by Karen Kincy
“You will not use that word here,” Winema says.
Under the force of her stare, my eyes start to sting until I blink and look away. Bitch. Only I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.
Randall glances at me. “He didn’t survive the full moon?”
“Of course not, you goddamn cur,” I say.
Winema snaps her fingers, and the soot-black wolf soars and knocks me to the ground. Air swooshes from my lungs. Huge paws pin my shoulders. I smell blood and meat on the wolf’s breath, and see its teeth glinting very close.
Winema looks down at me. “Show some respect, bloodborn, or you will be punished.”
“My—name—is—Brock.”
She stares at me until I flinch away. The black wolf pants in my face.
“He’s rather … aggressive,” Randall says, his voice soft and level, “though I don’t think he’s made his first transformation yet.”
The black wolf inhales my breath, then snorts. Wolf-snot speckles my face. I wonder if it can smell the fear in my sweat.
“Interesting.” Winema crosses her arms. “It must be that experimental drug.”
The black wolf shifts its weight, squeezing my lungs, and I try to breathe shallowly. I twist my head to the side. A rank of wolves stands silhouetted against the trees, watching me. Same on the other side. A caged jittering builds inside my chest.
“How are we going to take care of him?” Randall asks.
They’re going to kill me. Maybe torture me first.
Winema tilts her head, her face stony. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I’d rather die running.
A bellow roars from my throat, and I fling the wolf off of me. Caught off guard, it twists in midair and thuds on the ground. I lunge to my feet and barrel through the line of wolves as they leap aside and rough fur brushes my ankle but I’m still running I’m going to make it maybe I can outrun them and maybe—
A shotgun blast deafens me. I’m too pumped full of adrenaline to know whether I’ve been hit, and I’m still running, my feet weightless. Paws thunder behind me, thumping closer and closer. An image of Blackjack furiously pursuing a school bus pops into my mind, and I want to laugh a crazy laugh. Wolves like to chase things.
Something slams into me from behind. I’m tumbling, rolling, sprawling on the ground. Teeth sink deep into my calf. I’m shaken, a growl vibrating through my leg bones. I’m still not feeling pain, but I am feeling hot blood soak my socks.
I’m going to be eaten alive. They’re going to rip open my belly and drape my glistening guts across the dirt, chew my bones and crunch my skull and eat my eyes like grapes … oh, man, oh, God, I don’t want to die like this.
I scream, no words, just terror as sound. The black wolf is gnawing my left leg. I claw at its pale eyes with my weak human fingernails, but it squints and squeezes its jaws tighter, its fangs scraping grooves in my bone. I grope frantically and grab a stone and smash it on the wolf’s muzzle. It whines but won’t let go.
If you’re going to kill me, I’m going to take you down with me.
I gouge my thumbs past the black wolf’s eyelids. It yelps and releases my leg. I stand, crumple to one knee. Blood puddles in my shoe, slick between my toes. I tackle the wolf and wrap my arms around its neck, choking it as hard as I can. The wolf whines and scrabbles beneath me, trying to shake me loose, but I’m not going to let go.
“Bloodborn!” Winema’s voice snags my attention.
She’s standing right in front of me, the shotgun in her hands. I bare my teeth at her.
She growls, then raises the shotgun and smashes the butt on the back of my head. My vision flickers—and then I plummet into blackness.
Pain throbs in my head with every heartbeat. I pry open my eyelids and squint at white overcast sky, then haul myself upright. The movement sends fresh, sickening pain rippling out from the back of my head. When I can see again, I climb to my feet. My left leg aches. I glance down at it, at my shredded jeans, stiff with blood.
Where did the werewolves go?
I limp in a slow circle, swinging my head from side to side. What the fuck? You know you don’t belong here, Randall said. It’s almost time for you to go. I thought he was going to take me out. But the pack left me here to bleed.
My leg, and my head, are killing me. Dad must be awake now. He’s definitely going to kill me. Or maybe he thinks I’m already dead. Gritting my teeth, I limp along the trail of scuffed leaves and dried blood—my blood—from the night before. I can’t find Dad’s shotgun. They must have taken it.
Armed with nothing, bearing no excuses, I stagger toward home.
Of all people, guess who I see on the doorstep, small and bright in her red hoodie.
“Brock!” Cyn’s fists ball by her sides. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t even know why you’re here,” I say, not looking at her, walking straight past. When I try the door, it’s locked. “Nobody’s home?”
She gapes at me. “No. When I called, your dad sounded … really weird.”
Dad must have been drunk, or crying, or both.
“I thought something happened,” she says, “so I drove here.”
I rummage behind a rock, find the spare key, and let myself in. I need to find some painkillers and get this blood off of me, fast.
“You need to go,” I say. “Now.”
Cyn gives me a look. “Brock. You need help. You’re covered in blood and you’re limping … did something bite you?”
I give her a look right back.
“Oh. God! Was it the werewolves?”
“What do you think?” I say.
