Bloodborn

by Karen Kincy

  My stomach twists at how awfully familiar his words sound.

  “This”—Royle raises the cattle prod—“is my kind of gick rights.”

  I shut my eyes.

  “Sir,” Collins says. “I—” A muffled thud.

  My eyes spring open in time to see Randall standing over Collins’s crumpled body with my dad’s shotgun in his hands. The flashlight that Collins dropped lies on the ground, shining crazy, crooked light on the scene.

  “Get your hands off my bloodborn.”

  Royle springs to his feet, the cattle prod held aloft. “Don’t move!”

  Randall shoulders the shotgun. “I don’t think you’re in a position to give orders, you fucked-up piece of worthless shit.”

  “Collins?” Royle calls to his deputy, who doesn’t move. He reaches for his radio.

  “Drop it,” Randall says, his eyes smoldering. “Or you’ll get a pretty obvious obituary.”

  The radio falls from Royle’s hand and clunks on the ground.

  “And the cattle prod.” Randall jerks his head. “Throw it away.”

  Royle looks like he’d rather eat a pile of shit with a spoon, but he tosses the cattle prod into the trees. “You’re all going to be brought to justice.”

  “You call this justice?” Randall’s eyes burn hotter. He nods at me. “Cut that wire.”

  Royle reaches for his back pocket, and Randall lunges about three feet forward, pressing the double-barreled shotgun right between the sheriff’s eyes. A growl rumbles from Randall’s chest, and he trembles with barely restrained rage.

  “I’d love an excuse to be trigger happy,” Randall whispers.

  A croak comes out of Royle’s mouth. He swallows and tries again. “Wire cutters.”

  “Slowly.”

  I’m amazed Royle’s fingers don’t tremble as he fishes a pair of wire cutters out of his pocket. He falls to his knees beside me and starts snipping the barbed wire, yanking it loose. Blood trickles from slashes in my skin.

  As soon as he’s finished, I stagger to my feet. My legs feel wobbly.

  “You all right, Brock?” Randall says.

  I lower my head in a nod, then wonder how he knows it’s me, as a wolf.

  “How far away is the rest of your pack?” Royle says, a dumb, sly look on his face.

  “Nowhere where you’ll ever find them.” Randall looks down the barrel of the shotgun. “Now get.”

  Royle licks his dry lips, his face pale. “You’re a wanted man, Randall Lowell.”

  “And I never want to cross paths with you again.”

  Randall fires the shotgun not two inches from Royle’s head. Amazingly, no shot peppers his face. When Randall racks the shotgun, Royle rises from his cringing crouch and scrabbles away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pissed himself.

  “Brock,” Randall says, watching the sheriff flee into the night. “Let’s go.”

  I trot over to him, my head held low, trembling all over. I must look like a dog who just came back from surgery at the vet.

  “Can you change back yet?” Randall says.

  I shake my head.

  He sighs, then kills Collins’s flashlight and beckons for me to follow.

  Sure enough, the blue pickup idles on the road. Randall opens the door for me and I jump inside, feeling way too big and clumsy. My paws scrabble on the seat and I almost fall onto the pavement, but he helps me in.

  Questions swirl in my head, dulled by the throb of pain, but I still can’t speak.

  Randall releases the brake and rumbles out of Pray, Montana, at more than sixty miles an hour. The truck bumps and creaks over the gravel road. I wince at my aching muscles and curl as best as I can on the bench seat.

  Randall says nothing as he drives south in the thick of the night.

  I want to change back; I’m tired of this. A small whine rises from my chest.

  “You hurt bad?” Randall sounds gruff.

  I shake my head. Despite the pain, the barbed-wire scratches have already closed up, already healing. One of the perks. The thought of Cyn makes me want to howl. No. I don’t want her to see me like this. A wolf.

  “You actually did it.” Randall says more softly.

  Does that mean he doesn’t have to kill me, maybe?

  “I guessed you would be a silver wolf. Jessie owes me fifty bucks.”

  I squint at him. Seriously?

  “I’ll help you to change back,” he says, “in a minute.”

  With a sigh, I rest my muzzle on the dashboard.

  Standing in the darkness, staring down at my huge wolf paws, I feel like a fool.

  “All you have to do is let go,” Randall says, for maybe the tenth time.

  All I really want to do is keel over. I shut my eyes and blow out my breath. Human. I’m hoping and praying for it to work.

  “Brock, no. You’re trying too hard again.”

  I open my eyes to see Randall pacing. He keeps glancing back to the road, like the police could be here any minute. I have to do this fast.

  Maybe I’m broken. Am I hopeless? Am I doomed to fail?

  Get your shit together. If you fail at this, you’re dead meat.

  I suck in air, then blow it out slowly. I’m stronger than this. If the old Brock is beyond repair, then I need to be a new Brock now. Even if it means throwing away everything I used to believe just to survive in this fucked-up world.

  Why? Because I won’t let the nightmares win.

  With a shuddering sigh, I unclench my muscles and feel the fever overtake me. Transformation ripples through my body, a wave through water, and my wolfskin disappears. I crouch, naked, trembling … and human.

  That was it.

