by Karen Kincy
Isabella leads us to a campfire on the bank of the stream. A deer roasts over hot coals on a spit that looks like it came out of medieval times. My stomach pinches at the tantalizing, savory aroma. Winema sits on a nearby cedar stump, gnawing on a haunch of venison, and a hawk-nosed man with long silver hair eats at her feet.
As I watch, the rest of the pack approaches in turn: first the youngest, then the strongest. There must be at least twenty werewolves in this pack. A man with a long knife carves meat straight from the deer. The best parts go first. Finally, Randall drags me toward the deer. I lean in to inhale the smell—Randall cuffs me away.
“You eat last,” he growls.
Of course. I’m on the bottom of the totem pole. Top of the shit list, too.
Randall carves a juicy chunk of meat from the deer’s flank, then sits on a stump to eat it, closing his eyes as he savors the taste. My mouth waters so bad it aches. I swallow hard and stare at the ground, my hands useless behind my back. The strong smoky smell of venison fills my nose, and the crunching noises of eating fill my ears. Jessie strolls toward Randall, her hips swaying. She nuzzles his ear, and he cuts her a sliver of his meat and hands it to her. She licks his cheek and walks away, gnawing on the meat. Disgusting.
Finally, Randall thinks to unlock my handcuffs and toss me some scraps.
I get the gristly bottom of a leg, hoof still attached, but I’m drooling over it anyway; I haven’t eaten in forever. I rip strips of tough-as-jerky meat away with my blunt teeth. Around me, the werewolves in human form have grown fangs. A scrawny werepuppy trots up to me and whimpers, its blue eyes fixed on my meat. I growl at the little cur. It flattens its ears and paws at my ankle, then licks my shoelaces. I snarl, but the werepuppy jumps on me, whining, and tries to snatch my meat. I knock the vermin away.
A swift blow to the head sends me sprawling. Ears ringing, I look up.
Winema stands over me, staring me down. Again I try to meet her gaze, and again I fail. Power steels her eyes. “You will not hurt the children of this pack.” Her voice rumbles like a distant storm. “Is that clear?”
My fingernails bite into the deer leg. “But it tried—”
“Give your food to the child.”
The werepuppy stands between Winema’s ankles and wags its tail hopefully.
Child? You’ve got to be shitting me. It’s just a gick that hasn’t grown up yet.
What I was going to say sticks in my throat. “Didn’t want it anyway,” I mutter, and I toss the deer leg to the werepuppy.
The vermin, the blue-eyed rat, grabs the bone and drags it away in triumph. My stomach growls in complaint, betraying me. I want that meat so bad. And my face burns to realize it. God, I’ve been fighting over scraps like a beast.
Winema lowers her voice. “It will be hard, bloodborn, for you to learn your place.”
I grit my teeth. Learning my place is the furthest thing from my mind.
“It’s a shame your brother wasn’t strong enough.”
Now I look into her dark eyes, trying to figure out where the hell she’s coming from, but I don’t see anything taunting or spiteful. I can’t think about Chris for too long; the longer I do, the stronger the sadness rises inside me.
“Why do you care?” I say, looking away.
“Because all of us—nearly all of us—used to be you. Bloodborn.”
I swallow hard. “I’m not bloodborn. I haven’t turned into a wolf yet, not even after two full moons. I’ve been taking medicine.”
“Delaying the inevitable.”
“Well, fuck it. I’m going to find a cure.”
Winema laughs softly, and I want to strangle her.
“You think this is funny?” My voice sounds tight. “You think I want to be what you are?”
“Do you think all of us wanted to be bitten?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“You should be grateful,” Winema says, “for the second chance we’re giving you.”
Before I can reply, she walks away.
I get off the dirt, my ears scalding. I can feel the pack’s stares prodding the back of my head. The werepuppy lies on the ground, so close I could touch it, slobbering on the deer leg that was supposed to be mine. I’m such a dumbass.
A laugh flies across the meadow. My throat tightens. Cyn?
