When the Red Wolf Runs (The Red Wolf Trilogy Book 1)

by Kody Boye

  The truth is: I don’t know what’s going to happen, or how things will play out from here on out. That alone is what terrifies me.

  And, Jackson, I think, and close my eyes.

  What might his place in all of this be?

  While I know I have no way of knowing, I imagine that I will soon find out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I receive a text from Jackson the following morning that simply says: My dad wants to meet you.

  Meet me? I think. Why?

  I consider my phone through bleary eyes as I try to determine what, exactly, might be going on here. Still half-asleep, but awakening further by the second, I blink in an effort to clear my vision and find myself swelling with panic.

  Remain calm, I instruct myself. This probably isn’t anything outrageous.

  Still—the fact that Jackson’s father wants to meet me, after all this time, is unnerving to say the least. He could’ve asked to meet me after they’d first arrived, and yet, he hadn’t. But now?

  Now, I think, I know a secret.

  One so deep that it could change the course of my existence.

  A sigh escapes me in the moments thereafter; and though I want to do nothing more than ignore what’s happening and fall back asleep, I know for a fact that I can’t.

  So, with that in mind: I shrug the blankets off my shoulders, push myself up with my elbow, then lean forward and text, When?

  A.S.A.P., he replies.

  The acronym is enough to fill me with dread.

  For several long moments, I simply rest here—staring at the phone, attempting to pull my thoughts together. My chest tightens. My lungs contract. My breathing exercises kick in almost instantly.

  Before I know it, I’m out of the bed and making my way into my attached bathroom.

  Within minutes, I’m in the shower.

  In less than ten, I’m out of it.

  In fifteen, I’m in full dress—my hair done, my makeup completed.

  I’ve just opened the door and am about to step out when I see my father step out of his and my mother’s room. “Going somewhere?” he asks.

  “Nuh-No,” I manage, taking a deep breath. “At least, not anywhere far.”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me.

  I frown.

  He does, too. “You okay, Oaklynn?”

  “Jackson invited me over to meet his father,” I offer—hoping, to God and whatever angels might be listening, that my father doesn’t push for further answers.

  “That’s nice,” my father replies. “I take it you haven’t met him yet?”

  “No,” I say, then add: “Have you?”

  “No.” My father crosses his arms over his chest. “He seems like a secretive type.”

  “He has M.S.,” I reply.

  “M.S.?” my father asks.

  “Multiple sclerosis.”

  “Ah. I see.” My father sighs and looks out at the kitchen. “I take you’re heading over there right now?”

  “Jackson said he had homework for me.”

  “Okay. Let me or your mother know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” I say, and step forward.

  I have just crossed the length of the hall when I realize just how easily I managed to get permission to go across the street—to a house that might be unsupervised to hang out with a boy he doesn’t even know.

  I turn to face him. “Dad?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”

  “What do you mean?” my father replies.

  “I… I was just wondering… because of the job thing, you know?”

  “I know.” My father steps forward to face me. “We’re seeking legal recourse now.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “It has to be, Oaklynn. We can’t afford to not have money. The insurance policy from your mother’s shop is tied up in this police investigation, and, well…” Dad lowers his eyes. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now that I don’t have a job.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, hon. This isn’t your fault.”

  “I know it isn’t,” I reply. “I just… really don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Oaklynn.” He offers an obviously-forced smile and says, “Go on and see your friend. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, then turn toward the doorway. “Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye, honey,” she says, without questioning where I’m going.

  I leave the house in a hurry—not because I feel as though I have to leave, but because I feel I need to.

  As I step outside—and as I close the door behind me—I think of how hostile the air seems, how agitated the world has become. A part of me wonders if that is simply the result of my anxiety, but a part of me knows, deep down, that I can sense the apprehension lingering within my parents, just waiting to burst free.

  Crossing the street is a testament to my need for peace, regardless of the fact that I am exchanging one anxiety for another. At least those worries that are tied up in the Meadows family can be seen as something beyond my own scope of imagination, or even possibility.

  When I approach Jackson’s doorstep, I inhale a deep breath, then lean forward and knock.

  A moment passes, then two; a third, a fourth.

  When the door finally opens to reveal a darkened home with very little character, Jackson peeks his head around the corner and says, “Come in.”

  “Why are you hiding?” I frown.

  “No peephole,” he replies as he closes the door behind me. “Dad’s a bit concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “About you coming over here.”

  “Then why does he—“

  “He wants to make sure you’re safe to be around.”

  Jackson locks the door behind me.

  I swallow.

  When the young man turns to face me, he smiles, then says, “It’s okay. Like I said: Dad just wants to check you out. See what kind of person you are.”

  “I didn’t say anything when I saw the wolf on the road,” I offer. “Or at my window.”

  Jackson visibly blushes.

  Again: I frown.

  “Sorry,” he says, then bows his head. “That… that was me.”

