by Karen Kincy
“I’m well aware of your tendency to scurry deeper into the forest at the threat of danger.”
“You don’t seem to know what I’m talking about,” Winema says, her eyes burning. “You’re familiar with our long criminal records. The death of one more backwoods county sheriff wouldn’t be much more than a footnote.”
Collins looks about as pale as a sheet of paper, the radio halfway to his mouth.
“What are they going to do?” Cyn whispers, so quiet I can barely hear her. “What—” Her words turn into a gasp.
I lunge up just as Randall’s fingers close around her arm. He yanks her to her feet.
“Cyn!” I shout.
Randall clutches her to his chest. She lifts her feet off the ground and kicks backward, then bites his arm. It doesn’t do any good through his thick jacket, but he does seem amused to be bitten by a human.
Spurred into action, Collins radios in. “This is Collins and Royle. We have a hostage situation here. The werewolves are—”
“That’s enough!” Winema silences him with a slice of her hand. “Turn that off.”
Collins does as she says.
The Alpha stares Royle down. “Unless you want this girl’s blood on your hands, I would advise leaving immediately.”
My heartbeat pounding in my ears, I step between them. “Let her go.”
Winema bares her teeth at me. “Bloodborn. You really are an idiot. You’ve brought this upon your own girlfriend, leading the police to us.”
“No.” I can’t make myself meet her fiery eyes. “That’s not what—”
“Brock,” Cyn says, “why don’t you just shut up and let me do the talking?”
“You’re hardly in a position to,” Randall says, smirking.
Cyn kicks him again. “First, Brock is not my boyfriend. Second, I was trying to stop him from coming out here at all. Do you think we don’t already know that this is your pack’s territory? We don’t want to—”
Winema listens with an expression of mild interest, then shakes her head. Randall jams a rag between Cyn’s teeth, muffling her outraged yelp. Royle clenches and unclenches his jaw as he watches, his fingers hovering over his gun.
“All it takes is one bite,” Winema says, “and then this girl—or maybe that squirrely deputy of yours—is infected forever.”
Collins swallows. Cyn looks furious, so I know she must be terrified.
“Deputy Collins.” The sheriff snaps his fingers. “Let’s go.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
Together, they back away from the pack, their guns still drawn. The werewolves drive them onward with ferocious snarls. At the last minute, Collins turns and breaks into a run. Royle swears and sprints after him.
“Deputy Collins!” he bellows. “You run, you’re prey!”
But the werewolves let them go. When I glance back, another man is holding Cyn: an old guy with a tangled gray beard and long ratty hair beneath a trucker’s cap. He looks like he should be sleeping in a cardboard box. No, he looks like Gandalf after Vietnam. The sight of his disgusting hands on her makes me snarl.
“Bloodborn.” Randall advances on me. “What in Christ’s name were you trying to pull?”
“Let Cyn go,” I say, my voice hoarse. “You don’t need her.”
“Actually,” he says, “she’s a lot more useful to us than you.”
I bare my teeth. “You’re fucking dead, you piece of gick shit.”
Winema gives me a weary look, her eyes like embers. “We don’t have time for this. Randall, secure the bloodborn. He’s obviously more dangerous as a lone wolf than he is with us. We can’t afford any more mistakes like him.”
I’m a mistake? Yeah, I’m the biggest one these gicks will ever make. And the last.
Randall advances on me, his face unreadable, his stare fixed on my face. A snarl rumbles from my throat, but he remains silent. Behind him, I can see the disgusting homeless-guy werewolf dragging Cyn farther away. She isn’t struggling now, her face small and ashy, her body limp like a doll. What did they do to her?
“You’re all dead,” I say. “The police will hunt you down and rip you to pieces.”
Winema, walking away with wolves at her heels, glances back at me. “Including you.”
“Fuck no. I’m not a gick like you.”
Winema laughs.
You think this is funny, bitch? I lunge at her. Randall tackles me and I hit the ground hard. Before I can throw him off, he’s twisting my arms behind my back. Cold metal slides over my wrists with a raspy clink. Handcuffs. I growl, my muscles straining in sheer frustration. Randall pins me to the ground with his knees, even while I twist and fight and brace myself against the dirt. Holy shit, he’s strong.
“Get off of me, gick.” My words sound less human, more growl.
“Gick, gick, gick.” Randall growls. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you.”
“I’ll—show—you—difficult.”
I’m having trouble breathing now because of his weight on my back, and because he’s tightening a leather dog collar around my neck. He’s going to strangle me. Panic electrocutes me with new energy. With a roar, I surge to my feet, sending Randall sprawling. I teeter, unbalanced with my hands behind my back, then fall.
“Fuck!”
“Shut up or I’ll gag you.” Randall nudges me with his boot, a grimace twisting his face. “Move your ass. You’re coming with me.”
“No.”
He sighs, then plants his foot between my shoulders and clasps a leash to my collar.
My chin in the dirt, I lift my head. The rest of the pack—and Cyn—are already gone. I have to get her out of here. Images flicker through my head: the homeless-guy werewolf strikes her down with a clawed hand, his sleazy smile warping into fangs, as he tears her clothes off and pins her down and—I squeeze my eyes shut.