I jog through the pines, fight through a tangle of brambles, and stumble into the open—and there she is, sitting on the stunted grass, three wolf pups prancing around her. She glances up, laughing, her hair shading her face.
Just like nothing ever happened, and this is a walk in Wilding Park.
When she sees me, her laughter dies in her throat. “Brock!”
“Cynthia.” My heart’s thumping so fast. “Are you okay? Did that werewolf—did he … ?”
“What?” She brushes her bangs from her eyes. “I’m fine. They haven’t done anything.”
A werepuppy spreads its front legs on the ground, wiggling its butt in the air, and yips, just like Blackjack when he wants to play. I stare down at them, my face stony. Another werepuppy marches up to me, a twig in its jaws, and growls at me. I nudge the werepuppy with my boot, and it shakes the twig as if proving its strength. Cyn grabs a battered hedgehog chew toy and tosses it for the werepuppies to maul.
“Don’t let them bite you,” I say. “They can still infect you.”
Her jaw tightens. “Yes, I know. Are you okay, Brock? You look horrible.”
I realize I’m shaking, from sheer nerves and starvation. “What do you think?”
She strides across the distance between us and looks up at me, frowning. Her fingers linger on my neck. “They collared you?”
“Yes. I got tied to a tree last night. By Randall, that piece of—”
“Randall?”
“He’s the one who killed my brother,” I say hoarsely. “He’s the one who bit us.”
Cyn grimaces. “Oh.”
A werepuppy trots up, the stick clamped in his jaws, and whines, his ears quivering. Cyn bites her lip, trying not to laugh.
“I can’t believe you’re playing with them,” I mutter.
She arches her eyebrows. “Honestly, Brock, they’re just babies.”
The werepuppies do move kind of like little kids do, all floppy feet, their big heads bobbing as they run.
“They don’t know any better,” Cyn says. “Besides, you have to admit they’re cute.”
“Cute?” I curl my lip. “That’s like calling baby spiders cute.”
“Baby spiders are cute.”
A werepuppy lifts its leg on my boot and pisses a tiny stream of urine.
“Hey!” I yank my foot away. “You little bastard!”
This time, Cyn does laugh, and I can’t help laughing in return. It fades fast, though, and coldness seeps back into my bones.
“Brock,” she says, serious again, “I’m worried about you.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly.
“I’m worried that you want revenge so bad you’re going to do something crazy.”
I meet her eyes. “I don’t have anything to lose.”
Except you. But I can’t make myself say it out loud.
Cyn glares at me. “You think life is a movie? A video game? That acting cocky is going to get you anywhere except dead?”
Dead. Like Chris.
The muscles in my shoulders and back tighten. I speak through gritted teeth. “Not if I kill them all first.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I shake my head, hunger making the world spin. I fall to my knees and grind my knuckles against my closed eyelids. Got to keep it together.
She kneels before me. “Are you going to kill the werepuppies, too?” she says.
I ignore the sniffling by my ankle, one of the pups checking out my boots. “Why?�
�
“Why not?” Her voice is icy. “They’re going to grow up. They’re already gicks.”
The pup yanks on my bootlaces. I open my eyes and grab the brat by the scruff of his neck. He squirms and whimpers until I put him down. His gray fur shrinks away to reveal pink skin, his stubby limbs reform, and his tail worms away to nothingness. A fat baby sits in the dirt, staring at me with big blue eyes.
My mouth drops. “They can change already?”
“When I said they were babies,” Cyn says, “I wasn’t joking.”
The werepuppy-baby drools and keeps staring at me. He seems confused.
“Fine.” I glare at Cyn. “You win. Now stop playing devil’s advocate.”
She studies my face like she can read answers there, like I’m some sort of multiple-choice test she can ace. I want to grab her shoulders and tell her to stop being so damn cocky—she can’t outthink everyone.
A shrill whistle makes me flinch. I look back and see Randall with his fingers in his mouth. I growl. Do I look like a dog?
