by Amy Pennza
He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I can have a two-way conversation with another Telepath. But I can only send to non-Telepaths.”
Before she could respond, movement near the front of the vehicles drew her gaze. The Betas had finished talking and were moving toward the rest of the group.
“Looks like the party’s over,” Remy said.
Her stomach fluttered. One step closer to Vermont.
A wolf from her father’s pack turned and motioned for her to join the group.
She looked at Remy. “I should go. It was nice talking to you.”
He put a hand on her arm. “We don’t have to stop.” His scent swirled around her—a mix of lemon, peppermint, and something she couldn’t quite place…like inhaling a sharp gust of clean, cold air in winter.
“What…” She swallowed. “What do you mean?”
For the first time, the faint amusement in his gaze turned to something else. Now he seemed…intense. His gaze held hers. “We don’t have to stop talking,” he said. “You’re riding with me and Dom through New York.”
Now why did that information do weird things to her belly? She glanced at the waiting wolf and lowered her voice. “People will hear—”
“Not if I talk in your head, chère.”
Her stomach flipped over again as his accent curled around her brain like smoke. That was another thing she knew about Remy Arsenault. The seat of the New York Territory hugged the Quebec border, and the wolves there switched between English and French like another person might change their shirt. Although he sounded as American as apple pie most of the time, every once in a while she caught a hint of an accent in his speech—an occasional rolled R or dropped H that made blunt, ordinary words sexy and exciting.
And heaven help her, but she wanted to hear more of it.
She flicked another glance at her escort. Two more wolves had turned and now watched them, irritation stamped all over their faces. If she didn’t get moving, they’d come to her.
“Don’t worry so much, Sophie.” Remy’s voice drifted through her head like a cool river. His hand on her arm was warm, and his eyes twinkled with mischief.
Dangerous. Talking to him was so very dangerous. At the end of her journey lay a wedding and a lifetime with Asher Benton. Considering the average werewolf lived around one hundred and thirty years, lifetime took on a whole new meaning—even more so because there was no divorce in her species. Once two werewolves completed the mating ritual, their lives were metaphysically chained to each other. Lux catena, the name of the ritual, literally meant “chain of light.” If one mate died, the other quickly followed.
So forging any kind of connection with Remy Arsenault was dangerous, because it couldn’t last.
Her father’s Beta cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled down the line of cars. “Let’s go!”
Her heart sped up. She pulled her arm from Remy’s grasp. “I have to go.”
“So it’s a yes?”
She licked her lips. “I don’t—”
“Just say yes, Sophie.” He smiled. “What’s so dangerous about talking in a car?”
Her breath caught. He’d said he couldn’t read minds…
“Say yes.” The smile still played around his mouth.
Maybe he was right. There was no harm in talking, especially if no one found out. Remy Arsenault was a notorious heartbreaker, but he could never have her heart. Her father had already sold it, along with her freedom. Talking to him was like sneaking a handful of chocolate on a diet—a moment’s indulgence that made no difference in the long run. Why not seize the chance to taste a little sweetness? It might be the only opportunity she got.
“All right,” she said.
His eyes gleamed. “Until later then, Sophie Gregory,” his voice said in her mind. Under her shirt, her nipples tightened. Good grief, what kind of powers did he possess?
One of her father’s wolves broke away from the group and started toward them.
A lifetime of obedience made her gasp and hurry away from Remy. She’d gone a few steps when he called her name.
She spun around. “Yes?”
“No matter what, it’ll be all right.”
2
Sophie woke with a gasp. Cold wind whipped through the forest clearing, ruffling her fur and chasing away the last remnants of her dream. Leaves skittered around her.
She stood and cast a wary glance around the forest. How long had she lingered? The sun was lower in the sky now. Its fading rays played over the forest floor, giving the appearance of movement. Long, dark shadows stretched along the forest floor like skeletal fingers.
