by K.N. Lee
She snorted. “I don’t know what I saw.” Expertly, she placed a huge bandage over the wound, the kind a hospital would stock.
Magnus helped himself to more rum, stood, and glanced around. “There’s enough room…”
“Enough room for what?” she asked, her stomach tightening. “Don’t—”
But he was already backing up and stripping. She glanced away as the sound of bones snapping and a low growl echoed in the small space. He was transforming from man to beast.
Once the noises stopped, she risked peeking. He had shifted, and only his eyes remained the same regardless of the rest of his body.
Magnus sat down. She uneasily walked around him and noticed that the bandage remained adhered to the back of his shoulder. He and the wolf…
He really was the wolf.
Werewolves were real.
Wait a second… Didn’t wolves have an incredible sense of smell?
“Change back,” she demanded. She turned around.
The cracking and snapping and popping made her wince, and she waited even after the noises stopped so he could get into her pants again.
“Werewolves attacked you. Can they track you here?” She crossed her arms. “How could you—”
“You’re fine.” This time, he put the gray shirt on. It was super tight on him, outlining every ridge and muscle.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Just trust me.” He winked.
She grimaced, hitting her palm to her forehead. “Sorry. Not buying it. You better start explaining, and faster, too. I don’t have all day.”
Magnus winced and sat back down. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I kinda just butted my way into your life and took over, huh?”
“I said fast.” She pointed a finger at him and rotated it in a circle, signaling for him to get to it.
“I killed the brother of their alpha, and they attacked me.”
“Wait, you’re a killer?” She backed up, inching toward the front door, and her purse, and the gun in her purse.
“My pack never thought I could survive my wounds, so they abandoned me. I was dead weight.” His lips quirked into a sad smile before settling into a smirk. “But I obviously didn’t die. I’ve been on my own for the past year. Fooled them all.”
“Wait.” She rubbed her forehead and backed up another step. “You didn’t want your pack to know you were alive?”
“Well, I did and I didn’t. It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated.” She snorted.
“Maybe.” He grinned roguishly. “So, I’ve been on my own—”
“A wolf without a pack. A lone wolf.”
“You got it.” His grin died. “I hadn’t been near a werewolf until today. And wouldn’t you know it, they were the same pack of the one I killed the alpha’s brother.”
“Is that why they attacked you?”
“Not exactly. I shifted as soon as they saw me. I don’t know if they recognized me or not.”
“Did you…” She gulped. “Did you kill them?”
“No. Your engine alerted them to your presence, so they fled. Another way you saved me.”
Zelda rubbed her throat. “It’s a good thing I can’t afford a hybrid then.”
His laugh was loud and infectious. “A very good thing.”
“Won’t they come after you?”
“If they recognized me, yes.”
“You have to assume they did.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door.
“I’ll go. Don’t worry.” With long strides, he made his way toward the door.
“Going back to your pack?” she asked.
He stilled. It was so odd to not see him moving. Even while sitting at the table, he had been tapping his fingers or his foot.
Slowly, he faced her. “They spoke of my pack before they attacked me. It sounds like… It seems… I may have… My actions might have spurred war between the packs, and…”
“They’re gone?” she asked, horrified. Her hands covered her mouth.
“Possibly.” He straightened, shoulders back. “I’ll be on my way. Don’t you spend one second worrying about me.” Magnus winked.
“Do you need money? Food?” she blurted.
“You’ve done more than enough,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I would like to know your name, though.”
“Why?”
“So I know what name to call out when I dream about you at night.”
Zelda threw back her head and laughed. “Yeah, okay, Romeo.”
He clasped his hands to his chest. “You wound me.”
“You’re already wounded.”
“No name? Fine. I wish you well, Juliet.”
“My name isn’t—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, and she stopped breathing. The man—werewolf—was one of the handsomest men she had ever encountered, but she would not fall for him. She would never see him again. He was dangerous and in danger. She had helped him as much as she could. It was time for them to part ways.
“Thank you,” he said simply. He nodded to her and closed the door behind him.
Why did she miss him already?
Chapter 5
Magnus had done all he could think of to cover his tracks so that the werewolves would not be able to track him back to Juliet, her apartment or her car. After all, he had been able to move in towns and cities before without being detection for months now. Some vinegar, rosemary, and a few other items masked the scent of a werewolf.
Once he was sure that the truck had been de-scented—hoping that Juliet wasn’t looking out her window to see him by her pickup truck—he took off into town. She lived on the outskirts of Philadelphia, which helped, because he was looking for someone to be kind enough to dry his or her clothes outside on a line. It only took him an hour and a half to find some, and he exchanged his borrowed clothes for new ones. He hated to steal, but until he made it back to his stash, he had to have better clothes. One of the downsides of being a werewolf? No pockets and no means to take anything with you once you shifted.
But his stash he had foolish brought into Philadelphia. If there were more Blood Warriors roaming around, he couldn’t risk going back to the city, not with so many humans around.
He gnashed his teeth as he finished buttoning the light green shirt. The khaki pants were tight and hung low on his hips. Magnus hurried away from the house and down the block.
