by Lola Gabriel
She glanced around her before she crossed the road, and the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood upright. She stopped and narrowed her eyes in an attempt to figure out exactly what was wrong. Her brown eyes darkened for a moment, and her first instinct was to run, but she’d look completely crazy if she simply started running for no reason. A few seconds passed, and as she turned back towards her car, she noticed a man sprinting towards her.
“It’s after me! Run!”
Rayven frowned as she watched the man sprint past her, and the only thing she could think about was that, for an older guy, he sure could run fast. She glanced in the direction he came from and saw that there was no one. Even though there was nothing after him, the terror in the man’s voice had been evident. Maybe he had snorted more than he was used to or taken one pill too many. Although Rayven was desperate to get home and away from the pulsating music that was now embedded in her brain, she was too curious to simply leave it at that. She headed toward the direction the frantic man had been going, but she lost sight of him.
Suddenly, she heard terrifying, bloodcurdling screams coming from a nearby alley, and as she ran towards it, everything went quiet.
Oh, no, she thought to herself.
Rayven ran as fast as she could and stopped when she reached the alley the screams had come from. She walked into the darkness, allowing her vision to quickly adjust to the lack of light, and her eyes widened at what she saw. In the alley lay the man she had seen, motionless, and Rayven felt much less at ease than she wanted to admit.
She stepped closer, and the metallic smell of blood that hung in the air almost caused her to vomit. As a wolf, she had never liked the smell of human blood, especially when it was from a male.
“Sir? Are you okay, sir?” she asked as she approached the man. He had large gashes and scratches on his upper body, and his shirt and jacket were drenched in blood.
When he didn’t respond, Rayven knelt down beside him and checked for a pulse. A sigh escaped her mouth when she found none. She searched his pockets for any form of identification and eventually found his wallet in his pocket.
“Anton Lombardo,” she whispered, looking at his driver’s license. “You poor man.”
Police sirens blared in the distance, and Rayven scrambled to her feet, dropping the wallet on the ground. She noticed the blood on her hands and felt her heart pounding in her chest, as well as the nausea washing over her.
Male blood, she grimaced.
She backed away from the body and took a few deep breaths, feeling more winded than she should be. She had to tell the police exactly what she had seen and what she had heard. The person who did this, if it had even been a person at all, couldn’t have gotten very far. There had to be some kind of evidence that showed who or what might be responsible for killing this innocent man.
Rayven’s blood ran cold in her veins when she realized, too late, what a mistake she had made. Her hands were covered in his blood, and her fingerprints were not only on his body, but all over his wallet. Her chest tightened slightly as she heard footsteps behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Three police officers came into view, all of them pointing their pistols at her.
“Freeze and put your hands in the air!”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said calmly and raised her hands up.
“Step away from the body.”
Rayven did as she was told, and one of the officers shone a flashlight in her direction, blinding her momentarily. She heard the officers scurrying around behind her, but she didn’t say a word. She was too afraid to, which was completely out of character for her.
Rayven’s parents were betas from an old pack in Vermont, and they had been raised to possess absolutely no fear. The pack members were brave, strong, and nearly impossible to control, therefore making them even more dangerous and lethal. With time, however, the pack had disbanded, and the members had gone their separate ways.
Rayven was separated from her father and twin brother, and after her mother was brutally killed in their new home in Texas, Rayven went searching for her family and landed in Silverthorne. She had been in Silverthorne for almost two months, and was staying in a hotel that was costing her too much. Her savings account slowly dwindled during her time in the small Colorado town. After years of following clues to find her family, she ended up in Colorado. She knew she should try to contact them, but she couldn’t muster up the courage to do so. What if she found out they were dead? She would then have to live with the fact that she was all alone in the world. By not calling them, at least she could hold onto the hope that they were still alive.
She still believed that she would one day get justice for her mother, but she wasn’t sure if it’d be possible now. Humans never listened, anyway. They were foolish and weak, fighting with guns instead of with their own hands.
Rayven could transform and get the hell away from these people and the situation she found herself in, but she was not going to risk getting exposed, especially not when she had three pistols aimed at her head.
The moment an officer cuffed her wrists and another officer read her Miranda rights to her, she knew she was in trouble.
“I didn’t do anything. I found him like this!” she argued, but it was all in vain.
“Tell that to the judge,” was their simple reply before they practically dragged her out of the alley and stuffed her into the backseat of the police cruiser.
Riding in the back of a police car was not as fun as Rayven had imagined it would be when she was younger. This was terrifying. Although she knew she was innocent, she also knew how bad it looked. She silently scolded herself for following Anton and walking into that damn alley. Maybe if she had chased after him quicker or reacted better, he might still be alive. A million what-ifs ran through her mind, but the reality was that she was in the back of a police cruiser, handcuffed, and she would surely be sent to prison for murdering an innocent human.