Her pulse leaped in her throat. She’d slept too long. With every step, her paws left chemical markers that signaled her whereabouts to others of her kind. She’d done her best to throw them off her scent—splashing through streams whenever she got the chance—but that wouldn’t deter a skilled Tracker.
Just as she tensed, prepared to launch into a burst of speed, a familiar scent teased her nose.
Hot dogs.
The unmistakable smell of grilled meat and hot grease filled her nostrils. Her stomach growled, and saliva filled her mouth. Before she realized it, she’d taken a step toward the smell.
She stopped, and her bag bumped against her chest. When she’d plotted her escape, food had definitely been part of the plan.
Then Asher had started supervising her meals.
So she’d left the house without any provisions. She might have gotten away with sneaking a granola bar or some fruit from the pantry, but the risk had seemed too great. A window of opportunity had opened, and she’d hurtled through it.
At the time, she hadn’t given much thought to her next meal. After all, she was a wolf, wasn’t she? The forest was practically a buffet for someone with fangs and claws. The problem was, she’d never quite managed to conceal her disdain for raw meat.
Check off another box on the Daughter Fail List.
The wind gusted, carrying the scent of hot dogs. Her stomach groaned.
She licked her lips and glanced over her shoulder. The smell was so strong, the food had to be close. If she didn’t eat now, she’d lose her strength—maybe even the ability to Turn. When she’d tried diets in the past, she’d sometimes grown so weak, she barely managed to transition back to her human form, and that was when she wasn’t running for her life. Under current circumstances, she needed every ounce of energy she could muster.
As if adding its two cents, her stomach let out a long, low growl. That’s it. After another quick glance behind her, she followed the scent. Leaves crunched under her paws as she picked her way around the trees. In her mind, her father’s voice scolded. “If you insist on crashing through the forest like an elephant, Sophie, you’ll end up getting shot by some idiot human.”
Despite her Finder abilities, she was a mediocre hunter at best. She could outrun deer all day long, but her lack of grace ensured they always heard her coming. Most werewolves had an instinctive gift for gliding through the forest like a ghost.
Not Sophie.
After she’d spooked prey one too many times, her father had banned her from the pack’s annual hunt.
Best. Day. Ever.
Drawing upon every acting skill she possessed, she’d made a show of looking hurt and slinking off to the house. Then she’d popped popcorn, drizzled it with melted butter, and watched all three Lord of the Rings movies back to back.
After that, she’d become an expert at playing up her clumsiness and overall suckery. If being the World’s Worst Werewolf meant getting out of training drills and deer hunts, she was happy to wear the title.
The smell of hot dogs grew stronger—almost like someone was grilling them outside. She slowed and cocked her ears forward. Had she ventured too close to Lake Champlain? She’d tried to keep her distance from the coast, but the forest around it drew humans from all over. More than once, she’d stumbled across a bike path or hiking trail.
Her wolf’s na
tural aversion to humans tugged at her, urging her to turn back. The human half of her brain was more practical. It had been at least twenty-four hours since her last meal, and the hot dogs were so close she could almost taste them. She crept forward, her senses on full alert.
Between the trees ahead, a small building appeared. She stopped and peered through the branches. Made of white cinder block, the modest structure boasted a single gas pump and a sign that read “Bud’s Bait, Gas, Snacks & Beer.”
Apparently, Bud believed in truth in advertising.
The fact that he sold gas meant the store probably sat on a main road. So much for her effort to steer clear of civilization.
The faint sound of a woman’s voice drifted from the direction of the building. Sophie ducked behind a tree, heart pounding. As the woman continued speaking, her voice took on a familiar pattern.
That wasn’t a person having a conversation—it was a commercial. The voice was muffled, but Sophie caught a few words. Call today…save money on car insurance…
She poked her head back around the tree. As if on cue, an older man in denim overalls left through a side door and walked toward the tree line next to the gas station. Although he kept his back to her, the telltale hunching of his shoulders, followed by the rasp of metal on metal, let her know he’d lit a cigarette.
