by Karen Kincy
Jessie and Isabella stand by the Texaco. Smoke ribbons drift from their cigarettes.
What the fuck? I keep running, but can’t stop looking at them. A root catches my foot. I stumble and hit the dirt. Air knocked from my lungs, I cough, spitting pine needles. I try to get up but fall again, bruising my ribs. When I look back at the Texaco, both of the werebitches are gone. Shit. They were waiting for me to fall.
“Pity Winema won’t let us kill him,” Jessie says, her voice much closer now.
Isabella laughs. “You’re going to scare that poor bloodborn shitless.”
I roll onto my side and stare at the trees. Pine branches wave gently in the breeze, masking the monsters behind them. Cigarette smoke prickles my nose. I wriggle on the dirt, trying to haul my ass up, as helpless as a worm.
Jessie runs between the trees, her eyes glowing. She sighs a cloud of smoke, then flicks her cigarette butt onto the ground and grinds it beneath her sandaled foot. Her toenails have sharpened into black claws.
“Bloodborn,” she says, “you were safer with your sire.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl.
Isabella appears from the shadows, her hair less sleek and more like a pelt now. “Randall. He’s your sire. You have a lot to learn, honey.”
Jessie curls her lip. “Learn? We sure as hell need to teach him a thing or two.”
“You’re going to regret that, bitch,” I say, still trying to get on my feet.
Isabella laughs. “Silly thing. Play nice, bloodborn, and we might help you.”
“My name is Brock.”
Jessie paces around me, her eyes burning, her fingers tipped with claws. “Brock.” She spits the word. “You shouldn’t even be alive.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“We don’t have to help him,” Jessie says, flashing a glance at the other woman. “We can just tell Winema he got lost, and—”
“And?” Isabella narrows her eyes. “We were all bloodborn, in the beginning.”
Jessie growls, her arms and legs shadowed by the start of a pelt. “But not this stupid.”
My heartbeat thuds inside my ears. This is going to be two werewolves against one human who was never very badass to begin with. Oh yeah, and I still have no fucking clue how to get these handcuffs off.
“Really, honey,” drawls Isabella. “We all remember the time you tore up that trucker. Lord, that was a lot of blood.”
“That was different,” Jessie says. “He was—”
“Isabella! Jessie!” Randall jogs into the clearing. “What the—”
“Your dog got lost.” Jessie’s lips thin into a smile.
Now that Randall’s back, at least I don’t have to face the werebitches alone. Even if he is giving me the kind of glare that can melt steel.
“Get the hell out of here,” he says. “The cops are right on our tail.”
Jessie rolls her yellow eyes. “They’re always right on our tail.”
“Grady reported a patrol car less than ten minutes away.”
That wilts the smirk on Jessie’s face. “Shit,” she whispers.
The two women sprint toward the Texaco, amazingly fast in their high heels. Randall grabs my leash and yanks me to my knees. The collar tightens, choking me, and I gasp, staggering to my feet to stop the pressure.
“Where’s Cyn?” I rasp.
“Safer than we are right now. Move!”
By the time we make it back to the truck, it’s too late. A state patrol cruiser idles outside the Texaco, and I can see someone talking to the clerk inside. Randall swears under his breath and shoves me into the truck, shutting the door so that it doesn’t slam. He glances at Isabella and Jessie. Both women stand taut and ready to run.
“We’ll take care of him,” Isabella murmurs.
Jessie rummages in a tiny purse and flips open a compact mirror to check her makeup. She slides a fresh stain of blood-red lipstick over her lips. Isabella smoothes her hair, and I can see her face hardening into a calm mask.
“You sure … ?” Randall says.
Isabella nods. “Take the bloodborn and get out of here.”
Randall walks back to the truck and opens the door, just as the cop exits the Texaco. It isn’t Sheriff Royle or Deputy Collins—it isn’t even a him. Isabella and Jessie share a glance, and I can see the oh, shit pass between them.