When I hobble upstairs, Cyn follows me. It’s dark and quiet in the house. Where did Dad go? Shit. I’m getting blood on Mom’s carpet. I hurry to the bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. My hands shake as I screw open a bottle of aspirin. I pour five into my palm, but Cyn grabs my wrist and shakes her head.
“Too many. You’ll overdose.”
“It really hurts,” I say through clenched teeth.
“You should call 911.”
“Yeah. Right.” I pop two aspirins into my mouth and swallow them with water. “Cynthia. Why are you still here?”
She folds her arms. “Because I’m not going to let you do something stupid.”
“I need to take a shower.” I peel off my shirt and turn on the water. “Go.”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked already,” Cyn mutters, but she leaves the room.
I shut the door and gingerly strip off my jeans, hissing at the pain. The bloody, ragged denim clings to the gashes in my skin.
“Where’s your dad?” Cyn calls from behind the door.
I step into the shower and yank the curtain shut. “I don’t know,” I shout back.
With the water near-scalding, I scrub myself hard, as if I can wash away all traces of the werewolves. The pounding in my head slowly numbs. When I crouch and inspect my leg, the torn flesh looks less ragged than it did an hour ago.
Clean, I shut off the water and yank open the curtain. I breathe in the steam.
“Brock? Are you—” Cyn opens the door.
I grab a towel, but she’s still staring. I bend my leg gingerly, even though the pain feels older and more distant now.
“Your leg,” she says. “Is it … already healing?”
“Yeah. One of the perks.” I wrap the towel around my waist and sidestep past her, to my bedroom. “I’ll see you later, Cyn. Goodbye.”
“I’m not going.”
I shut the door of my bedroom, but she opens it again right as I’m pulling on a new pair of jeans. Is she asking for trouble?
“What do you want?” I say. It sounds harsher than I intended.
She crosses the gap between us and stares up at me. Frowning, her fingers shaking a littl
e, she takes my face in her hands, then slides her fingers into my hair. I wince when she touches the wound on the back of my head. Deeper than that, her touch feels like a key in a rusty lock, twisting my insides with a sweet ache.
“Brock,” she says. “You’re hurt. What happened?”
“Chris,” I say. “He … ”
Her eyes glimmer as she stares at me, waiting.
“Chris is dead.”
Her face tightens with lovely sadness. “I’m sorry.”
I try to pull her closer, but she flinches away. I let my hands fall to my sides. She withdraws from me, her face blank.
“I heard the werewolves howling last night,” I say, “so I went out to meet them. I found the whole pack. One of them bit my leg, and then this woman cracked me over the head with a shotgun. When I woke up, they were gone.”
“And Chris … ?”
“The full moon.” I force out the words. “His body couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Cyn says again.
“You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s not going to make any difference. I’m the one who has to fix things. He was my brother.”
“What do you mean, fix things?”
“Kill the werewolf who bit us both.” I clench my jaw and grab a shirt, a jacket, my shoes. “He can’t keep hiding in the forest forever.”
“Brock. You can’t go out there now—”
“I have to.”
“Are you crazy? They kicked your ass last night. You got knocked out by a shotgun. You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking straighter than I ever was before.” I head for the door.
“Brock!” She laughs an I-can’t-believe-this laugh. “You’re not even dressed.”
I sit on the floor and start pulling on my shoes.
Cyn stands in the doorway, blocking my path out. “I can’t let you go.”
Finished dressing, I advance on her. “Move. Please.”
“No.” She braces herself in the doorway, her arms on the frame. “I don’t want to be the one who could have stopped you and didn’t. I wasn’t there when you were bitten, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
We stare at each other, only a hairsbreadth away. I’m holding my breath, and I think she is, too. Neither of us blinks. Her eyes glitter with fire. She slides her foot toward me and closes the last fraction of distance between us.
I’m distracted by the warmth of her body so close to mine. “You can’t do this.”
“Why not? We can work this out together.”
“There is no we.” I bare my teeth, since it’s easiest to feel angry. “You dumped me. You don’t get to come back whenever you feel like it and pick up your discarded boyfriend.”
Cyn sucks in her breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to break up with you? How hard it’s been to stay away from you? I’m trying to help you. I can’t believe you’re throwing this back in my face.”
She’s saying what I’ve wanted to hear for so long, but she’s saying it too late.
I look away. “You can’t help me.” I sidestep past her and stride into the hallway.
Smack in the middle of Mom’s carpet, I see a small bloodstain. Frowning, I crouch over the spot. No, it’s the miniature rose I picked from the garden, before I went after the werewolves. I can’t believe it survived the night, and fell here.
“Brock,” Cyn says, right behind me. “Stop.”
I straighten quickly, the rose in my hand. Her eyes snap onto the brilliant red, and her fingers drift to it as if she can’t help herself.
“What’s this?” she says.
“A rose,” I say, “from my mom’s garden.” I hold it out to her.
She lifts it from my fingers, twirling it between her own. A few petals have opened since I plucked it. “Why is it here?”
“Doesn’t matter. You can have it; I won’t need it where I’m going.”
If I stay any longer, I might change my mind.
I jog downstairs and open the kitchen door. I stride outside, letting the door swing shut behind me, but Cyn still slips through.