“You’d better go,” Cyn says.
And so I do.
“I can’t let you starve.” Randall shoves an opened can into my hands. “Unfortunately.”
I crouch in the grass and sniff the contents of the can. Beef stew. I pour it into my mouth, guzzling the chunks of meat, licking the leftover juices. Randall watches me, his nose wrinkled, his mouth curved in a half-smirk.
“Stuff tastes like shit,” I say. “Only a little bit better than dog food.”
“Hey,” Randall says, “I don’t see any four-course meals lying around. And you’re not going on any hunts until you prove we can trust you.”
Hunts? My eyes glaze over at the thought of wolfing down blood-hot venison …
I blink. Don’t think that way.
Near the campfire, Winema stands on a stump and cups her hands to her mouth. She looses a keening howl that sends lightning down my backbone. All the other werewolves throw their heads skyward and howl in reply—deep baying from the men, high singing from the women, shrill squeaks from the werepuppies.
My heart drums against my rib cage. Human fear? Wolfish excitement?
Winema silences everyone with a slice of her hand. “I have called this pack meeting to discuss our current situation. We all know how serious it is.”
Mutters and nods.
“We are being hounded even more closely by the police, especially Sheriff Royle. He blundered upon our guards at Klikamuks exactly when the bloodborn and his girlfriend went looking for us. This resulted in a standoff.”
Grady marches forward with Cyn, who’s smiling a lot less than she was with the werepuppies. He trots her around like a dog in a show, displaying her to the pack. They look at her with narrowed eyes.
“Unfortunately,” Winema says, “we had to take this girl hostage.”
Jessie strides closer and crosses her arms. “Alpha, if I may speak?”
Winema nods.
“I think,” Jessie says, “that we should use the advantage the bloodborn has given us.”
“Advantage?”
“The girl.” Jessie studies Cyn as if she’s a piece on a chessboard. “I know we didn’t plan on taking any hostages in Klikamuks, but this may prove to be useful. If we make it very clear to the police that she will be harmed if they continue pursuing us, it may buy us some time and a chance to escape. Then we let her go.”
Cyn raises her hand in this classroom-perky way.
“Yes?” Winema says.
“Excuse me,” Cyn says, “but I’m really not the best hostage.”
“Really.” Jessie’s smile doesn’t touch her eyes. “I’m sure it’s important to your family whether you come back alive or dead.”
Cyn thins her lips. “Yes, but how is this going to make you look very good? The media is going eat up this story. ‘Outlaw werewolf pack kidnaps innocent girl from Klikamuks.’ They’re never going to let you go.”
The hawk-nosed man with long silver hair speaks now. “She has a point.”
Winema looks down at him. “What do you suggest instead, Charles?”
“We’re already the villains,” he says. “We’re already going to be running for our lives. Rather than publicizing what we’ve done, we should keep a low profile and try to get rid of the girl as quickly as possible.”
Get rid of? I clench and unclench my fists. I’ve got to get her out of here.
“And then what?” Jessie says. “Sheriff Royle is hell-bent on catching us. If we’re getting rid of anyone, it should be him.”
“We’re not killing anyone,” Winema says, her voice steely. “Not unless we have to.”
Jessie lowers her gaze, but I can see the glint in her eyes.
Isabella touches her sister’s arm, then steps forward. “There is another option.” She speaks quietly, but everyone listens. “We would have to keep the girl for now, so she doesn’t tell the police anything about our plans.”
“Yes?” Winema says.
“There is Cliff Sterling.”
“Cliff?” Jessie says. “But isn’t he the Alpha of the—?”
“I know,” Isabella says. “He may be able to offer us protection.”
Winema doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She stares at the trees and rubs the crease between her eyebrows. “I’ve met Cliff.”
Charles glances at her sharply, like she’s kept this from him. “When?”
“Before he was the Alpha of the Zlatroviks. He may be our only hope.”