I almost laugh. No way in hell are they going to flirt their way out of this one.
The state patrol officer—a middle-aged, iron-haired lady—zeros in on Randall. I’ll bet he’s got the longest criminal record of all three werewolves. She starts advancing on him, but Isabella flutters into her path like a butterfly.
“Excuse me, ma’am!” Isabella says. “You’re just the person I was looking for.”
Jessie smiles shyly. “We’re a little bit lost, officer.”
Distracted, the officer’s stare moves away from Randall. “I’m sorry?”
Now’s my chance. “Hey!” I shout. “Police lady!”
The officer glances at me. Can’t she see the dog collar around my neck? Or does she think it’s some sort of punk thing?
“Don’t mind him,” Isabella says. “He’s a little … disabled. Mentally.”
Hands cuffed behind my back, I lurch against the window. “Fuck!”
“Tourette’s,” Jessie says.
Randall strolls around to the driver’s side of the truck, his steps carefully casual. He climbs in, shuts the door, and buckles up.
Barely moving his lips, he murmurs, “If you fuck this up, you’re as good as dead.”
The officer glances at me again, flips out a notepad, and scribbles something. “All right. You said you were lost?”
Isabella purses her lips. “We’re trying to find our way to—what was it called, again?”
“Wallace Falls?” Jessie says.
“Wallace Falls.” The officer’s forehead creases. She flips out a notepad from her shirt pocket. “Your names, please?”
“My name’s June,” Isabella says, “and this is my sister, Eve.”
“Last names?”
“Montgomery. With two O’s. Officer … what was your name?”
Randall twists the key in the ignition. The truck sputters but doesn’t start. He keeps glancing at the officer without moving his head. I hunker in my seat, my armpits wet with sweat. Think. There has to be some way to escape.
“I’m Officer Downing,” says the cop. “Have you seen anything unusual in the area?”
“Unusual?” Jessie’s eyes round, oh so innocent. “What do you mean?”
Randall twists the key again. The engine hiccups, then rumbles to life. He shifts into drive and pulls away from the pump. Officer Downing takes a step toward us, looking right between Isabella and Jessie, but they block her way. Randall pulls onto the highway and revs up to cruising speed.
No shouts. No flashing lights. The patrol officer lets us go.
Aren’t the werewolves fugitives wanted for attempted murder, mauling, firearms violations, and a shitload of other crimes?
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I don’t fucking believe it.”
Randall grins at me, his teeth too sharp. “This answer your question about how we’ve been able to stay alive for so long?”
“What about our plates?”
“Plates?”
“Our license plates. Don’t they have them on record?”
“We change them every few states or so. Isn’t easy, but Winema knows some faeries who can glamour them to look different.”
I shake my head. “Haven’t the police caught on?”
“Faeries won’t talk.”
I heave a growling sigh, my body trembling as the tightness in my muscles relaxes.
“For future reference,” Randall says, “if you try to pull ano
ther stunt like you did back there, I’m not going to save your ass from Jessie.”
“I don’t need it.”
His eyes go cold. “She would’ve killed you weeks ago if you weren’t my bloodborn.”
“Your bloodborn?” I grimace. “That makes it sound like we’re related.”
He laughs, a humorless bark. “We are.”
We drive a good ten to twenty miles per hour over the speed limit, depending on how deserted the road is, and cruise out of the Mountain Loop Highway within an hour or so. Spiky pines give way to flat, muddy farmland carpeted with the stubble of old corn. Puddles in the furrows flash silver as we pass, mirroring the clouds above. A string of trumpeter swans hunts for leftover grains, just like in Klikamuks.
Chris is dead.
Randomly, the thought rides in on an unwanted wave of sadness. I take a deep breath and shove it away, but my throat still aches.
“We’re making good time,” Randall says.
“For what?” I mutter.