“I’m going to call the cops,” she says.
“On me? You are crazy.”
She jogs alongside me. “I think you’ve got things backwards.”
“Cyn!” I growl. “If you’re going to follow me, at least be quiet.”
She makes an impatient noise.
I break into a run, half-hoping she won’t keep up, half-wishing I could just turn back and work things out with her, but it’s far too late for that now. That, more than anything, really twists the knife of regret deeper into my heart.
Of course I can’t stay. Of course I wish I could.
I shake my head to fling these thoughts away and concentrate on following my own blood back through the forest. Where could the werewolves be now? Surely, when Cyn sees them, she’ll run away. She should be running from me.
Behind me, I can hear her quick footsteps. At least she stopped shouting at me.
“Brock!” Cyn hisses, surprisingly close. “Get down!”
Startled, I duck behind a tree. She crouches beside me.
“Look,” she whispers, pointing.
Ahead, squatting in the leaves, I see the unmistakable figure of Sheriff Royle.
seven
Royle crouches beside a streak of blood in the leaves. Next to him stands a ginger-haired guy with a pinched, hungry look on his face. He looks young, not much older than Chris was, with a uniform too big for his skinny frame.
The sheriff snaps his fingers. “Deputy Collins.”
The young guy’s head snaps up like a bird dog’s. “Yes sir?”
“Have a look at this blood.”
Collins bends over Royle’s shoulder. “What do you think it is, sir?”
Mine, probably. I hope they don’t do any forensics.
Royle dips his pinkie into the blood and sniffs it. “Werewolf.” He squints into the trees. “There must have been a fight.”
“This is good,” Cyn whispers. “Let the police handle the pack.”
“Shhh!”
Royle straightens. “Collins. Follow me.”
Together, the two of them saunter through the trees as if they aren’t afraid of anything, though their hands stay close to their holsters.
“Can you smell anything?” Cyn whispers.
I shiver at her hot breath in my ear. “No. I already told you. I’m not a werewolf yet.”
“Oh, they’re getting away.” She scrambles to her feet. “Come on!”
“Hey,” I mutter, “whatever happened to not doing anything stupid?”
She either doesn’t hear or doesn’t want to, which is more likely, and tiptoes after them. Typical reckless Cyn. I follow her, though not nearly as gracefully. It must be nice to be so tiny that your feet glide over the leaves in silence—
“Brock!” she hisses.
“Sorry.”
Luckily, Royle and his deputy don’t seem to be paying too much attention to our whispers.
“Collins,” the sheriff says, “are you aware that I have made this my personal mission?”
“Your mission, sir?”
“To rid Klikamuks—and the whole of Washington State—of this menace. It was a grievous oversight on our part, allowing that werewolf and his pack to escape prosecution. I intend to rectify that mistake.”
Collins sounds puzzled. “You mean the Arrington case? The Other murders?”
“What else?”
“But we didn’t have any evidence that the werewolves actually—”
“Evidence? We have overwhelming evidence that the werewolves have committed an obscene number of crimes in the US and Canada.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Eyewitness testimonies, for Chri
st’s sake.”
“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”
Royle claps his deputy on the back. “Keep your eye on the big picture, Collins.”
Cyn drags me into a crouch behind a fern. Ahead, peeking through a blackberry bramble, shine two green-gold eyes. Holy shit, it’s that wolf who tore up my leg. Sheriff Royle and Deputy Collins don’t seem to have a clue.
A growl builds in my throat, and I realize I’m baring my teeth.
Cyn glances at me, her eyes wide, and shakes her head. “Don’t.”
“Sir,” Collins says. “What—”
Royle shushes him. Then, speaking louder, he says, “We know you’re watching us. Come out slowly, and don’t try anything funny.”
The wolf stalks out from behind the blackberries. Collins draws his gun.
“Steady,” Royle mutters. To the wolf, he says, “Turn into a human.”
The wolf lifts its lip. It could be snarling, or grinning.
Then, behind the sheriff and his deputy, a silver wolf creeps closer. And a gray wolf, and another silver wolf. I clench my fists, ready for Randall to leap out and tear into Royle’s neck—or maybe mine.
Collins whirls around, fear plain on his face. Royle, however, surveys the situation with a thin smile, his fingers on his holster.
“Brock,” Cyn whispers. “They’re behind us, too.”
Great.
Surrounded by bristling fur and bared fangs, Royle remains amazingly calm. “Collins,” he says, “would you like to call for backup?”
The deputy fumbles for his radio while still pointing his gun at the wolves.
“That won’t do you any good.” Winema strides from the trees with wolves at her heels.
Royle doesn’t even try to hide his sneer. “This one’s their Alpha,” he says to Collins. “The ringleader of this particular pack.”
“I know, sir,” Collins mumbles.
Cyn has a look I’ve seen before: too much curiosity and too little fear. “Wow,” she whispers. “I didn’t know they had a female Alpha.”
“Shhh,” I say.
Winema looks at Royle as if he’s a pile of dog shit she just stepped in. “By the time your backup arrives, Sheriff, it will be too late.”