I told you not to come, Cyn. I told you to leave me alone.
“Up.” Randall yanks on my leash. “Come.” As if I’m a dog.
But I know that fighting all the way isn’t going to get me any closer to Cyn right now, not with these fucking handcuffs and collar.
I’ll have to kill him, then get the key.
Randall and I sit on the bench seat of a baby-blue pickup truck. He’s driving. I’m staring out the window, gnawing on the inside of my cheek, being rattled to bits by the washboard road. Pine trees crowd the way, their needles brushing the windows. Rain hisses from the sky, speckling the windshield, and Randall turns on the wipers.
On the radio, buzzing with static, we listen to the local news station.
“ … breaking news. Earlier this afternoon, Snohomish County police reported the alleged kidnapping of a Klikamuks resident by the pack of werewolves currently residing in the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. A teenaged male, also a resident of Klikamuks, allegedly aided the werewolves in the kidnapping.”
“What the—” I sputter.
“Quiet.” Randall turns up the radio.
“These werewolves are convicted fugitives, and police consider them armed and dangerous. Do not approach or attempt to confront them. The alleged kidnapping victim is described as a girl in her late teens, about 5’1”, petite, brunette, with a streak of pink dyed in her hair. If you have any information about this case, or know of the pack’s whereabouts, please call the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office at … ”
“Bullshit!” I say. “I haven’t allegedly aided anyone.”
Randall glances at me. “Guilty until proven innocent. Get used to it.”
“Believe me,” I mutter, “I’m going to let the cops know who’s really guilty.”
He just rolls his eyes.
I haven’t seen Cyn since the rest of the pack left us behind. All of them must be far ahead by now, fleeing the police. How the hell di
d I end up in this situation? I mean, first I’m hunting the werewolves, ready to kill them, and then they’re kicking my ass, and then they’re being all calculating and shit. It’s fucking disorienting.
“What’s her name?” Randall says.
“Who?”
“Your girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend. Cyn.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Why am I even talking to him?
He arches an eyebrow. “As in, sinful?”
“No,” I mutter. “Short for Cynthia.”
Silence for another few swishes of the windshield wipers.
“Your brother,” Randall says.
“What?” My throat constricts. “What about him?”
“How did he die?”
“What do you mean, how? The change killed him. Why do you care?”
He glances at me, his eyes smoldering. “Because I bit him.”
“You bit me too, gick, and I don’t care if you get your head blown off. Actually, I’d love to see you get your head blown off.”
Randall makes a noise between a growl and a sigh. “Raging at me won’t help.”
“How about you unlock these handcuffs. That’ll help.”
He snorts. “You can’t go back, you know.”
“I have to. My dad doesn’t know I’m gone, and when he finds out, he’s going to flip. And I left something important behind.”
“What?”
“Lycanthrox. The only thing that’s keeping me from changing.”
Randall glances at me. “You know that stuff doesn’t always work, right?”
“It’s been working for two full moons.”
“A lot of bloodborn don’t transform for the first few moons. The lycanthropy virus incubates for at least a month. That’s why I wanted to know what happened to your brother, since you got bitten at the same time.”
Heat drains from my face, leaving my skin icy. “You saying because Chris died, I’m going to die soon, too?”
“No. He was in the hospital, wasn’t he? You recovered.”
The silver wolf flings himself on Chris, clamping his jaws around his arm. He shakes Chris like he’s killing a rabbit. Chris screams and fights back, but the wolf’s jaws crunch his wrist, then close around his neck, pressing his windpipe.
“You didn’t bite me like you bit him.” My voice sounds small.
Randall nods, his face masklike. “Either way, you’re my fault.”
“That make you feel any better?”
He looks at me, his eyes the color of tarnished gold. Weariness creases his face. “No.”
“You killed my brother. You deserve to die.”
Randall hits the brakes and the truck skids off the road, gravel spraying behind the tires. He yanks the parking brake savagely, then leans into my face, so close his breath dries my eyes. “Listen,” he says in a velvety growl. “You know damn well that you and your brother were asking for what you got.”
“So Chris deserved to d—”
“Shut up. I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted to scare the shit out of you two, but no, you kept coming back. I didn’t want to bite you. I had to.”
I’m shaking in my seat, the chain on my handcuffs jingling. “Liar.”
Randall’s eyes flame. “You’re a fucking moron, aren’t you?”
“Get away from me, gick.”
“Sorry. But we’re stuck with each other now. And guess what, you’re a gick, too.”
“I’m not a gick!”
“You were bitten.” Randall speaks in a deliberate rhythm, his words dropping like spent shells. “You are bloodborn.”
I clench my fists, my nails digging crescents into my palms. “I am who I want to be.”
He laughs. “That’s a nice thought.” He lets the parking brake go and accelerates back onto the road. “I wised up a long time ago.”
How was he bitten? I want to ask, but I don’t want to hear his goddamn voice.
Rain rattles harder on the roof of the truck. We’re driving along a ridge now, and all around us, a dark pelt of forest ripples over the hills. I have no idea where we’re running. I hope the police find us soon and shoot every last one of the werewolves.