Randall doesn’t say any more, and I don’t bother asking again. Clouds smother the sun, and then darkness smothers the last bit of light. We zoom through towns: Sultan, Goldbar, Index. Highway signs blur together. I start to wonder whether we’re driving in an endless loop on the same damn roads past the same damn trees. Unless you count being knocked out last night, I haven’t slept in forever. I feel like cement is being pumped into my veins, starting at my fingertips, oozing into my arms and legs, dragging my eyelids down. I bite the inside of my cheek and dig my fingernails into my hands, but it’s so hard to stay awake.
I want to sleep … but I can’t … sleep, can’t … sleep …
My eyelids jerk open when the truck rolls to a stop. Randall yanks the parking break, then hops out. I squint at the glare of the headlights. Is that a picnic table? What the hell? Randall opens my door and I’m dunked in icy air.
“Awake?” he says.
Teeth chattering, I nod. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Get out.”
I step onto numb legs and fall to my knees. “Where the fuck are we?”
“Where we’re sleeping for the night.”
I scrape together the energy to glare at him, then stagger to my feet. It looks like we’re at a campground, if it can even be called that. Just a picnic table on some packed dirt, a fire pit full of leaves, and the sound of rushing water in the distance. No lights anywhere. No sign of life. We’re alone in the black forest.
I frown, my thoughts still slow. “Why didn’t we just pull off on some logging road?”
Randall’s eyes flash gold as he looks at me, and I can’t help flinching. “Not everyone in the pack is tough enough for that.”
What kind of pack is this? Criminals who need the comfort of a picnic table?
I snort, and he yanks the leash on my collar.
“I can tie you to a tree for the night,” he says, “or you can cooperate.”
I swallow, my throat bruised. “Like how?”
He grabs a sack from the back of the truck and tosses it down. “Help me set up this tent before it’s too close to dawn for us to get any sleep.”
“Right … ” I lift my wrists so the handcuffs jingle. “I can’t.”
Randall stares straight at me, his eyes glowing in this really fucking creepy way. Then he grabs my arms and unlocks the handcuffs.
I turn on him, my fists raised. “Seriously?”
He just keeps staring at me.
“You’re seriously going to do something that stupid?” I say.
“What’s stupid,” he says, “would be you trying to run away when you don’t have a goddamn clue where you are.”
“Who says I’m going to run?”
He smiles a thin smile. “What’s really stupid would be you trying to pick a fight when you’re collared and tired, bloodborn.”
I rub the raw skin at my wrists. “Not afraid I’m going to kill you in your sleep?”
Randall turns his back on me and starts unpacking the tent. He tugs out a crumple of fabric, then carries it to the packed dirt. I stamp my feet, trying to get my blood pumping, trying to wake up the anger inside me.
“You going to help?” Randall says, an edge of irritation in his voice.
“Like hell I’m going to help you.”
“Suit yourself. It’s only going to get colder.”
I gnash my teeth. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Pretending like we’re not going to kill each other eventually.”
“Yeah, right.”
I advance on him, my boots thudding on the ground. He doesn’t even look back. I take a deep breath and cock back my fist.
“You know I’m right.” My voice trembles with rage.
“It’s too late for this kind of shit.” Randall fiddles with one of the poles for the tent. “Quit making an ass of yourself, bloodborn.”
I swing my fist. Then—right before my knuckles hit his head—Randall twists, grabs, and sends me flying. I’m flat on my back before I can even react. He grips my shoulders—the claws on his fingers cut through my shirt and prick into my skin—his eyes burning maybe two inches from my own, his breath hot in my face.
He growls, a low rumble that vibrates in my rib cage. “Enough.”
Looking into his eyes fills me with an urge not to look, to stare to the side and whimper. I know that’s the wolf in me. Submissive. But I’m not going to give in. Randall’s claws pierce my skin; hot trickles of blood wet my shirt. He bares his fangs, and my eyelids flinch shut. Finally, he lets go of me and climbs to his feet.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “You can freeze.”
