by Karen Kincy
A woman screams, “Don’t let it bite me!” with no way of knowing that I won’t.
I’m the silver wolf now. Randall has made me in his image, and God, I hate it.
Then, as I run, I hear a girl’s trembling voice. Cyn? I veer down a street, paws thundering on the sidewalk, and spot a cop car pulled over beside a familiar sedan. Inside the car, a girl with long, dark hair cries as she speaks. I know her—I saw her in the meadow, that first day I saw the Bitterroot Pack all together.
From the back seat, a baby wails and a puppy howls. A werepuppy.
I slow to a trot and hide in the shadows.
Royle. The sight of him loosens a growl inside me, but I swallow it back.
“I won’t ask you again,” he says. “Step out of the car.”
“I can’t,” the girl says, her teeth bared, her voice ragged. Her fear sharpens into anger, and she sounds so much like Cyn it hurts. “I can’t leave them.”
Royle levels his gun at her face. “Open the door or I’ll end things now.”
The girl wipes her eyes and unlocks the door. Royle wrenches it open, hauls her out of the car, and forces her to the pavement. In the back seat, the werepuppy starts yipping and snarling. The baby cries so loud it goes hoarse.
“Let me go,” the girl cries. “I haven’t done anything!”
“It’s what you are, gick, not what you’ve done.”
I can’t fucking believe this. I’m going to rip a hole in this bastard. Police brutality won’t even come close to what I’m about to do.
Fangs bared, fur bristling, I step from the shadows.
twenty
“Stop!” A voice rings out over the sound of approaching sirens.
A woman in a white dress appears from the night like a ghost. She solidifies into the shape of Winema, her shoulders squared, her face steeled for battle. Her hand lingers on her belly, though, and her eyes betray pain.
Royle crouches over the girl, keeping her down, but looks up.
“Let her go,” Winema says, her voice commanding. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
Royle springs to his feet, reaching for his holster. “You, on the other hand … “
Shaking with a barely restrained snarl, I creep toward Royle, the fur along my spine bristling, my teeth itching to bite.
“Let her go,” Winema repeats.
“I should put a bullet in your brain right now and spare myself the paperwork.”
The girl crawls away and grabs the car door to lift herself. A werepuppy scrambles into the front seat and runs to her, licking her tears.
“I can tell you,” Winema says, “that this girl, and these babies, are innocent.”
“Innocent.” Royle shakes his head. “How can a gick be innocent?”
And I would have said the same thing, before.
Winema’s eyes glow yellow. “We are not gicks.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Royle says, his face almost calm with triumph. “You gave us quite the chase, but once we knew you were heading for Denver, we surrounded the area. You and your pack have nowhere to run.”
Winema’s face reveals nothing. “We’re done running.”
Royle laughs, shaking his head. “There’s no hope of talking your way out of this one. No matter how sympathetic the judge is to gick rights.”
“What makes you think we’re going to talk our way out?”
I’m almost into the light now, and Winema sees me, but Royle still doesn’t.
“What did you do with the human girl?” The Sheriff cocks his head. “And her infected boyfriend? They better not be rotting in the woods, because their parents aren’t too far—” His gaze swings to me. “Shit!”
Yeah, shit. I hoped you wouldn’t notice me until I had my teeth in your throat.
Winema curls her lip, her teeth lengthening into fangs. “You aren’t making this easy.”
I growl, a low rumble that shakes my bones.
The werepuppy jumps from the car and sinks its needle-teeth into Royle’s ankle. Royle staggers back, bellowing like a bull. He kicks the werepuppy away, ignoring its yelping, and aims his gun between its eyes.
He’s going to shoot it. Shoot a baby as if it’s nothing more than vermin.
“No!” It tears from Winema’s throat, more snarl than word.
She throws herself at Royle, her face mutating into a wolf’s muzzle. He barely has time to shout before she clamps her jaws on his neck and rips his flesh, silencing him. Royle thuds on the road with a last gurgling breath.