  “I had a feeling,” I reply, even though I’m not sure how I know.

  “Jackson,” a gruff male voice says. “Is she here?”

  “She’s here, Dad,” Jackson says, turning toward the threshold that I assume leads into the living room. “This way,” he then tells me.

  As we step into the living room—and as my eyes begin to adjust to the faint lighting streaming from a lamp in the corner of the room—I’m not sure what to think, how to feel, how I should act. Instead, I force myself to remain as composed as possible in light of everything that has occurred—and realize, with great trepidation, everything that will soon occur.

  A breath passes from my lungs.

  A flicker of trepidation crosses my mind.

  My heart pulses. My fingers flex.

  When my eyes finally adjust to the lighting in the room, I look toward a single recliner set against the far wall—and see, without surprise, an older, albeit skinnier, image of Jackson sitting in the chair.

  The man says, “Hello, Oaklynn.”

  And I, without much in the way of response, simply reply, “Hello.”

  “I’m glad you came.” He turns his attention to his son. “Would you like to introduce me, Jackson?”

  “Oaklynn,” the young man says, turning to face me, “this is my father. Zachariah Meadows. Of the Meadows Wolf Clan.”

  “Hello,” I say once more. “I’m… I’m not really sure what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” the man replies. He takes hold of an intricately-carved cane that’s leaning against the recliner and pushes himself to his unsure feet. He then takes a moment to compose himself before stepping forward.

  “You need anything, Dad?” Jackson asks.r />
  “I’m fine,” Zachariah Meadows replies. “You worry too damn much.”

  Jackson nods and steps aside so his father can approach me.

  The older man leans forward, then, balancing carefully on his cane to examine me for everything I’m worth. His eyes—colored like amber and fletched with gold much like Jackson’s—examine me with the tenacity of a predator, and take in every facet of my being. He then says, “You’re afraid.”

  “Somewhat,” I reply, swallowing. “How can you tell?”

  “I can smell it on you.”

  “I thought people just said that to intimidate you?” I offer.

  “No.” Zachariah shakes his head. “It’s an elevation in your hormones—something tangible, something that can be sensed.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I simply nod.

  Zachariah Meadows takes a step back and turns his head to the curtain-covered windows. He stares for several long moments, then, as if deciding whether or not I’m worthy of further attention, before sighing and saying, “I’m sorry about your mother’s shop.”

  “It’s okay,” I reply. “I mean… it’s not, but, well… you know.”

  “I understand it was very important to her.”

  “It was.”

  “I’m happy that you’re alive, Oaklyn. But now that my son’s revealed himself—and, as a result, us—to you, there’s no way you can simply go on being just a normal girl.”

  “I figured as much, sir.”

  Zachariah turns to face me. “There is to be a meeting,” he says, “in exactly three day’s time. During it, Alecia Meadows—our Chosen Wolf, and my dearly-departed wife’s mother—will gather what remains of the Meadows Wolf Clan and decide what must happen now that a mortal human knows of our kind. I ask that you do not leave town at this time, nor that you try to run. I have your scent. I could easily track you down.”

  I turn my head to face Jackson. “That’s why you wanted me here,” I say. “So your father would know.”

  “Oaklynn,” he says. “He said that he’d go to… more drastic measures… if he needed to.”

  “I may be uneasy on my feet in this form, Miss Smith, but as a wolf I can do anything.” Zachariah straightens his posture, then adds, “Even track you across Texas.”

  “I didn’t plan on going anywhere,” I offer, a bit uneasy, and a little more hurt, that Jackson had lured me over here under the pretense that I might possibly run off. “It’s not like I really can anyway, all things considering. And besides—“ I set my gaze on Zachariah Meadows “—I knew coming into this that my life would be changed, possibly forever.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Miss Smith. I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I just… worry… now… that your family has been targeted by Paxton Wells. It’s because of him that I’m without a wife.”

  So it was true, I think. It was his wife who was killed. His wife who was the last red wolf in Texas.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, but nod and say, “I understand. And… I’m sorry.”

  “Life will resume as it should until our meeting has convened—or, at least, I hope it does. I’ve instructed Jackson to watch out for you during this time. While I understand that he can’t always be there, I can promise that he will never be far.”

  “I don’t need someone to watch out for me,” I reply. “I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s what everyone says, Miss Smith.”

  I frown, but nod all the same.

  “You are free to go now,” he continues. “Just be careful, and always watch your back.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you.”

  I turn, then, and make my way toward the door.

  Jackson stops me before I reach it. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be,” I then say. “I… I think I understand.”

  He offers a small smile before leaning forward and unbolting the door. “I’ll see you at school,” he says, then adds, “tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” I say. Though I’m not looking forward to going back, I have to.

  Jackson lets me out without another word in response.