I’m not sure whether that would include a bullet in my head.
We drive for hours in silence. Every milepost on the shoulder ticks off just how far away from home I am now. Randall navigates one-way dirt roads and hairpin switchbacks though Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. There’s around 50,000 acres of trees out here. I’ve explored the edges of the forest before, while out hunting deer with Dad and Chris, but we were all too chicken to go much deeper.
A memory of Chris cracking a joke drifts into my mind, but his face is blurry, pale, and sickly. I can’t seem to see him anymore. I fall into a daze listening to the endless rumble of the engine and the hiss of passing trees. A rhythm of Chris is dead, Chris is dead drums inside my head. I glance at Randall, still very much alive and breathing even though he deserves a horrible fate. He’s the one who did this …
Where are the police? Why aren’t they right on our tail?
Then again, I know how useless they can be. That Benjamin Arrington guy killed at least five gicks in Klikamuks before his next target tipped off the police. But of course, those were all gicks getting murdered. Surely the kidnapping of a human girl like Cyn would make the police get off their fat asses. Come on, Sheriff.
I sink lower and lower in my seat, rattling through my cluttered thoughts as if I’ll find answers there, some magic Houdini escape for all the trouble I’ve gotten myself into. But I just feel too exhausted to think of anything …
My gaze drifts to Randall’s hands on the wheel, and the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. He’s going to have to stop for gas sooner or later. But around us, I see nothing more than trees, mountains, and more trees. We’re deep in the wilderness.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I say.
“Guess,” he says.
“You’re high-tailing it so far into the trees that the police will never find you. But eventually you’re going to have to go back into town for food and supplies. No, probably not food, because you’re hunters. But you’ll go back one day, and the police will be waiting. If they don’t send bloodhounds up here first.”
Randall snorts. “You’ve put a lot of thought into the life of a fugitive.”
“I just want to know how you’ve stayed alive for so long.”
He grunts and turns onto another gravel road. We’re jostled and bounced all the way to a mercifully paved highway. We pick up speed and pass a few cars. I crane my neck as we overtake them, wondering if they’re from the pack. Through the trees, I glimpse milky green flashes of the North Fork of the Stillaguamish River. This must be the Mountain Loop Highway. It curves southeast around the Boulder River Wilderness Area, then backtracks west, which means it’s going to spit us back out into civilization eventually. Unless the werewolves plan on taking some forest service road to God-knows-where.
I keep my eyes on the fuel gauge as the needle droops lower and lower.
My salvation appears in the form of a Texaco gas station so old that it can’t possibly be pay-at-the-pump. That means Randall will have to get out of the truck and go inside. That means I will be alone for long enough to fight back.
eight
Randall exits the highway and pulls into the Texaco. We’re not really in a town, just near a few tumbledown cabins hiding in the trees. Beneath the gas station’s rusty roof, a cherry-red ’70s convertible sits parked outside.
“Looks like they beat us to it,” Randall says.
“They?”
Then I see a dark-skinned woman in a flowery dress that clings to every curve. Her wavy black hair snakes past her high cheekbones. She lights a cigarette, and her eyes—light apple-green, shot with yellow—lock with mine.
Shit, I’ve seen those eyes before.
“That’s Jessie,” Randall says. “But you’ve already met.”
So this is the black wolf who chased me and bit my leg so savagely. Pretty, if I didn’t know that those red lips of hers were once a bloody muzzle. She doesn’t blink. I don’t blink. She curls her lip, then gives me the finger.
“Bitch,” I growl.
“Well, yes,” Randall says. He drives up to one of the pumps, kills the engine, and looks me in the eye. “Stay.”
I bare my teeth at him.
Randall hops out of the truck, slams the door, locks it, and saunters to the werewolf woman. “Jessie! Where’s Isabella?”
“Inside,” Jessie drawls, with a Southern accent that oozes molasses-sweet.
Another woman clicks out of the Texaco in ridiculously spiky heels. She looks a lot like Jessie, only she has sleek, short black hair and dark eyes. Sisters, for sure. “Jessie, honey, I told you they wouldn’t have any mentholated cigarettes here.”
Jessie sighs a puff of smoke. “Damn.”
Randall’s eyebrows arch skyward. “You stopped for cigarettes?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Jessie says.
He mutters something under his breath that I can’t hear through the window, then strides into the gas station. I hunch lower in my seat and yank my wrists against the handcuffs. Shit. I need to get them off, but I have no idea how.
I glance at my door, which has one of those push-
button locks. Jessie and Isabella still aren’t looking my way—too busy talking to each other—so I twist in my seat, bite the push button, then yank it upright and unlocked. Yes! I twist the other way, so my handcuffed hands can reach the door handle, and grope to get it open. With a loud clunk and rusty squeal of hinges, the door swings open. I tumble onto the ground.
Adrenaline floods my bloodstream. Time to get the hell out of here.
Before those two werebitches can even glance over at me, I’m lurching to my feet and sprinting for the trees, head down, breathing hard. I’m halfway across the highway when I hear a laugh. I don’t look back. Only when my feet hit the pine needles do I risk a glance over my shoulder, ready to fight that black wolf who—