When the Red Wolf Hunts (The Red Wolf Trilogy Book 2)

by Kody Boye

  “I’m so happy she made it out with you,” my friend says. “I can only imagine how you would have felt if you couldn’t have helped her.”

  “Thank God the carrier was in my room,” I say.

  “Yeah. Thank God.”

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then pull back the curtain to place the pot of soil in the window—

  —only to find that the demolition crew has already arrived.

  “Oh, God,” I say, and nearly feel myself break down all over again. “I… I thought they were... were…”

  J’vonte reaches down and takes hold of my hand.

  Though a part of me longs to turn away—to avoid the sights that will burn memories into my mind for who knows how long—I know, for a fact, that I cannot.

  “Stay with me,” I whisper, tightening my hold on J’vonte’s hand.

  “I would never leave you to face this alone.”

  And with that, we watch as the machines, their metal, and the men who operate them begin to dismantle what used to be my life.

  J’vonte leaves late that afternoon—long after the demolition crew has finished completing their work on the property for the day. Now, standing here, at the living room window, I can only look on at the remnants that remain, and find myself trembling in spite of all the hard work I’d gone through to prepare myself for this.

  It’s all going away now, I think.

  Soon, nothing but the lot will remain—and my past, and all the memories associated with it, will be gone.

  I can only hope that I have a photo of my parents somewhere on my internet cloud. Otherwise... I will have nothing to memory to go off on.

  The thought, troubling as it happens to be, emboldens my need to discover the truth even more.

  Who could have smoked the vape with the Sour Bud flavoring? I wonder, and close my eyes, cautious and determined in my effort to seek out the truth. Who could have—

  A presence stirs behind me.

  I tense.

  Jackson steps up beside me. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  “Dad says dinner’s almost ready. Are you hungry?”

  “Not really,” I offer, but know I have to eat anyway.

  I turn my head to face my friend and find that his eyes are set upon the lonely lot outside, and imagine his thoughts are likely just as lost as his gaze is.

  Swallowing, I say, “Jackson?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did the school ever mention anything about us going back?”

  “Dad called them today to speak with a guidance counselor… Mrs. Beckett, I think he said her name was.”

  “And?”

  “She said that you could come back when you were ready, but to consider the state of your schoolwork before making a decision. She…” He pauses, and frowns shortly thereafter.

  “She… what?” I ask. “Tell me.”

  “She did mention that there’s been talk around the school. The teachers are trying to silence it, but, well… it’s kids. One says one thing, and they start talking, and then—“

  “It’s everywhere,” I agree.

  Jackson nods.

  “I have to go back,” I say after a moment’s hesitation. “I need to see if I can find out who the vape belongs to.”

  “Oaklynn—“

  “Don’t try to stop me, Jackson. I… I have to do this. For me. For Mom. For Dad.”

  “I know you have to,” Jackson replies. “But, Oaklynn… please don’t try and do anything rash—not just for your sake, but for ours.”

  “I won’t,” I say.

  Jackson sighs, but nods all the same before turning and starting toward the dining room. “I’ll tell Dad you’re coming,” he says.

  “Okay,” I reply, and watch him disappear into the depths of the house.

  Though a part of me wants to argue with his logic, I know that it holds merit—at least, in part.

  I do have to be careful. I do have to remain cautious. Because if for any reason someone begins to suspect something… anything…

  Then it’s game over for all of us.

  Chapter Three

  People are always drawn to tragedy. I suppose this is because, when you experience very little of it yourself, the idea of losing something—or, in my case, everything—is unfathomable.

  What is fathomable, however, is the face of loss. Like a star falling from the sky in the middle of a dark night, it is clear for all to see.

  This is why my schoolmates can do little more than stare.

  “Are you all right?” Jackson asks, breaking the silence of the moment for the first time since entering the school.

  I hadn’t realized I’d started shaking.

  “Oaklynn?” he asks again.

  “I… I don’t know,” I offer, balling my fists in an effort to ground myself to the world. “I’m not sure I feel anything.”

  “But you’re shaking.”

  “I know.”

  He reaches out to press a hand against my upper back—and though the action immediately attracts attention, I don’t bother to acknowledge the people looking for long.

  The fact is: I am here of my own volition, all in the effort to discover the truth of what happened to my parents.

  All to discover who the one who smokes the Sour Buds in their vape pen is.

  My nostrils flare as the Wolf within me attempts to make sense of the world around us. For a spirit who has been lost to humanity for God knows how long, it only makes sense that the high school would be a strange environment, a desolate landscape.

  I feel, deep down, my mind open.

  My horizons expand, and I take in the scent of everything around me.

  The books. The people. The dust from old computers. The sterile cleaning solution used to mop the floors. The smell of breakfast in the cafeteria. Perfume and cologne. The sweet scent of candy that the teachers sneak in to hide the scent of tobacco on their lips.

  But not Sour Buds, I think, and narrow my eyes as the Wolf within attempts to dissect this information: to process it within its spiritual brain.

