Wolf's Curse

by Kelley Armstrong

  I open my mouth to respond. I’m not sure what I’d say, though. Offer comfort that will set him snarling? Empty comfort, because his transformation stopped before it reached that point, but it is coming. Eventually.

  I’m almost relieved when he cuts me off with a grunted, “Save it, pup. I’m fine. Just caught me off guard.”

  “Let me know if you smell more,” I say. “I’m picking up some on the wind, but I’m hoping the fact the scent isn’t overwhelming means we’re not going to find—”

  “—bodies stacked like cordwood?”

  I relax with an exhaled, “yes.” To someone else, my words might have sounded cruel. You’ve started smelling blood? Huh. Well, maybe you can help me find more. This is what Mason needs, though.

  Perhaps need isn’t the right word. If I’m not being too presumptuous, I suspect what Mason needs is an empathetic ear. Someone he can vent his frustrations to, someone who will listen without judging and without empty reassurances.

  I could be that for him. But right now, what he wants is to move on. He’s just discovered that he can smell blood, and that’s as significant as me being able to pick up a rabbit’s scent. He wants to focus on how this new ability could be useful, rather than how it marks the beginning of a parasitic life. I can give him that.

  Two more steps, and I see the first casualty. A girl sprawled facedown at the edge of the forest, her hands clawing the grass. It’s one of the Plastics. I flinch, thinking that, remembering Kate and Holly talking about the “Mean Girls” down the hall. I’d met this one. She’d ambushed me with a predator’s glint in her eye, and I’d edged past with a murmured apology. Now when I think of her as one of the Plastics, I wince at the disrespect, yet that really is her only identity in my mind.

  “Did you know . . . ?” I start and then trail off because—stupid question. When Mason was forced to attend the conference, he found a loophole: attending did not mean participating. He’d spent the two days avoiding everyone.

  “Jani,” he says, and before I can be shocked, I realize, again, that I’m not thinking straight. Yes, he avoided his fellow campers, but his memory means that if they were introduced, he remembers her.

  “She’s a bitch,” he says, and I flinch again, but he doesn’t notice, just nudges her body with his toe.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Don’t what? Disrespect the dead? Did you catch the tense of my insult, Danvers? Is a bitch, not was. She’s alive.”

  I glance over sharply.

  “I can tell,” he says without looking my way. He steps away from Jani’s body. “Even if she had died, that wouldn’t make her less of a bitch. All that bullshit about respecting the dead?” His face darkens. “If you don’t earn it in life, you don’t deserve it in death.”

  He’s not making a random pronouncement here. There’s something in his past that prompts it, but I pretend not to notice because that’s what he’ll want.

  I bend beside Jani and put my fingers to her neck. There’s a pulse. She’s out cold, though, almost as if her battery shorted and she sprawled face-first into the dirt. I see another camper to my left, a guy I remember talking to last night, some shared joke about the dinner menu. And then I’d seen him again, his fist coming straight for my face, eyes blazing with hate. I’d knocked him down, but he’d been fine. He’s still fine, judging by the rise and fall of his chest. He’s as unconscious as Jani, crumpled in a heap like a marionette whose wires have been cut.

  As we pass the building corner, I slow, the hairs on my neck rising. Ahead, two poles protrude from piles of wood. The pyres we were tied to. The smell of gasoline and fire wafts over, and I swallow an instinctive growl.

  This is where it all happened. Mason tied to one pyre, Kate and I sharing the other as our fellow campers mobbed around. I can hear the chants. Kill the monsters. We hadn’t bared a tooth or raised a hand against them. They planned to burn us alive simply because of what we were.

  In my memory, I hear Kate trying to reason with them. She hadn’t been angry or afraid. She’d been confused. Surely, she could appeal to the non-infected supernaturals in the mob. Surely, they would snap to their senses and realize the half-demons were serious and stop them.

  They did not stop them.

  I struggle with that again as I see the pyres and the unconscious bodies. How will the council deal with the ones who weren’t half-demons? How should they?