And so he handcuffs me again and collars me to a tree like a disobedient dog.
I thought I knew why Blackjack howled when we locked him outside in his kennel on a cold night, but I didn’t have a goddamn clue. Yeah, I guess he had a fur coat, which made things better, and I’m tied to a tree in the mountains wearing nothing but the clothes I came in. I’m starting to wish I was sharing that tent. Hunched against bark, I shiver violently. My teeth chatter so hard my jaw starts to hurt. I’m long past not being able to feel my fingers or toes. Pretty soon I feel like the rest of my body is carved from a block of ice.
Then, thank God, I drift into sleep.
“ … said he was a tough one, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. But he could definitely benefit from being neutered.”
A raspy laugh, which becomes a cough. “Well, he is bloodborn!”
I crack open my eyelids. Randall and the homeless-looking guy are standing nearby. Gandalf after Vietnam. It’s not quite registering in my sluggish brain that this guy is a werewolf, that inside the grizzled old hobo is a wolf ready to come out.
He’s the one who took Cyn. What did he do to her?
“Winema wants to see you,” the old guy says.
“Sure.” Randall glances at me. “With or without the bloodborn?”
“With.”
Randall sighs.
The old guy laughs again and claps him on the back. “I know how you feel.”
“Thanks, Grady.”
They both advance on me, Grady smoking a cigarette. I set my jaw and stare them down. Grady nudges my shin with the toe of his boot.
Randall looks me over, his face blank. “All right. Get up.”
Yeah, right. I’m hunched with my back against the tree, my muscles cramped and cold, my hands still cuffed behind me.
“Probably a little frostbitten,” Grady says.
“Wasn’t cold enough for that.” To me, Randall says again, “Get up.”
I glare at him. “I can’t.”
He sighs, unties my leash from its knot on the tree, and hauls me upright. “Quit your whining. We’re going to see Winema.”
Grady laughs
again, then hawks some spit on the ground. “Have fun with that.”
nine
Me and Randall follow Grady away from our campsite and up the road. Through the gray willows, a stream rushes with snowmelt. No wonder it was so cold last night. Farther along the road, I see one of those bright yellow gates meant to keep people out when campgrounds close for the season, lying in pieces in the grass.
I wonder if the police even have a clue where we’re at.
We cross the road and start down a steep slope, crunching dead wildflowers beneath our boots. Head hanging, I stumble on numb feet, then look up.
Holy shit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many werewolves in my life.
We’re in a meadow beneath a bowl of milky white sky. Jagged pines encircle us, and a hawk wheels low overhead. I see trucks, campers, and tents scattered in the tall tufted grass, and plumes of smoke. All around, men and women mix with wolves. The beasts stand guard, sniff the air, or just lie on the ground, panting lazily like dogs on a lawn. Ordinary at first glance, but completely unreal. A girl walks toward the stream carrying canteens, followed by two trotting wolf-pups with stubby legs and gray lambswool fur. The scent of mountain air, sweet pines, and woodsmoke sharpens a craving inside me.
“The Bitterroot Pack,” Randall says.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Grady’s cigarette smoke unfurls in my face, and I cough.
Isabella saunters toward us, barefoot. One of the straps on her dress has fallen off her shoulder. There’s blood streaked across her cheekbone.
“You two missed a glorious hunt,” she purrs. “Took down a deer right before dawn.”
Randall gives her sad eyebrows. “You know I was busy.”
“Aw, honey, I’m just teasing.” Isabella smiles. “We’re going to start eating soon.”
Grady steps closer to her and lowers his voice. “I hear that you and Jessie had a run-in with a policewoman you thought was a policeman.”
“At first,” Isabella says. “But we knew how to handle her.”
Randall looks less than amused. “Did you make a clean getaway?”
“Of course.” She touches him on the shoulder. “Come eat.”