She killed him.
Winema’s wolfish face retreats into that of a woman. She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, then gasps.
“Winema?” the girl says, touching her elbow.
Our Alpha holds her belly in both hands. “I shouldn’t have changed.” Her face twists with pain. “Ah. The baby.”
Oh. This is why I’ve never seen her as a wolf. Oh, no.
A bloodstain spreads on Winema’s skirt. She grits her teeth. “Get Charles.”
“I’ll call him.” The girl snatches a cell phone from her pocket and dials. As the phone rings, she pets the whimpering werepuppy.
Winema leans against the side of the car, straightens, and opens the door. “Shhh.” She scoops up the bawling baby and pats it on the back. “It’s okay. It’s all right.” Slowly, Winema lowers herself onto the car seat.
I don’t know what to do. I am supremely useless.
As if reading my mind, Winema looks at me and says, “Where’s Randall?”
I left him behind. We betrayed each other.
Maybe she can read my mind, because she closes her eyes and tilts her head back. A moan escapes her clenched teeth. Blood—so much blood—soaks her dress, until it looks more red than white.
I run away from death, into the night. I try to remember the musky, mossy smell of Randall, but my mind won’t stop whirling like a broken merry-go-round. We, the whole pack, are nothing more than monsters to them. None of them would look at a werewolf as a person—a person, for crying out loud, not a beast.
Not even the innocent among us are safe.
In the distance, I hear police sirens and a chorus of howls. I wonder if the pack is mourning their dead. I wonder how many are dead. Where are the Zlatroviks, come to save us all from our own destruction?
Ahead, I hear the unmistakable snarls and yips of a dogfight. Though I can see now that they’re not all dogs. A trio of German shepherds are attacking a silver wolf from all sides. Blood drips down his pale fur. Randall. I stand rigid with fury as the dogs gnaw on him, tear him up—I’ve got to figure out how to save him—
Paws thump the pavement behind me. I whirl. Barreling down on me, a brindled pit bull.
Blackjack?
Before I can think, Blackjack slams into the knot of German shepherds and latches onto Randall’s neck. No. This is all wrong. This happened before—it shouldn’t happen again—this is wrong. Randall isn’t supposed to die.
I fling myself into the fight.
I’m at least twice as big as the dogs, and definitely twice as pissed off. A German shepherd turns on me, jaws snapping. I sink my teeth into its shoulder and toss it away, then tear into the hindquarters of another before it has time to react. The third German shepherd gnaws on Randall’s leg while Blackjack holds him down. Randall twists and tears at Blackjack, but the pit bull’s loose skin protects him.
The pair of injured German shepherds gang up on me, then, and bite my legs, my flanks. I’m too pumped full of adrenaline to feel pain, and I shake them off like mosquitoes. The dogs come back for more, panting hard, their muzzles bloodstained. I dodge one dog, bluff an attack, then bite the other in the neck. It yelps and staggers back. Blood dribbles down my chin, and I swallow the bitter-iron taste.
Randall’s growls rise into whines. His legs b
uckle beneath him.
I snarl ferociously at the second German shepherd, and it skitters away with its wounded companion. The last German shepherd still chews on Randall’s leg, its teeth scraping his bone. Blackjack’s jaws squeeze his windpipe. I look into the silver wolf’s golden eyes. Inside them, I see his beastly rage and his human fear.
They terrify me.
I launch myself onto the last German shepherd. Jaws wide, I put all my weight behind my teeth in the dog’s neck. Bones crunch, and it slides to the ground, limp. Now, there is only Blackjack. My dog, who I trained to be a monster.
He’s closer to my size, and I know he’s vicious. I know he remembers fighting wolves.
Randall tries to struggle to his feet, but his paws keep slipping in the puddle of his own blood. I have to get Blackjack off him.
The pit bull eyes me as I stalk closer, but he won’t stop strangling Randall. He keeps his jaws locked and shakes his head from side-to-side, his teeth sawing deeper into flesh. Randall moans, low in his throat.