  A low moan sounds to our left. I take off at a jog. Mason says, “Hey!” and comes after me. When he opens his mouth, I motion him to silence. Then I slow to a silent lope as I approach the side of the building. The moaning has stopped, but it came from around this corner.

  When I start in that direction, he whispers, “You’re like a fucking superhero. I hear crying! I must run toward it! Trap? What is this word?”

  I shake my head. Then I peek around the corner. There are two campers on the ground, and I’ll tell myself both are just unconscious. A guy sits at a picnic bench, cradling his head. As I watch, he leans forward and retches.

  “Huh,” Mason says. “Seems someone missed the bonfire. That’s what you get when you’re sleeping off a bender. Must be a necromancer. I heard they had a party last night. That’s why they were missing from the festivities . . .” He squints. “Fuck.”

  He jerks his thumb toward the retching camper. “It’s that counselor. The one who put us in that office. He is a necromancer, and he did seem to be nursing a hangover. Remember?”

  He’s right. This morning, I’d been taken to Tricia’s office by a necromancer counselor, who then brought in Mason and went looking for Kate. At the time, the counselor hadn’t known why we were being rounded up, and he’d seemed exhausted and defeated. That was the impression I got—one of complete exhaustion, not a hangover. A guy who was stumbling through his day, running on fumes, the chaos around him stalling his brain, pushing him beyond the point of questioning Tricia.

  You want the werewolves and the vampire in your office? Fine. Whatever.

  I also remember Kate talking about the necromancers. She heard the same rumor Mason had about the partying, but she thought they looked worn out. Pesky spirits had been her guess, and I’d agreed. Something was up at the camp, and it meant a very rough and sleepless night for the necromancers. When you can speak to the dead “rough and sleepless night” almost always means ghosts.

  I hadn’t seen him after he led us to that office, long before things went south.

  “Do you know his name?” I ask.

  “Byron. Like the poet.”

  “Thanks.”

  I start forward. I’m waiting for Mason to yank me back. Instead, he cuts in front and bears down on the counselor.

  “Byron,” he says.

  The counselor stays bent over, head on his hands, elbows braced on knees.

  “Byron!” Mason says, sharper. “You deaf? This isn’t the dead talking.”

  Byron looks up. His gaze fixes on Mason in horror. Then he scrambles to his feet, hands rising to ward Mason off.

  “No,” he whispers. “Please, no.”

  Mason sighs. “Dude, do you see fangs? I don’t even have—”

  Byron bolts for the forest. Heading straight for the hell hounds patrolling beyond the warded border.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Logan

  I run and tackle Byron. The counselor hits the ground and then flips over, clawing and batting my hands in a way that has Mason snorting.

  “Not much of a fighter, are you?” Mason says.

  I shoot him a look. Then I pin Byron’s hands, gently but firmly, as I ease off him.

  “I don’t know what they told you,” I say, “but we’re—”

  “—here to rescue your ass, not eat you alive,” Mason says. “Whatever bullshit they fed you about werewolves and vampires, it didn’t justify burning us at the stake. The council better damn well sentence you assholes to fifty hours of Supernaturals 101. Right now, though . . .” He waves. “Get off your ass and answer Logan’s
questions.”

  “Stake? Sentence?” Byron’s eyes bug. “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “Sure,” Mason says. “Let’s go with that. You have no idea what I’m talking about. You didn’t participate in the planned murder of your campers. Fine. Just talk.”

  “I-I don’t know . . .” He looks from me to Mason, eyes still round. “Wh-what’s going on here?”

  Mason sighs and throws up his hands.

  “What do you remember?” I ask. “Start after you put us in Tricia’s office.”

  “I-I don’t know. Everyone started acting weird and saying you guys were a threat. Tricia overheard you talking about killing us all. I didn’t believe her. I argued, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room.”

  He touches his fingers to his head. His dark hair is matted, dried blood smeared on his temple.

  “Someone knocked you out?” I say.

  “I-I don’t know. I guess . . .” He blinks. “It’s all still fuzzy.”