  As soon as I stopped cringing, waiting for the pain to hit me, it happened. Painless. Easy.

  Chris, convulsing on the bed. Fur bristling from his skin. A tail wriggling from his spine, claws curving from his fingertips, teeth erupting into fangs, yellow eyes rolling back. His body tearing apart from the inside out. Blood. Silence.

  Was that really how it ended for Chris? Maybe he didn’t die that way. Or didn’t have to.

  “So, bloodborn,” Randall says, trying far too hard to sound happy. “You good?”

  “Shut up.”

  I don’t want him to see the tears on my face. How weak I am.

  Randall’s voice hardens. “What?”

  You bit us. You changed everything. Left Chris in a hospital that stank of sickness and death, withering on a bed while the werewolf disease ate him from the inside out. Left me afraid I would kill myself.

  “Why couldn’t he do it?” I say to the moon. Why did he break instead of bend?

  “Who?”

  I shake my head, staring at the dark. “It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t be dead.”

  Now Randall knows who I mean; I can see it on his face. He crouches before me, but says nothing. What can he possibly say?

  “Why did you have to bite him? Why did we have to be so stupid?” My throat constricts.

  He lowers his head. “A lot of things shouldn’t have happened.”

  I keep crying. There isn’t anything I can do about it. I can’t stop people from being stupid, can’t stop them from dying. All I can do is give my life everything I’ve got, because I could be nothing in an instant.

  And then I’m quiet, and there is nothing else to do.

  I stare at the ground, at myself sitting in the sagebrush. Dirt streaks my skin. It’s very dark out here, for a human.

  “I feel fucking stupid,” I mutter.

  Randall touches my shoulder, gingerly, as if afraid I might bite. “You okay now?”

  “Besides feeling fucking stupid? Yeah.”

  “Come on.” Randall holds out his hand. “Let’s find you some clothes.”

  I mee
t the eyes of the one who bit me, then climb to my feet.

  sixteen

  There’s no time to sleep, but exhaustion drags me down anyway. When I wake, the sun has already risen while Randall drives on.

  We pass pines with branches like gap-toothed combs, the road following the curves of a boulder-dotted jade river. My legs itch to move. I wish I were outside the truck, running alongside. No, I would run away from the road, into the trees, where the air is sweetly cold and plump rabbits and fat deer wait for my teeth …

  I shake my head. Leftover wolfishness.

  “How did you find me?” My voice sounds thick with sleep.

  “Tracked you down. You left a clear trail.” Randall sounds matter-of-fact about it, but he might be too tired for anything else.

  “Well.” I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah.”

  We both carefully avoid looking at each other.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” I say.

  “South,” he says.

  Farther away from home. I think back to my bedroom, the cows, Dad. Mom’s rose garden, wilting, but still hanging on.

  What’s left for me there?

  The red rose … Cyn. A weight settles on my ribs. I failed her. But how was I supposed to know the police are psycho?

  “Why did you run?” Randall says, still not looking at me.

  “To get help for Cyn.”

  He presses his lips into a thin line. “That was a damn stupid thing to do.” His voice softens. “But I know why you did it.”

  I glance at him, a question in my eyes.

  “Remember the murders in Klikamuks?”

  My stomach tightens. “How could I forget?”

  “One of the victims … a dryad … her name was Chloe.” His face remains perfectly still. “I wish I could have known her longer. But I loved her.”

  Killed by Benjamin Arrington, the man I helped. An image of him strangling Cyn blinks into my head, and I blink it away, but a bitter taste lingers on my tongue. I’m beginning to understand how little I knew, back in Klikamuks, when all I thought I was doing was helping a guy run some gicks out of town.

  Gicks like Randall. Like me.

  My jaw clenched, I stare out the side window. I won’t look at him.

  Randall hits the brakes. “Traffic jam.” He growls under his breath. “We’re definitely in Yellowstone now.”

  “Yellowstone?” A flicker of excitement revives me. “Where are the … ?”

  But I don’t see geysers ahead, just a long line of cars, and tourists swaggering around with two-foot-lens cameras. They must be taking pictures of something. Through the spindly pines, there’s a meadow dotted with dark shapes.

  “We’re going to be here for a while.” Randall sighs and kills the engine.

  We both hop out to see what’s going on in the meadow. Peering through the tourists, I realize the dark shapes are distant elk. They clump in a tight herd, their heads high, their antlers thrown back. Scared. But why?

  Randall passes me a pair of binoculars. “Look.”

  A big white wolf slinks through the grass. To its right, a black wolf circles around. They’re sneaking up on an elk with a limp.

  “Normal wolves?” I say.

  Randall gives me a look. “You think?” The glint in his eyes says it all.

  “Damn!” I whistle under my breath. “They’re hunting right in front of all these tourists?”

  “Shhh,” he says.

  Right next to me, a family whispers in what sounds like German, their camera shutters snapping. They have these looks on their faces that say they can’t believe what amazing Nature we have here in America. If they only knew.

  The limping elk’s head swings up, and it stamps its hoof. All the nearby elk freeze.

