’t responsible for what happened to Logan.”
“Happened?” I frown. “My parents had nothing to do with what—”
A thump sounds down the hall. I glance that way and then back at Elijah as I whisper, “Bookmark this. We definitely need to talk about it, but priority one . . . ?”
I jerk my thumb in the direction of the sound. He nods, and we set out.
Of course, the sound dies out as soon as we reach where it seemed to be coming from. I’m not even sure what I heard. Footsteps? Thuds? We stand in the spot, peering around, and another sound comes, a whispery shuffle like the swoosh of fabric.
When Elijah steps in the direction of the sound, I catch his shirt. I don’t need to say a word as he turns with, “Right. That’s what they want me to do, whoever they are. Make a noise, and we follow.”
I nod. “We have to be smarter. Ignore the sounds. Leave a trail like you were doing. Since we’re out of M&M’s, we need to mark our path in another way.”
He backs up a few feet and grabs what looks like a chunk of concrete. After turning it over in his hands, he scratches the wall, and it makes a chalky line. He draws an X on both sides of the wall.
“Stick to the left,” he says. “Every time we have an option, we go left. That’s how you escape a maze. It’s not the most efficient way, but it guarantees you won’t end up walking in circles.”
“Eventually, the left wall must hit an exit.”
“Yep. We’ll still mark the turns to be completely sure.”
The noises continue as we walk. They’re sporadic and varied, as if trying to catch our attention with a new sound when the previous one fails. Footsteps. Bangs. Fabric shifting. Even wordless whispers, snaking down the hall.
Part of me still wants to follow them. Catch up to whoever is doing this and flip the tables. I would, too, if it wasn’t for one thing: I still can’t catch a scent. The only explanation I can come up with is that this is all fake. It’s an elabo
rate security system designed to lead us deeper into the tunnels, and then when we finally find our way out, we’ll vow never to set foot in here again and, therefore, never discover the owner’s secrets.
That would explain the lack of a scent. The noises are all mechanically generated. But generated using what? There’s no internet to connect a wireless system. From what I recall, there’d barely been cell phone service. And even if all that doesn’t matter—if whoever designed it spared no technological expense to make it run—what exactly is the point? To scare off kids who might stumble over that cabin and find their way down the hatch? Yeah, that makes a great horror film, but in reality, no one is going through that trouble and expense when the likelihood of intruders is next to zero.
We stick to the left-hand wall, and we mark every turn, and the strategy works. We might see spots where we think we’ve already been, but there’s no mark, and when I sniff the ground, I can confirm that this is a fresh tunnel.
Why is there so much tunnel?
I remember the bathroom upstairs. I thought it looked like a movie set. Is that what this is? I just jokingly thought that the kind of elaborate security system I envisioned belonged in a horror movie. Teens discover a weird cabin in the woods, and then they spot a hidden hatch—holy fuck, you aren’t actually going to go down that hatch, are you?—and when they descend, they find themselves lost in a warren of tunnels, chasing noises until, mwah-ha-ha, they discover they are trapped down there for-ev-ah! Or sliced-and-diced by a masked killer as they run screaming through those endless tunnels.
“Maybe they’re just waiting for us to get really scared and have sex,” Elijah says.
I jump at the sound of his voice. “What?”
His mouth half-quirks in a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking that this reminds me of a horror movie, and maybe our villain is waiting for us to get completely freaked out and comfort each other with wild teen sex.” He pauses. “Or maybe it’s that we’re supposed to get freaked out and have life-confirming sex, reassuring ourselves that we will continue to exist beyond this terrifying night.”
I shake my head. “Too deep. We’ll have sex because we don’t want to die as virgins.”
“Uh . . .”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, we’ll have sex so I don’t die a virgin. Not quite as touching, but probably a whole lot less awkward.”
He snickers. “Nah, it’s Hollywood. We’ll both be virgins, and it’ll be very hot, very photogenic, very expert sex.”
“Totally plausible. Also, you’ve just tipped your hand, you know.”
The smile flickers. “Huh?”
“You’re not a werewolf. Oh, sure, you smell like one. You can even claim kinship with one. But you’re clearly some kind of mind-reading species because I was just thinking that this seems like the setup for a horror movie.”
He grins, that spark of shared . . . something. A wavelength that sings between us as if we’ve known each other since we were barely able to toddle. Yet it’s almost more than that. I have known my brother all my life. I do know exactly what he’d be thinking. But it wouldn’t be the same thing I was thinking. To find that with someone I’ve only known a few days? A guy my age, who is not only a werewolf, but who’s also smart and sweet and has dived into danger for me multiple times already?
Let’s not forget hot. That might come at the bottom of the priority list, but it is undeniably a bonus, and I’m suddenly very aware of Elijah, standing less than a foot away, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, one muscled arm braced against the wall, dark eyes dancing as they lock with mine. And that look? That look should mean something, damn it. It should mean that we’ve both found something special here, the on-ramp to a world of possibilities, waiting to be explored.
But it doesn’t mean anything like that. Elijah has made that clear. Humiliatingly clear.
I can mourn this thing that isn’t going to be. This missed possibility. I can settle for enjoying the time with him as a guy who is a fellow werewolf.