Yeah, sure, that’s a great idea. Let’s hunt for the Alpha of the most powerful werewolf pack in America. Zlatroviks don’t fuck around. From what I’ve heard, they make this Bitterroot pack look like little girls playing at a tea party.
“Winema,” Charles says.
“I understand the moral implications,” she says. “And that it may be a long journey.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but he nods.
“And the girl?” Jessie looks at Cyn. “Do we use her to get the police off our tails?”
Winema heaves a sigh. “Much as I’d like not to add kidnapping to our record, I’m afraid it’s already too late. We might as well.”
Cyn frowns, and I can tell she’s biting back a question, or an argument.
“All right.” Winema looks around the Bitterroot Pack. “Let’s go!”
The pack scatters, hurrying to break camp.
Winema and Charles walk past me. I jog after them. “Hey!”
Winema keeps walking, though Charles glances back.
“Hey, Alpha! I’m talking to you.”
Winema waits for me to catch up with her before she speaks. “Yes?”
“What about me?” My face heats, I’m not sure why. “Am I a hostage?”
“No. You are bloodborn.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stop with the cryptic mystical trash.
She walks faster. “You are one of us.”
“Fuck no,” I mutter under my breath.
This earns me a nasty blue-eyed look from Charles. Damn. Good hearing.
“I’m not part of your pack,” I say. Even you know that, you stupid-ass gicks.
Winema swivels and stares at me as if I’m a yipping puppy. “You’ve been bitten. You haven’t changed yet. You’re a danger to this pack, yourself, and your family. We can’t turn you loose on Klikamuks. Is that clear?”
“That’s the stupidest—”
She silences me with a molten glare. “Randall? Get your bloodborn out of here.”
ten
Randall hauls me to the baby-blue pickup. Around us, the pack collapses tents and tosses their stuff into trucks and cars. Isabella and Jessie shut Cyn into their cherry-red convertible, then speed away and leave us coughing in their dust.
“Why the fuck are w
e going to the Zlatroviks?” I ask.
“Don’t swear,” Randall says. “It’s getting annoying.”
“Who’s Cliff Sterling?”
He gives me a sidelong look. “Their Alpha.”
“Well, yeah. But who is he?”
“Badass. One time, in Chicago, he took down about a dozen werewolves in broad daylight and the police just let him walk away. He’s got them all by the balls.”
I narrow my eyes. “So he’s going to pull some strings for you guys?”
Randall snorts. “If only it were that easy.”
“Meaning?”
“Cliff’s favors aren’t free.”
The way he says it sends invisible spiders down my back.
We get into the pickup and pull out of the campground. The rest of the pack trickles from the trees and follows us down a washboard road. Our caravan of fugitives hits the highway, led by a silver sedan driven by Winema. Within twenty minutes, the pack thins along the highway, until me and Randall seem to be alone.
My heartbeat slows to a dull thumping. Maybe today will be less crazy than yesterday.
Fog floats through bristle-brush pines, mixing with sluggish gray clouds. Along the highway, a river winds like a silver snake. I can see bright leaves reflected in the water, all sorts of colors swirled together: pumpkin, butternut squash, rhubarb-cobbler red. My stomach groans. When am I ever going to be not hungry?
“I remember when I was first bloodborn,” Randall says. “Had a fierce appetite.”
I try to sound only kind of interested. “Oh?”
He glances at me, his eyebrows raised, then laughs. “You curious?”
“A little,” I mutter, since it’s easier to be gruff.
“Hmmm.” Randall rakes his fingers through his wild, thick hair. He glances out his window, rolls it down, and rests his arm there. “Well, I was sixteen when it happened. It was Reagan Moore who did it.”
I’m silent for a moment. “He’s your sire or whatever?”
“She’d be your granddam.”
“She?
“Yeah. Her parents gave her one of those ambiguous names.” His eyes look shadowy. “You can usually track bloodlines pretty far back. Especially if they’re pack wolves. Not so easy, though, if a lone wolf bites people.”