No human is ever innocent, just as no wolf is ever guilty, her mother’s voice drummed through her head, and a tear ran down Rayven’s cheek.
The ride to the police station was short, though it felt like an eternity, and yet it still was not long enough for Rayven to figure out what the hell she was going to do. Was this like the movies where she would be allowed to get one phone call? Did she need a lawyer? She didn’t even know any lawyers. Maybe she could call—
The sound of the door opening interrupted her thoughts, and one of the officers yanked her out of the car. Had he ever heard of taking it easy? Police brutality was a thing, right? Rayven would definitely look into that.
Apparently, the officer wasn’t fazed by her groans, judging by the expression of disdain on his face. Rayven had to admit that he was good-looking, but she needed to focus on the big picture right now, not allow her searing wolf desires to manifest into something she couldn’t control.
Rayven was booked and taken to a room where she had to remove her clothes and be photographed by a female officer. After her clothes were confiscated—they were evidence, it seemed like—she was given state-issued clothing, which was the opposite of what she had been wearing. Although they were relatively comfortable, she was definitely not in the mood to make herself at home in them.
The holding cell she was placed in was small, not that Rayven had expected a luxury suite at a five-star hotel. The bed was narrow and dirty, and she didn’t even want to imagine what kinds of things were lurking between those layers inside the mattress, so instead of sitting on it, she avoided it at all costs.
The attending officer sat down on his chair behind his desk and carried on with his paperwork. Rayven glanced around her, seeing that she was the only person in the holding cells, as Silverthorne was not notorious for its criminal behavior.
“Excuse me?” The officer glanced at her. “Don’t I get a phone call?” she asked, but instead of receiving an answer from the officer, all she got was a cold look and more silence. “I’d like my phone call, please.”
The officer sighed and stood up from his chair. He approached the cell and narrowed his eyes at her. “Forget it, pretty girl.”
“I could snap your neck before you can wipe that smug expression off your face,” Rayven muttered, “but I won’t, because I need to make a call.”
The officer’s face twitched with barely contained rage. “Did you just threaten me?”
Rayven reached out to grab the bars of the cell. “I want my phone call!”
“What’s going on in here?”
A loud and stern voice echoed through the room, belonging to another officer who had just walked inside. The officer Rayven had been arguing with stepped away from the cell.
“Little Miss Psycho Killer wants to make a phone call,” he answered.
The other officer, who clearly was the superior in the room, approached the cell and gave his companion a dismissive nod. The officer did as he was told and left the area.
“Hello, Rayven,” said the superior officer. “I’m Detective Morris.”
Rayven glanced at him and briefly pursed her lips. “I want my phone call.”
“Fine,” Morris said, “but I don’t know who you’re planning on calling. Your mother is dead.”
Rayven’s hands tightened their grip on the bars of her cell. She felt her entire body tense. “How do you know that?” she asked.
Morris stepped closer to the metal bars and whispered, “I know all about you, Rayven.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rayven said, something between panic and anger running through her.
“I know all about you, your mother, your pack,” Morris continued, his voice low, and he placed his hand on the horizontal bar. “What you can do.”
Rayven glanced down, and her eyes widened when she noticed the crescent moon tattoo on his hand.
The crescent moon tattoo was a symbol of an old, exclusive pack from France that dated all the way back to the 18th century: the Crescents. They had traveled to New Orleans and settled down into the lush plantations in the area, where they had been much happier, free from the persecution that had almost led to their extinction. In the middle of the 19th century, another pack had threatened to take over their lands, and the Crescents had slaughtered the invaders and burned their bodies in a pyre. They were not friendly—they were brutal and terrifying, a pack not to mess around with.
Pretending to be unfazed by the tattoo or the idea that he belonged to one of the most dangerous packs in the entire country, if not the world, Rayven looked at him and said, “I want to call my lawyer. You have the wrong person.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Morris told her with a wicked grin, “but okay. You can call your lawyer.” He turned around, his back facing her. “In the morning.”
“It’s already morning!” Rayven yelled angrily, pointing to the window. The faint sunlight attempted to break through the blinds, but it being winter, it stood no change.
Morris looked back at her over his shoulder. “So it is.”
He still walked away from her, as if their last exchange hadn’t happened, and Rayven let out a frustrated groan, pulling herself away from the bars. She would just have to wait until Morris decided she’d had enough.
What seemed like hours later, the detective finally had her cell opened, and he ordered another officer to escort her to the phones.
“Five minutes,” the officer said.
Rayven glanced at the phone and hesitantly lifted the receiver. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying desperately to gather both the courage and the skill to pull off her ability to guess telephone numbers.
It was a very unique ability that left many pack members completely baffled, but it certainly came in handy when she needed it. Of course, this time it was of cardinal importance that she got it right. Hopefully her brother wouldn’t hang up on her before she had a chance to explain herself. He might not believe it was her after being separated for so long.