  “I bet it is,” Mason mutters.

  I shoot him a hard look, and he pretends not to see it, but his jaw tightens.

  Byron runs his hands through his hair, wincing when he touches the bloodied spot.

  “Then what?” I prompt.

  “I staggered out here and tripped over someone on the ground. It was one of the campers.” His face screws up in concentration. “Pedro, I think.”

  “A half-demon?” Mason says.

  Byron nods. “Right, he’s a half-demon. Anyway, I tripped over him, and he woke up and started ranting about”—a sideways glance our way—“monsters. That was his word. He said the werewolves and vampires went nuts. You two and your sister and that guy with the dreds who said he was half-demon but . . .”

  He blinks, as if struggling to focus. “Maybe he meant someone else? I don’t know. Anyway, he claimed there was a third werewolf, and the four of you attacked the other campers. Knocked out some and . . .” A hard swallow. “Killed others. They tried to stop you, but you ran off into the woods.”

  “Where’s Pedro now?” I ask.

  “He ran into the woods, too. I went after him, but he just kept screaming about monsters chasing him. I came back to see if I could help the others. They won’t wake up, though, and over there . . .” He nods to the left and shudders. “It’s one of the half-demons. She’s dead, and I don’t even know her name, and when I went to get the phones to call for help, all the SIM cards are gone, and I finally found a hidden cell phone. Only it won’t work, and then I found another dead camper and . . .”

  He doubles over again and retches.

  “Helpful,” Mason mutters. “Real hero you got here, Danvers.”

  I walk over to Mason. He doesn’t expect that and two-steps backward, as if I might slug him. I step up to him and lower my voice.

  “You are not helping,” I say. “And if you’re not helping, go away. Please.”

  He chews that over, his jaw working. He shoots me a glare, but his eyes dart away as if abashed.

  “This asshole was up partying last night,” Mason says. “Sorry if I’m not cutting him enough slack, but I don’t have a lot of sympathy. My guess?” He meets my gaze. “No one hit him. He was so out of it, he fell and hit his head. That’s why he’s pretending he doesn’t remember.”

  I head back to Byron. “Tell me about last night’s necromancer party.”

  His face screws into a frown. “Party?” He gives a harsh laugh. “If there was a party, the necro campers didn’t invite me. I wish they had. I slept like hell. A hangover would feel better than this.”

  “Explain.”

  Byron throws up his hands. “I’m not sure I can. I’ve barely slept since I got here. I keep catching glimpses of ghosts during the day, and usually, I’d ignore them. Kinda like seeing a homeless guy on the street. If he doesn’t put out his hand, you’re not going to give him money.”

  Mason snorts at that and mutters, “Yeah, let’s go with that. Those pesky homeless people, always wanting a couple bucks so they can eat. How inconvenient.”

  Byron’s cheeks heat, but he snaps back. “Eat? Drink, you mean. Or shoot it up their arm.”

  Mason rocks forward, and I tense, ready to intercede, because he looks set to lunge into Byron’s face. Instead, he stalks off, stopping a few yards away with his back to us. I watch him go.

  “What’s his problem?” Byron mutters, but his cheeks stay red. He’s realized he said something offensive, and instead of backing off, he’d doubled down.

  “Ghosts,” I prompt. “You saw ghosts here.”

  Byron nods. “Snatches of them. Like I said, if they don’t approach, we don’t reach out. We hope they’re just passing through. Necromancers know not to call attention to themselves.”

  “I know,” I say. “We have a necromancer in the family.”

  His brow furrows, as if he doesn’t know who I mean.

  “The ghosts . . .” I prompt again.

  “Right. So, for the first day, I ignored them, but then, last night . . .”

  “They pestered you.”

  “I’m not even sure. I just keep waking up. Like a human in a haunted house.” A strained chuckle. “I sense them, and I can’t sleep, so I finally tried reaching out, but they’re ignoring me.”

  His gaze flits to the side, and he gives a start. He stares, blinking.

  “You see something?” I say.

  Mason strides back. “This is bullshit. He’s talking about ghosts, and then conveniently spots one?”