  Then, the black wolf charges. I track it through my binoculars, watching its paws pound across the ground while all the elk burst into a run at once. No wait, I know that wolf—Jessie. Damn, she’s fast. She doesn’t even waver as the enormous prey animals hurtle around her; she keeps her gaze glued to the limping elk.

  The muscles in my thighs tighten and every instinct in me is hissing, Hunt.

  The limping elk gallops through the grass, struggling to keep up with its herd, but it’s already flagging. Jessie leaps at the elk’s flank and latches on, tearing into its flesh. The elk bucks and kicks, but Jessie jumps away, and the white wolf surges out of the grass and latches onto the elk’s nose. The elk stumbles but doesn’t fall, flinging the white wolf away. Another black wolf—Isabella?—runs and bites the elk’s rump. Blood streams down the elk’s flanks and drips as it runs. It’s going to bleed to death.

  Along the road, the tourists gasp and chatter like this is some sort of fireworks show.

  Jessie catches up to the elk again, and, in an impossible leap, soars onto the elk’s back and latches onto its neck. Her weight drives the elk to a halt, and the other two wolves attack, pinning their prey. Within minutes the elk’s legs fold. As soon as it hits the ground, maybe a dozen other wolves appear from the trees.

  Steaming red blood, everywhere. Delicious and disgusting.

  I can’t even tell if the elk is totally dead before the wolves start feasting. And the scary part is, the wolf in me aches to join them.

  “Shit,” Randall says softly.

  I glance at him, then see what he’s staring at: park rangers exiting their jeep. A guy and a lady park ranger. Pretty soon their binoculars are on the wolf hunt, too. When the lady lowers her binoculars, she frowns and says something I can’t hear.

  Randall grips my arm. “We’ve got to warn Winema.”

  “Isn’t she out there with the rest of them?”

  “Of course not. She can’t.”

  “Can’t? But … ”

  He’s not even listening, just jogging toward the truck. We hop back in and start crawling past the clot of tourists. Randall revs the engine impatiently and a few slow-moving, slug-fat women glare at him as they cross the road.

  Then I see her: Cyn, running headlong toward the rangers. There’s a hard look on her face. She grabs the lady park ranger’s arm, and I can tell by the burning in her eyes that Cyn is seconds away from doing something reckless.

  “God dammit,” I say. “Stop the truck!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Cynthia.” I jab my finger in her direction.

  Before Randall has even hit the brakes, I open my door and jump out. We’re going so slow that I hit the ground walking.

  What the hell is Cyn thinking, running past werewolves with bloody muzzles? Jessie’s going to kill her when she sees. I already know in the pit of my stomach that Cyn’s about to spill the truth to the nearest sympathetic ranger.

  Sure enough, the lady park ranger says, “What’s the matter?”

  And Cyn says, “My name is Cynthia Lopez.”

  My heartbeat stutters. They have to be blaring her name on the radio.

  “Cynthia!” I skid to a stop beside her.

  “Brock?” She looks thrown off balance. “Why are you here? I thought you went to—”

  “No. Not now.” I shake my head, praying she’ll get the message. “We need to leave.”

  “What’s going on here?” says the lady park ranger—Wendelin, her nametag says. She tilts her head to one side. “What did you say your name was again?”

  Has she seen Cyn’s face on a missing persons poster? Or mine?

  “Cynthia Lopez,” Cyn says, her cheeks flushed. “And I escaped the pack.”

  “Pack?” says the guy park ranger. His nametag reads Pratt. “You mean the wolves?”

  Randall walks up behind Cyn and his hands descend on her shoulders—she looks tiny next to him. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”

  “No.” Cyn twists, but can’t free herself. “Those aren’t
ordinary wolves.”

  I can tell by the fear in Randall’s eyes that we’re losing control of the situation. Cyn’s going to blow our cover, if she hasn’t already.

  Is that a good thing? Is this going to work?

  Considering what just happened with Sheriff Royle, I don’t even know anymore.

  Pratt stoops to Cyn’s height, like she’s a little girl. “We very carefully regulate the wolves who travel between Yellowstone’s borders. Each animal is microchipped, and park rangers like us regularly patrol the area. There’s no need to be afraid of werewolves on our land.” He grins, flashing too-bright teeth. “There are none.”

  Cyn’s face twists like she wants to spit on his shiny boots. “Well, there are now.”

  Wendelin, staring at me, tells Pratt, “Those wolves do look unfamiliar. Maybe we should call the paranormal unit.”

  Randall lets go of Cyn and grabs my wrist instead, hard enough that my bones ache.

  I frown at him and twist free, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My nails slide sharply across my skin, and my hand slows, my fingers trailing … claws. Adrenaline jolts my muscles; fangs slide from my teeth.

  Cyn’s face pales. “Shit,” she whispers.

  “Paranormal unit,” Pratt says, still grinning, only this time it looks more like the grimace of a taxidermied animal. “Good idea. I’ll call them.”

  “We’d better go now,” I babble, “so we don’t get in you guys’ way.”

  Randall sidesteps out of the conversation, and I see Winema approaching, her hand cradling her belly. With one look at the park rangers, her expression transforms from curiosity to fear. “Paranormal? What’s going on?”