I can do something else, too. I can remember what this feels like, and the next time I meet a Brandon—a cute guy who seems decent and wants a relationship, and what the hell, let’s give it a shot—I’ll let that shot pass me by. I will recognize that it flies too wide, a cupid’s arrow that will never hit its mark.
I’d liked Brandon. We’d had fun. But if this thing with Elijah is the bull’s-eye, then Brandon and I never made it past the outer ring. I want the bull’s-eye. I want the guy who makes me feel like this, and when that shot comes, I’ll take it, even if, in the end, we don’t quite hit dead center.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to put my libido on hold for this feeling again. If I get a chance to make out with a cute, sweet guy, I’ll go for it as I always have. I might go further. Might go a lot further if the timing is right and it takes a while to get what I really want.
But I know what I really want: what my parents have, what I see with other couples I admire. I want what I might have found with Elijah, but that isn’t an option, so I’ll mourn it and move on. If I believe in soul mates, I believe it’s plural—that there are many people in the world who would be a perfect partner for me, and I just need to find the one who feels the same.
“So how did the teens in your movie version die?” I ask before we lose this moment to awkward silence and unspoken regret.
“You first.”
“Well, as much as I like ‘trapped forever’ for true horror, I think the movie folks would go with ye dull standby—masked killer with knife—for maximum gore.”
“Right?” he says, his eyes sparking. “Trapped forever is so much scarier. Endlessly running through the tunnels, certain there’s an exit, and then realizing there’s not, and dying slowly and horribly of thirst, never knowing what actually happened.”
“Doesn’t work on screen, though. Unless you have an imagination and can project the horror forward. Might make a good art horror flick.”
“Just as long as it isn’t one of those art ones by people who’ve apparently never seen a horror movie. Awesome lead-up, hella creative plot, real gut impact and then . . . all this because someone made a deal with a demon? Are you shitting me? Everyone knows not to do that.”
“Exactly.” Then I glance down the hall and rub my arms. “So, our chances of actually being trapped down here forever?”
“Compared to being set upon by a masked killer? Very low. And, being werewolves, we are the masked killers, so we’ll be fine.”
I toss a grin his way, and we round the next corner and—
“Bingo!” he crows as he sees the open door. “As long as there aren’t eyeballs in jars, we have a winner.”
“I don’t know about jarred eyes,” I say as I pick up speed. “But that wooden ladder tells me we’ve found the exit.”
Chapter Nine
Kate
There is indeed a ladder . . . and no hatch at the top. We still rush into the cold cellar, certain we’re mistaken. The hatch must have swung closed after we came down.
Swung closed? Didn’t Elijah break it?
At the top of the ladder, I run my fingers along the grooves in the wooden ceiling, as if the hatch is not only invisible but whole again.
It must be, though, right? This is definitely the room. I’m standing on the ladder in a cold cellar filled with jars and cans of regular preserves.
“Uh, Kate?”
I look down to see Elijah looking at a row of dusty vegetable-filled jars.
“Onions,” I say. “Onions and pickles and—”
He rubs his thumb over a jar holding what seems to be onions, and through the murky liquid, the iris of an eye appears.
I inhale sharply. “Okay, well, the first time we just didn’t look closely enough. Just let me—”
“Kate?”
“Yes,” I snap. “It’s really, really freaky, but please give me a second to find the way out.”
“I . . . don’t think there is one.”
“Then we’ll
keep looking until we find the proper room—”
“I mean . . .” A sharp intake of breath. “Please tell me I’m losing it, and you see the door.”
“I am trying to find—”
“I mean the door we just came in.”
I turn so sharply my foot slides off the step. Elijah lunges to grab me before I fall, and I kick him in the face. Inadvertently, of course—I was scrambling for a foothold. Still, it’s a kick, and he doesn’t jump back, doesn’t complain, just makes sure I’m steady, and my thoughts from earlier rush back.
You could have been the guy, Elijah. You really could have.
That’s when I remember why I nearly fell, and my gaze swings to the door—
There is no door. The entire room is ringed with shelves.
“The door was there, right?” he says, pointing.
I gesture at a spot farther to his left. “I thought it was there.”
Elijah exhales, his hands rising. “Don’t panic.”
“I—”
“I’m talking to myself, KitKat. I think knives could be dropping from the ceiling—poison-coated knives—and you wouldn’t panic.”
“What did you call me?”
“Uh, brave? Is that an insult?”
“No, I’m pretty sure you just mistook me for a candy bar. I’m not the only one who’s hungry.”
His eyes roll up, as if replaying his words, and he gives an awkward laugh. “Uh, yeah. I do that. I am the provider of weird nicknames. Just ask my friends.”
“So what do they call you?”
“Elijah.”
“Eli?”
“Elijah.”
“JaJa? LiLi? Snickerdoodle?”
He sputters. “Snickerdoodle?”
“Did I mention I’m starving?”
“Actually, I wasn’t thinking of KitKat as a candy bar. More like a short form for Kitty Cat. Does anyone ever call you Kat? If not, they really should. Kat the werewolf.”
I roll my eyes. Then I say, “Hey, do you remember someone saying something about the exit door being missing?”
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