  “No, I do,” Byron says, his voice low. “But I think . . . It might be one of the dead campers.” He keeps whispering, his whole body rigid, as if he’s trying not to catch the attention of a grizzly.

  “Describe her,” Mason snaps.

  “Long straight blond hair. Maybe five-five. Thin.” His brow furrows. “She’s dressed . . . Well, in a dress. A miniskirt and knee-high boots? Weird.” He gives his head a sharp shake. Then he tenses. “She’s spotted me.”

  Byron looks away so fast it’s almost comical, like trying to avoid a girl at a middle-school dance.

  Mason and I exchange a look. Before I can say anything, Byron winces and whispers. “She’s seen me. She’s coming over—” He exhales. “No, she’s running past. Good.” He looks at us, voice still lowered. “They can’t always tell I’m a necromancer. I haven’t fully developed my glow.”

  When Mason’s brows knit, I say, “That’s how ghosts know necromancers from humans. The glow strengthens with their powers.”

  “Which is why I’m in no rush to develop mine,” Byron says. “Okay, she’s gone. I have no idea what’s going on here. I just . . .” He inhales. “At the risk of sounding like a five-year-old, I really want to go home.”

  “We’ll get there,” I say. “For now, you can just sit down and stay—”

  His head jerks up. “Hey!” he shouts. “You! Pedro? That’s your name, right? Pedro?”

  Byron’s looking at something in the forest. Before I can speak, he takes off at a run, shouting, “Pedro! It’s okay.” He wheels to us, still walking backward. “He must have seen you guys. I’ll explain it.”

  “Don’t—!” I say as I lunge in his direction, but he’s running again even as I shout for him to come back.

  “You were about to tell him not to go into the forest, weren’t you?” Mason says as he runs along behind me. “Whatever you do, dude, don’t go in the forest with the goddamn hell hounds.”

  I grumble under my breath.

  “Don’t suppose I can give you the same advice,” Mason says, but there’s a lightness in his voice, and when I glance over, he shakes his head. “Nope, but it was worth a shot. Let’s go save these fools from themselves.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  His look stops the words in my throat, and I give an abrupt nod, murmuring a thank-you as we keep running.

  Ahead, Byron is disappearing into deep forest, shadows swallowing him. I kick it up a notch. As I race around a patch of brush, I catc
h sight of another figure, a guy I semi-recognize as one of my fellow campers. One I’d seen in the crowd around the pyres.

  “Wait,” Mason says behind me. “Fuck. That’s not—” He grabs my arm so hard I skid backward like a cartoon character, my feet pumping the air. When I try to wrench free, he only tightens his grip. “That’s not Pedro, and it’s not a half-demon.”

  So Byron got his name wrong. He probably mistook one Latinx for another. After that homeless comment, he seems like the type.

  As for this guy not being a half-demon, that makes me a whole lot less inclined to help, considering I’d seen him in the mob but—

  Not-Pedro steps out into the light. In his hands, he’s gripping a hunting rifle—the same one used to force us onto the funeral pyres.

  Chapter Twenty

  Logan

  Not-Pedro lifts the barrel in our direction. Points it straight at Byron, who’s between us, still running toward the “innocent” camper.

  “Byron!” I shout. “Watch—!”

  Byron veers to the side. Not-Pedro bears down on us.

  “Run,” Mason growls under his breath. “I’ve got this.”

  There’s no way I’m leaving him to get shot even if he can heal. Before I can say that, he throws me behind him. I swing to face Not-Pedro, but Mason’s blocking me, facing off against the guy with the gun.

  “Whoa,” Mason says. “Did nobody teach you proper hunting safety? You can’t be running around out here pointing guns at people. Someone could get hurt.”

  “Stop,” a voice says.

  At first, I think it’s Not-Pedro. There’s no one else here. Well, except Byron, who’s cowering against a tree, too frightened to speak. Or he was the last time I glanced his way. Now he’s stepped forward, and he’s holding a handgun . . . pointed at me.