  I shake my head after a moment’s consideration and approach my locker slowly, hesitantly, with trepidation that is born of fear, of longing, need. I half expect something to fall out come time I spin my combination and pop the lock out of place, but thankfully, nothing does.

  Thank God.

  I have just pulled my math book from my locker when a presence draws up beside me.

  “Hey,” J’vonte says.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  “How you doing so far?”

  “I’m… managing,” I reply, turning my head to look down the hall.

  J’vonte tilts her eyes up to regard Jackson and says, “Hi, Jackson.”

  “Hey,” he says.

  “You taking care of my girl?”

  “You know it,” he replies.

  “I can’t thank you and your dad enough for letting her stay with you,” J’vonte continues. “I know my mom would’ve taken her in in a heartbeat if we’d had the room.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself, J’von,” I say. “I know you care.”

  “I know you do. It’s just… after everything that’s happened, it just seems like… like everything’s so small, you know?”

  “I know,” I reply. And I do, too. Because before, the world seemed open—like the sky was the limit, and that the unknown was measured only by the shallow waters of uncertainty. Now, though, death has opened its cesspool, and made the ocean untamable, uncertain.

  With a shake of my head, I turn and acknowledge my friends with a sad sigh, and say, “I guess I’m gonna start heading to class.”

  “Okay,” J’vonte says. “We’ll see you in gym class. Right, Jackson?”

  “Right,” the young man replies.

  “Just try and hold out ‘til then,” J’vonte offers as she takes me into a one-armed hug. “And remember: if it gets too overwhelming, just ask to be excused. No one’s going to j
udge you if you need a time out.”

  “I know,” I reply. “Thank you.”

  Though there is no way for me to determine how I will manage from here on out, I turn and make my way down the hall with the knowledge that I will, fortunately or not, have to make it through this day on my own. Given that I’d used Jackson as a crutch since this whole thing began, it would only make sense that I would start to crumble now.

  Nothing’s going to go wrong, I think, attempting to coach myself through my mantra of self-preservation. Everything’s going to be fine. You know that.

  Regardless of how much I want to believe that will be the case, I can’t help but understand that I really, truly don’t know if everything will be fine, if everything will be okay. A part of me wants to acknowledge how everything could go right, but another…

  I tremble.

  Another, I soon realize, can’t help but contemplate the number of things that could go wrong.

  I could break out. Freak out. Lash out.

  Though I am not aware of just how accessible my abilities are in my human form, I can only imagine that they are lingering beneath the surface, just waiting to be used at any moment.

  That thought—and the sudden panic that strikes me—causes me to pause…

  Just in time for me to smell it.

  At first, I’m not sure I can believe what I’m sensing. But the further I think on it, the more I remember what it was I’d smelled that night.

  The smoke—

  The flame—

  The sickly-sweet smell of—

  “Sour Buds,” I whisper.

  As around me students continue to make their way to class, I find myself spinning—and attempting, with more desperation than I can imagine, to make sense of where the smell is coming from.

  Is it on a person? I wonder. A locker? An item?

  Just where is the smell coming from?

  My eyes dart from guy to girl, youth to elder, locker to locker and place to place, all in a meager attempt to determine where exactly the smell of Sour Buds and nicotine is coming from. Sweat runs down my neck and into my shirt as I remember.

  You can’t panic, a part of me says. You need to remain calm.

  But you need to find where it’s coming from, another beckons, before it’s gone forever.

  No. It won’t be gone. Not forever. Not in the slightest.

  Wherever it is—wherever it’s coming from—isn’t going to disappear.

  No.

  The scent of Sour Buds and nicotine is in the school.

  And worst yet: it’s right under my nose.

  I fixate on the idea that the person who could have caused my parents’ deaths is in the school. Unable to concentrate, and preferring to scribble notes as a result, I try to make sense of algorithms and numbers, all to no avail.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t help but think about the Sour Bud vape pen.

  The scent is still strong.

  That could only mean one thing:

  It’s nearby.

  The thought is all-consuming, my fixation damning. Worst yet: I can’t think of anything but that, and I’m starting to lose focus.

  Don’t lose yourself, a voice inside me says. Not here, not now.

  Is it me talking, though? Or is it the Wolf?

  I don’t know; and because of that, I find myself lifting my head to examine the classroom ahead of me.

  Though I’d expected people to stare—to somehow sense that I was duplicitous, that I was preparing to commit a crime so heinous—I find that no one is looking at me. Instead, everyone is looking down, at their papers, or ahead, at the board.

  That leaves me only one option.

  After gathering my things into my binder, I stand, then make my way up to Mr. Peters’ desk.

  “Oaklynn,” he says, in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I… I think I need to excuse myself,” I reply. “Is… is that okay?”

  “Do you just need a time-out, or…”

  “I don’t know, sir. I… I just need to be excused.”

  Mr. Peters opens a drawer at his side and pulls out a pink slip, then scribbles something down before passing it over to me. “If you need to see the counselor,” he says, before acknowledging the clock over the door. “Or if you just need to take a breather in the front office.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  In moments I am out the door.