Hello, Bud.
After a second, the scent of burnt paper and tobacco wafted over her. Bud tilted his head back and blew a stream of smoke into the air. The white cloud formed a halo around his head, which was capped by a surprisingly full mop of iron-gray hair.
How long did it take to smoke a cigarette? She’d never met a wolf who enjoyed nicotine—the odor was too strong to tolerate for long. But the humans she’d observed seemed to take their sweet time about it. Even in the winter, they huddled around doorways in packs, the air around them fogged and hazy. Bud wasn’t going to venture near the gas tank until he was finished.
That meant she had plenty of time to sneak inside and grab a hot dog or two.
At the thought, her stomach rumbled, the sound so loud it seemed to vibrate her ribs.
Bud took another drag of his cigarette. From the building, a new voice—a man this time—touted the benefits of reverse mortgages.
It was now or never. She ducked her head and let the bag slip to the ground, where it plopped in a puff of dirt. Eyes on Bud, she prowled forward. The hot dog scent was so strong, she half expected to see a faint trail of steam leading her like a cartoon character toward the prize.
Her heart thumped frantic beats against her chest as she neared the building. Bud had left the side door cracked, and the shiny silver knob beckoned to her as she slunk over the scrubby grass surrounding the tiny parking lot. The commercials grew louder as she approached. Now, a chatty woman’s voice cheerfully listed all the side effects of a prescription drug.
As she got closer to the building, a road appeared beyond the gas pump. Narrow and covered in gravel, it was little better than a jogging trail. The forest continued beyond it.
She was a few feet from the door when Bud let out a loud, hacking cough. She froze. Don’t turn around…don’t turn around.
He bent and, one hand braced on his knee, gargled saliva in his throat and spat a chunk of phlegm on the ground.
Gross.
Before he could recover, she ducked inside the building.
The inside was as underwhelming as the outside. A tall, battered counter held a cash register and a plastic display of lottery tickets. Beside the main entrance, two long shelves held small white containers with “live worms” scribbled in black sharpie on the side. An ancient-looking popcorn machine flanked the other side of the door.
But that didn’t grab her attention. Her gaze went straight to the cabinets on the far wall, which held a soda fountain and an industrial hot dog roller machine. Half a dozen franks spun in lazy circles, their juices glistening in the late evening sunlight streaming through the dirty glass windows.
Her toenails clicked on the cracked linoleum as she walked to the cabinets, and her stomach rumbled like a volcano. As a werewolf, she was a bit larger than the common gray wolves that populated North America and parts of Europe. Whereas the typical gray wolf tended to weigh between eighty and one hundred pounds, the average werewolf was twice that. Werewolves were also taller than their wild brethren, and it wasn’t unusual for a male were to hit at around a man’s shoulder.
From a distance, most werewolves could pass for a mundane wolf. Up close, no human would mistake a werewolf for anything other than a supernatural creature.
Fortunately, her larger size meant she didn’t have to climb the cabinet to reach the hot dogs. She stretched her neck forward, jaws open, as the first hot dog on the roller spun toward her.
A metallic click made her freeze.
Every wolf knew that sound—was raised to fear it. Behind her, someone had just pulled back the action bar on a shotgun.
Blood whooshed in her ears. Stupid. She’d been so stupid. She was going to die in a dirty gas station in the middle of nowhere because she was an idiot.
And I’ll never see Remy again.
At the thought, her stomach clenched.
“Ain’t never seen a wolf that big,” a gravelly voice muttered behind her. The tone held fear…and what might have been wonder.
Wonder. She could work with that. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned. Bud faced her, a sleek metal shotgun tucked under his arm. The barrel was inches from her face. Ordinarily, not even a bullet could kill her. At this range, though, she didn’t stand a chance. There wasn’t a werewolf on the planet who could regenerate a head.