Rayven punched in the number, allowing her mind to do its magic, and then listened to the phone ringing with bated breath. It rang a few times, her hopes for an answer fading away with every ring. There was a reason Rayven had never dared to do this; she wouldn’t be able to stand hearing an answering machine, much less simply hearing the dial tone echoing on the other side of the line.
She wouldn’t be able to stand the fact that she had called a number whose owner was dead.
The call connected.
“Onyx Stark.”
Rayven exhaled her breath and slightly threw her head back. She hadn’t realized how scared she had been, how hard she had been trying to ignore the voice in her head telling her that her brother was gone, that she was all alone now. She hadn’t realized how hard she had held on to the hope that it was wrong.
“Onyx!” she nearly sobbed. “It’s me, it’s… it’s Rayven!”
It had been such a long time since she had last seen and spoken to her brother that she was afraid that he might not recognize her voice. She was even more afraid that he would be angry at her, that he would refuse to help her.
Onyx didn’t say a word. The line hadn’t gone dead yet, so that meant her brother was still on the other end of the phone. Why wasn’t he speaking? Was he in shock? Was he about to hang up on her? Had Rayven made a mistake in trying to call him?
“Rayven,” he said at last. “I… I’m… so glad to see your ability still works.” Rayven thought she would start crying out of sheer relief. Onyx sounded as incredulously relieved as she felt. “What do you need?” her brother asked her, the one question Rayven had desperately hoped he would ask.
“This is going to sound really bad,” she answered, “but I got arrested, and I need—”
“You got arrested,” he repeated, like he wanted to make sense of the words.
“I didn’t do anything, Onyx! I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The cops saw me somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, and they think I killed someone,” Rayven said.
“Did you?”
“No!” she cried, almost offended that he would think her capable of doing something like that. “You know how I feel about...” Her voice trailed off, and she had to collect herself before she whispered, “blood.” Rayven shivered as she remembered the smell of Anton Lombardo’s blood, and she quickly glanced around her anxiously. “Listen. There’s a detective here who knows about me, who knows about Mom.”
“Wait, what?” Onyx demanded. “What do you mean? Who is it?”
Rayven took another deep breath. “It’s a Crescent.”
Onyx was quiet on the other end of the line, which was one of the reactions Rayven had expected him to have at the revelation. His silence lasted way longer than she had thought it would, however, and she frowned to herself.
“Onyx?” she called him. “Are you there?”
“Where are you?” Onyx asked, his voice strangely calm and controlled.
“Silverstone, Colorado, on Fiddler Street,” she responded.
“Okay, sit tight. I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Thank you, Onyx,” Rayven mumbled. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
“C’mon, Rayven,” Onyx told her, his tone softening. “You’re my sister. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Even after—”
“Especially after.”
Rayven smiled, and she lowered the receiver as soon as Onyx disconnected the call.
“Are you done?” the officer asked her. Rayven gave him a nod in response. The officer grabbed her by the handcuffs and brought her back to her cell, shoving her inside and closing the door behind her. Rayven held out her restrained hands so he could remove the cuffs.
She glanced down at her wrists and frowned at the bruised skin. “You could be a little gentler, you know.”
“Ah, don’t you like it rough?” the officer scoffed.
Rayven narrowed her eyes and watched him walk away from her. She knew she could easily overpower him. She could
easily kick in the door of the cell, snap the arrogant son-of-a-bitch officer’s neck, and escape, vanishing into the mountains, but that would mean exposing herself, and she knew she couldn’t do that.
There were three rules that her mother had taught her when they moved to Texas: never trust anyone; always be home before the moon is at its highest, because nothing good happens after one in the morning; and never, ever expose yourself to the humans.
Rayven sat down on the narrow bed and twiddled her fingers. She had no idea of how Onyx would come through for her, but she was confident he would. All that was left for her to do was wait.
2
Ever since Scout Wylde could remember, he’d had an incredible sense of sight. He could spot a small rabbit from nearly ten miles away without even trying. His older brothers refused to play ‘I spy’ with him because he always won instantly, much to their frustration.
He also had a keen sense of direction, and his mother had always said that he carried the map of the world in the palm of his hand, which was fairly accurate. Not only were his eyes sharp and accurate, but they were also mesmerizing to look at, especially when he looked at someone with the intensity only he seemed to be able to pull off.
Being more than five-hundred years old and the alpha of his pack in Colorado, Scout had not only perfected his abilities; he had managed to grow one of the largest and fiercest packs in the west as well.
After he had separated from his family almost seventy years ago, he had started his own pack, and it had thrived above his wildest expectations. Although Scout craved the company of his brothers, he still recalled why he had left in the first place. His father, Luther Wylde, had been close to hanging up his collar and appointing a new alpha of their pack, but could never seem to make up his mind as to who his successor would be. Naturally, the position would be bestowed onto the eldest son, Cole. Scout, though, felt that he was not deserving of the honor.