  When the door closes behind me—and when I begin to make my way back across the street—I begin to wonder if I should have tried to dodge out of the meeting with Zachariah Meadows.

  Can’t do anything now, I think, and sigh.

  Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck with these people.

  I can only hope that things begin to settle down.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Despite my reassurances that everything will be fine, I have no idea how I will make it through the next three days. Between the weight of the Meadows’ family secret upon my shoulders, the unbridled tension within my own home, and the fact that I have one more day of school to face, I feel as though I will burst.

  Just remain calm, I think. Everything will be fine.

  Will it, though? Will it really? Because it seems like everywhere I turn something comes up.

  On this Friday morning, on which I imagine will be the first true test of my endurance, I rise hesitantly, and with regret I know comes from the fact that I will soon face my schoolmates. The warm water in the shower doesn’t ease my burdens, nor does the makeup I put on my face hide my fears.

  No.

  Of everything that I could go through—walking through fire, treading through rain—I would rather do anything but this.

  You could ask to play sick, a part of me thinks as I finish applying my fine layer of eyeshadow. It’s not like Mom or Dad are gonna care.

  They’ve been so morose over the loss of their livelihoods that I doubt either of them would put up much of a fight, especially given that I was almost a murder victim.

  After a moment, though, I shake my head.

  As much as it pains me to do so: I have to face this head-on.

  Besides, I then think, before turning and making my way out my bedroom door. It’s not like you’re gonna be alone.

  J’vonte will be there. And so will Jackson.

  Jackson…

  I sigh.

  To think that I would’ve been dead had he not arrived is more than alarming. It’s downright terrifying.

  As I step from the hall and into the kitchen, I find my mother sitting at the kitchen island, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee while she examines a number of papers in front of her.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  “Hi, honey,” she replies. “Do you want breakfast?”

  “I’ll just make toast.”

  Normally, my mother would try to argue—say that toast wasn’t a proper meal. But on this morning, she doesn’t. She simply lowers her eyes and sighs.

  “Where’s Dad?” I decide to ask.

  “In town,” my mom replies, “dealing with some things.”

  “Is something wrong, Mom?”

  “Everything seems wrong at this point.”

  Though I try my hardest not to frown, it comes anyway, slithering onto my lips and implanting itself within the fine muscles around my mouth.

  My mother lifts her eyes. Sighs again. Clears her throat. Says, “Oaklynn—“

  “It’s okay,” I reply. “I know you’re bummed out.”

  “Bummed out is an understatement,” she says. “That shop was my pride and joy.”

  “I know it was, Mom.”

  I retrieve the bread from the toaster and slather it with jelly before taking a bite and turning my attention out the window. It’s as gloomy a day outside as it is in, but surely that doesn’t mean anything. Right?

  I shiver as I consider what I might face at school, and find myself regretting my decision not to fake sick.

  “Can you take me to school today?” I ask, turning to face her.

  “I planned to anyway,” my mother replies. “I don’t want you walking in this rain.”

  “A little rain never hurt anyone,” I offer.

  Mom doesn�
�t say anything. Instead, she stands, then, and makes her way over to me, only to say, “I’m not worried about the rain.”

  Then what— I start to think, then stop as it hits me.

  The firebombing.

  She’s still worried that the arsonists knew I was in the shop. That I was specifically targeted.

  With a nod, I finish eating my toast, then turn toward the door as my mother grabs the keys.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to stay home today?” she asks after a moment’s hesitation.

  “You’re offering to let me stay home from school?” I ask.

  “It’s just… I worry about your lungs. You breathed in a lot of smoke.”

  “I feel fine, Mom. Besides,” I then add, “I need to go. People are going to think it’s weird that I’m not there, especially after…”

  My mother’s face dampens.

  “The store,” I say.

  “I know,” she replies. “I just… don’t want you to get hurt, Oaklynn.”

  “I know you don’t, Mom.”

  She leans forward and wraps me in a tight hug.

  I thought she was worried before. But now?

  Now, I think, she’s terrified.

  But of what? I wonder. Something happening at school? Outside of it? While I’m walking home? While I’m in town?

  Unable to know, I merely follow her outside, wait for her to lock our home’s front door, then follow her down to the car.

  No matter how hard I try to ignore what’s going on, I can’t.

  No.

  Something is wrong.

  What exactly that is I cannot be sure.

  Their stares are unnerving.

  They begin as soon as I walk through the door. Dangerous in their clarity, and vicious in their intent, my fellow classmates watch me with cold, calculated stares as I not only enter the school, but make my way toward my locker.

  Okay, I think. This is weird.

  Not weird, I then think. Painful—not only because I have not done anything, but because no one asks about me.

  Not to see if I’m fine.

  Not to see if I’m hurt.

  Not to see if I’m recovering.

  This reality, and the fact that they know I must be in some way responsible for this, leads me to keep my eyes turned down, my gaze set on the floor.