His stomach growled. Shifting required a lot of energy, and after a battle, he was always famished. He needed sustenance, and he should’ve eaten at Juliet’s instead of just imbibing rum.
Juliet. He frowned as he tried to leave the residential area behind for a more commercial area. While he understood why she kept her name from him, it still bothered him that she remained nameless. She was fierce, whoever she was, and he was so grateful to her, for all that she had done.
If he hadn’t seen her in that encounter with the thugs, he wouldn’t have trusted her. He would’ve had to limp away, through the woods, maybe as his wolf, most likely as a man. His clothes had been torn by shifting, so maybe he would’ve covered himself, maybe not. He would’ve been dirty, mostly naked, bleeding… Only one of the bites had been poisoned, but the others had healed slower than they should’ve. Why? He exercised, kept in shape. Sure, his diet wasn’t the best, and he didn’t sleep well. Did werewolves get sick? He wouldn’t have thought so, but, then again, packs were a huge part of werewolf life, and he had been lacking one for a long time now. Was it possible that being pack-less was having an adverse effect on him? Wolves were social creatures, by nature, and lone wolves were cast aside to die.
He hadn’t blamed his pack for abandoning him. It was the way of the werewolf. Hospitals and modern medicine did not work on them. If their body could not heal themselves, they would die.
Already, his body was beginning to shake as chills alternated with bouts of harsh heat. Food and water, those were his main concerns.
Finally, the street gr
ew busier, and he spied restaurant signs ahead. Not that he had money to purchase a meal. He had about twenty-thousand in his stash, as well as multiple IDs. Could he really leave that all behind and start over with nothing?
He had done that already. Why couldn’t he again?
His feet brought him to the front window of a small coffee shop. A woman in her early thirties approached. Her heel clacked against the sidewalk, and her makeup was heavy and thick, aging her, so many she was younger than he originally thought. She paused by the door, staring at him.
“Wanna buy me coffee?” she asked with what she probably thought was a charming smile but looked too leering.
He shrugged and held up his hands. “I forgot my wallet. And I’m more of a scone person myself.”
“You don’t drink coffee?” She sounded so horrified that he fought back a laugh.
“I don’t drink tea either. Or soda. Water or liquor for me.”
The woman just shook her head and went inside. He watched her order but then walked away.
Heels clacked in a rush, and he glanced over his shoulder to see her hurrying to catch up to him. She shoved a small bag at him.
“A scone. Blueberry.”
“Thank you.” He reached to accept the bag.
The woman held it away. “But you have to have this, too.” She handed him a ridiculous drink that looked more like a dessert than a beverage.
“Didn’t you get yourself a drink?”
“It’s waiting for me back on the counter. Everyone likes coffee, even those who don’t think they do. They just have to find the right flavor. Here’s your drink.”
“Ah… thank you?” He accepted the drink, and since she was watching, he swallowed some. It was disgustingly sweet and shockingly cold. “What… What is this?”
“What do you think it is?” She grinned coyly.
Magnus took another sip. “Coconut?”
The woman beamed. “Yes. It’s actually a coconut milk mocha macchiato, extra shot, upside down, no water added, with whipped cream and extra mocha. Oh, and caramel drizzle. Isn’t it just delish? You do like it, right?” she asked breathlessly.
He smiled and shook his head. “Yes.”
“I knew it! Enjoy!” With a wide smile, she waved and clacked her way back inside to retrieve her own coffee.
Magnus could only stomach a few more swallows before he abandoned the drink on a bench a few blocks down and around the corner. The scone, though, was fresh, and he devoured it. Whole blueberries, buttery, flaky… it was one of the best scones he ever ate.
But he was still hungry. And the wound on his back was starting to cause him a great deal of pain, so much pain that his shoulder was starting to twitch involuntarily. Other passersby on the street were beginning to give him strange glances, and he ducked into an alley to try and recover his composure.
Although he had done his best to avoid werewolves, to skip over any town he had caught even a faint whiff of a werewolf, he did not wish to risk being sickly when confronted by a pack. Lone wolves were targets. Lone wolves were looked on as inferior. Lone wolves were viewed as threats.
Just like in the animal kingdom, werewolves thrived in packs, whereas loners were looked down on. Although sometimes lone wolves were stronger than those in a pack, since they were forced to hunt and fend for themselves, but with lone werewolves, that wasn’t always the case.
Not that Magnus knew much about lone werewolves. He had never come across one while in his pack and not after he had been abandoned either.
Was his poor healing ability the result of being without a pack? Was that possible? There wasn’t another explanation he could come up with. He hadn’t been injured like this since the initial attack, so he had nothing to compare the experience, too.
Juliet… was she a loner? He had noticed that she had only a few picture hanging on the walls, and they appeared to be older ones, of her and people he assumed to be family members. She had no roommate. Was she a loner, too?