As she met Bud’s gaze, he sucked in a breath. “Jesus,” he said to himself.
What did he see? Was it her eyes? In human form, they were an ordinary brown. As a wolf, though, they burned an eerie, electric blue—a color no ordinary wolf possessed. She held his gaze. She might not be able to talk, but she could let her human intelligence shine through her eyes.
Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and his mouth trembled. “N-nice wolf.”
What now? He hadn’t fired, which meant he was either reluctant to kill or scared out of his mind. Judging from the dazed look in his eyes, it was the latter. Unfortunately, he could snap out of it at any minute. And even if he didn’t, they couldn’t stand here all day.
Outside, a car door slammed. Bud flicked his gaze to the window behind her. It was quick—a second or two—but it was enough. She leaped, paws extended, and knocked the shotgun from his hands.
He cried out and stumbled backwards, arms flailing as he lost his footing. She brushed past him, burst through the door, and came face to face with a man and a woman in jeans and winter coats.
She skidded to a stop and stared the couple down. They looked young—maybe teenagers. Both wore identical shocked expressions.
The man pulled the woman behind him. “Holy shit,” he said.
From inside the building, Bud moaned.
The woman gripped the man’s sleeve. “Oh my god, it hurt Grandpa Bud.”
Not a couple, then. Probably siblings.
And if Bud was their grandfather, Sophie’s situation had just gone from bad to catastrophic. Her heart lodged in her throat. Werewolf law forbade wolves from exposing themselves to humans. The occasional distant sighting was inevitable and rarely merited disciplinary action. But approaching humans on purpose was a major crime.
Making contact with three humans—all of whom could corroborate each other’s statements—was a death sentence.
“Jesse,” the woman said in a low, urgent voice. “Do something.”
“It’s a freaking wolf, Jen,” he said, his voice just as urgent. “What do you want me to do?” Slowly, like he was afraid to startle Sophie, he lifted an arm in front of her. Then he shuffled backwards, taking her with him. Fear must have affected his common sense, because he moved them closer to the forest instead of their car.
“Jesse?” Bud called from inside the store
. Judging from the brushing sounds and grunts, he was struggling to his feet. “Stay put. I’ve got a gun.”
Sophie’s heart thumped in short, painful bursts. Any second now, Bud could put a bullet in her back. She could make a break for the forest, but that way was wide open, with plenty of opportunities for him to get off several shots before she disappeared into the trees. If she went the other way—past the gas pump and across the road—she’d have more cover.
Jesse’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.
The wind gusted, making the leaves shiver like a thousand rattlesnake tails.
Sophie feinted left, then shot to the right. Drawing on her Gift, she flew across the parking lot and past the gas pump.
The road reared up.
Her paws hit gravel. The forest beckoned.
A horn sounded, its warning long and shrill. Tires squealed. Headlights flashed.
The truck clipped her hindquarters, flinging her through the air.
Coherent thought fled, save for one word, and it rocketed through her head in a single, powerful burst.
REMY!
Then blackness.
3
Tonight was going to be the death of him.
The club was packed, the large dance floor practically seething with bodies. The Notorious B.I.G.’s “Hypnotize” pumped a low, insistent bass from massive speakers bolted to a catwalk high overhead. From his vantage point on the balcony, Remy Arsenault kept an eagle eye on his cousin Lizette and her best friend, Haley.
A man in black suit pants and a white dress shirt approached them from behind as they stood at the bar. Just before he reached them, he took a nice, long look at Lizette’s ass. She must have scented him because she turned, making her elbow-length dark hair swing in an arc. The man smiled, displaying artificially bleached teeth, and lifted his beer bottle in a toast.
Douche.
Lizette exchanged an amused look with Haley, then clinked her glass against his. As she pulled her arm back, he let his fingers brush hers.
Yep. Remy was going to die, because Max was going to murder him for letting another male touch his wife.