  In seconds my nostrils are expanding.

  Then, in the brief time that follows, I feel the tug of inertia pulling at me.

  It’s here, I think, looking first left, then right; up the row in front of me, then down the row to my side. Somewhere. Somehow.

  But where?

  I don’t know, and that is what frustrates me. Because no matter how hard I try to determine its location, I cannot seem to find which way it is coming from.

  But it’s here, the Wolf says. You know it is.

  Yes. I do. But fact is: if I don’t know where it is coming from, how in the world am I supposed to find it?

  My heartbeat quickens as I step away from Mr. Peters’ classroom and begin to make my way down the hall. Thumping, continuously, to the tune of an imaginary drum, I feel the blood rush through my ears, the air pass from my nostrils, my lungs throb as I attempt to breathe in the scent that so desperately consumes me.

  The Sour Bud vape.

  The Sour Bud vape.

  The Sour Bud vape.

  Insanity, some say, is the act of repeating the same action over and over. So as I walk, and as I breathe, and as I think, I tell myself that I am not mad, that I am really okay, and that this is just my passion for vengeance taking control.

  I have just reached the bathrooms that stand at the end of the hall when I come to a halt.

  The smell—sickly sweet in its intoxication—consumes me.

  I turn and, without thinking of the potential repercussions that could arise, make my way into the first threshold I come across.

  Into the boys’ restroom I walk.

  The smell of strong cologne and chemical cleaner and other unsightly things overwhelms me almost instantly, but above it all, there is the smell. The Sour Bud smell.

  And it’s coming from just one person.

  As I come to a halt at the entrance leading into the restroom, I lift my eyes and scan the room—

  —only to find the source of the smell.

  He is a tall young man. At six feet, and with broad shoulders and muscled arms, he could easily crush me if he so wanted. But it isn’t his demeanor, or even the sight of him, that captures me.

  No.

  It is the smell wafting off his Red Wolf High football jacket that captures me.

  I must make some kind of noise—a troubled inhale, a startled exhale—because he turns, then, and blinks, stunned. He says, “Uh,” then adds, “I think you have the wrong place.”

  “I—“ I start.

  Then, it seems, his focus settles upon me; because a short moment later, his eyes widen, and his mouth drops open.

  I turn and make my way out of the bathroom before he has a chance to respond.

  After all this time, I finally have a name—or, at least, one of their names.

  Dalton West.

  Chapter Four

  I know telling Jackson will be worthless. I also understand that every moment I waste will offer the perpetrators more time to get away. For that reason, I tell myself that I have to act as quickly, but rationally, as possible.

  I have to discover who else is behind my parents’ deaths.

  Thankfully, this should not be overly complicated.

  Dalton West is a stupid boy. He is big and dumb, a lug and then some. I am almost certain that he is not the one who orchestrated the fire, the attack, the murders.

  No.

  Someone, and I don’t know exactly who, had to have helped him.

  But one thing is for certain:

  Dalton was the one who started the fire, and his vape pen was the catal
yst for the destruction.

  As I step out of the boys’ bathroom, and turn to enter the girls’ instead, I feel a sense of melancholy that is steeped in rage. Like a ship pouring oil in the middle of the ocean, it will only take one match to ignite the sea. Then everything will go up in flames.

  Just like my mother’s shop and family home.

  I inhale a long, tumultuous breath as I slide in front of the bathroom mirror, then exhale it accordingly as I consider the logistics of what it is I have to do.

  I have to find out more about the Red Wolf High football team.

  But how am I supposed to do that?

  Simple, the Wolf says. You find, and hunt them, down.

  “Down,” I whisper, in a voice so low that even I can barely hear it.

  The bell rings.

  Someone steps out of the stall behind me.

  I lift my eyes.

  See Ashley Jones in the reflection in front of me.

  She scoffs, then turns and begins to make her way out of the bathroom, but not before mumbling, “Freak.”

  I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline coursing through me, the pain I feel as a result of what I just found out, or the anger that’s threatening to burst forth. Either way, I turn my head and ask, “What did you say?”

  Ashley Jones comes to a halt. She then turns and says, “I said: you’re a freak.”

  “Why don’t you come say that to my face?”

  “Whatever,” the girl says, before turning toward the threshold leading out of the bathroom once more.

  I can’t help it.

  One moment, I’m standing still. The next, I’m lashing out, and grabbing Ashley Jones’ ponytail.

  “Hey!” the girl cries, more in surprise than in actual pain. “What’re you—“

  “Want to say that to my face?” I ask, my voice deeper, angrier, louder than it’s ever been. “Want to?”

  “Let go of me!” Ashley cries.

  I relinquish my hold on her, then spin her around and push her up against the pink tile on the wall.

  She grunts.

  I take hold of her arms.

  She fights to free herself from my grasp, but even despite her frame—which is far more lean and muscular than my own from her efforts as a cheerleader—she cannot. Where this strength is coming from I can’t be sure, but regardless, I hold her in place, and hear myself asking, “Been busy with the football team, Ashley?”