He shook his head, and suddenly, a migraine descended. The pain was so great that he was forced to close his eyes, and his senses were overwhelmed. He shouldn’t be so fixated on the woman. She was safe now, and he couldn’t risk seeing her again. Although it seemed as if she might have a knack for getting into dangerous situations—given the guys who she pulled the gun on and then the encounter with himself—she seemed more than capable to handle herself and anything life threw at her. Now that was something he admired in a woman.
Honestly, this past year, he hadn’t been thinking about women or anyone other than himself. His every day actions were solely passed on whatever he needed to do to survive. Getting good, money, work… He tended to find foreclosures to squat in, although on a few occasions, he had stayed in homeless shelters. When he did, he did his best to help the regulars there, although that tended to be too depressing for him to linger there long. That not enough people aided the disenfranchised bothered him, but there was only so much he could do.
Granted, that money he had managed to save up from odd-and-end type jobs would have helped a great deal of people. He had been on the move ever since he’d been left behind, doing his best to stay under the radar and heal at first and then to maintain his status in the alive column. His pack had been located in Arizona. Throughout the year, he had traveled through many states and was now in Pennsylvania. His savings were for when he located a state that held no werewolves within it, where he might be able to grow roots and find a place to live and hold steady employment and maybe, just maybe, form friendships, and if he could, maybe a woman.
The Keystone State had been promising, extremely promising. How he had missed the telltale scent of the werewolves—nature, blood, and fur dander—he couldn’t figure out, and trying to reason through it only made his migraine that much worse.
Speaking of that scent… It was hard for him to be certain, with the migraine affecting his senses, but he almost thought he caught a whiff of it.
His eyes opened, and he slid farther into the alley. Although it was early afternoon, little light shone down on him, and he welcomed the shadows.
A woman paused at the front of the alley, and he tensed. The same one from earlier? No, but the shape was familiar. A tall woman with a distinct unevenness to her shoulders.
She stalked toward him, like a lioness stalking her prey, and the fog in his mind from the migraine cleared enough for him to be certain of it—she was a werewolf.
“Chantal?” he whispered in shock.
The werewolf stopped a foot away from him and cocked her head to the side. Her purple hair was every bit as short and spiky as he remembered. “Magnus. What are you doing alive?”
He grimaced. Her tone wasn’t exactly encouraging, although if he had to be found by a member of his old pack, the Nightstar Hunters, he would’ve been happier for just about anyone other than her.
Then again, at least one of them remained alive. Magnus hadn’t been sure if the Blood Warriors had wiped them all out already. Just like with humans, some werewolves craved power and control in all things, and the Blood Warriors were no different. Their pack was more animalistic than most, and it was fairly large in size. Magnus never thought they would come to the East Coast. He hadn’t thought the Nightstar Hunters would either.
As he met Chantal’s hooded gaze, he wondered if he hadn’t made the wrong choice these past few months. Maybe he should’ve licked his wounds, swallowed his pride, and tried to find another pack to join, for safety if for no other reason.
But he hadn’t.
Why?
Mostly because he had been furious that his pack would turn against him. He had been nothing but loyal to them, and that was how he had been repaid. If his own pack could kick him out and not even bother to grant him comfort in what they all had thought were his final days, what made him thought that a new pack, one that would have no sense of loyalty to him and one that he would have no sense of loyalty toward in return, would embrace him? Better to go it alone.
Now he was second-guessing that decision.
“What are you doing alive?” she repeated.
“Sorry. I erased dying from my to-do list.” He shrugged.
Her scowl grew, and she rubbed her higher shoulder. A severe blow to her upper left back left her slanted and a leaning hunchback. Before the injury, she had toppled six feet.
“Leviticus will not be pleased to learn about your being alive,” she snipped.
Magnus snorted. He and the alpha had never been the closest of friends, although he had, at one time, respected the werewolf. Deciding to abandon a man, though, made it hard to maintain that level of respect.
“Leviticus displeases me for still being alive,” Magnus said dryly.
Her eyes widened, and she bared her teeth as if slipping into her wolf mindset. “Are you threatening him?”
“Of course not,” he snapped, “but if you think I’m happy to learn that you’re all around…”
“You have no idea what it’s been like for us. We…” She clamped her lips shut and glanced away, shaking her head, her crooked shoulders trembling.
“I don’t care what it’s been like. Take me to Leviticus,” he demanded.
Chantal gaped at him. She took a step forward, and he could finally see her clearly. Her lips were painted a bright purple that no one else could pull off. Her clothes were stylish, although a little outdated. Magnus only knew about fashion because he had spent a long few months living near a huge clothing company headquarters, and his excellent hearing had overheard way too many executives arguing over fashion and ideas and the industry. He would’ve preferred to live near a brewing company’s headquarters, if given the choice.
“You have no right to demand that. You have no say. You’re dead to us, Magnus. You aren’t a Nightstar Hunter. You should’ve remained dead.”
With that, she whirled around and stalked away.
He’d planned on telling the alpha what he had overheard. He’d planned on getting involved at least to that degree before fleeing, again, because Chantal was right—he wasn’t a Nightstar Hunter. His pack had abandoned him.