My muscles tremble with tight rage. I won’t let him die.
I fly off the ground and hurl myself at Blackjack. My teeth clamp into his shoulder and slice his skin. Blood ribbons down his leg. I leap and scrabble onto the pit bull’s back, driving him to the ground beneath my weight.
Blackjack growls and twists his head to look at me. In his eyes, I don’t see a trace of the dog me and Chris raised from puppyhood. I see only bloodlust.
I can’t let you live.
While Randall wheezes for breath and Blackjack’s jaws keep crushing, I bite the pit bull’s neck and clamp down. He still won’t let go, even when I drive my fangs deeper and feel hot blood pouring into my mouth. He keeps growling, even when I jerk my head savagely, tearing his neck apart. Then, finally, he lets go, and his growling fades. I retreat from Blackjack and watch his eyes cloud and become unseeing.
I’m sorry, boy. I’m so sorry I did this to you.
On the ground beside me, Randall staggers to his feet. He’s bleeding hard, his fur matted and soaked. His head sways, held low.
I nudge him with my nose. Are you okay?
Randall swings his head toward me, the fire in his eyes going out.
Come on. You’ve got to heal yourself.
“No!”
A man’s voice—I know him—but it can’t be …
A dark figure runs toward us, his face so white and twisted I almost don’t recognize him at first, but I don’t want to recognize him, don’t want him to see me like this.
He stops on the edge of the sidewalk. He carries a rifle, with the barrel pointed at me.
Dad, no. It’s me, Brock.
I step closer to him and wag my tail, a whine escaping. Dad looks between my bloody face and Blackjack’s ruined body.
“You killed my dog.” His voice sounds hoarse. “You gick bastards.”
But I had to, Dad. I try to tell him with my eyes. Randall growls softly behind me.
Dad’s shoulders stiffen. “Oh, Jesus … I know you … ”
Why did I think he would have forgotten the silver wolf? I was the one who told him who that wolf was.
Randall starts to run, but he’s limping badly. And Dad’s already aiming. He sights down the barrel of the rifle and fires.
No!
The one who bit me, the one who made me—Randall—collapses on the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut.
Dad turns to me now, his rifle ready. I’m going to die, aren’t I?
I whimper again, pleading with my eyes, trying to show him that Brock the Human still lives inside Brock the Beast.
Dad hesitates.
And I wrench myself from wolf to human form. My skeleton reshapes in a red-hot agony, my fur melts away from me and bares my skin. I kneel before him, naked and defenseless, then raise my head to meet his eyes.
“Oh, God.” Dad recoils, lowering his rifle. “No.”
“Dad.” I stagger to my feet as if unused to human legs. “Dad, it’s me.”
“What did they do to you?”
“I … I changed. I’m a werewolf.”
“Oh, God, no.” Dad’s voice quavers now. “I didn’t think … what did they do to you?”
“Nothing. They treated me all right. They—” I glance back.
But Randall is gone. A bloody trail of footprints disappears into the alley. He’s dragged himself away to die.
I’m never going to see him again.
“Jesus.” I’m shaking now. “Dad, you shouldn’t have done that. He was good to me.”
“He bit you.”
“He had to! It had to happen that way!” I realize I’m screaming and struggle to control myself. “Dad. You didn’t have to kill him.”
Dad looks horrified. “He killed Chris.”
“I know, but—”
“There is no but. Have they warped your mind? Made you think that they’re not so bad?”
“Dad, no—”
“A gick is a gick.”
I swallow hard. “Are you going to shoot me now?”
His face hardens. “I followed the police here to rescue you, or put you out of your misery. Whichever I had to do. And now … ”
“You think I’m a beast,” I say. “You think I’m not the same Brock at all.”
But I know that to be the truth, when I look down at my bloody hands and Blackjack lying dead at my feet. And it breaks my heart.
I speak barely above a whisper. “Do it.”
Dad raises the rifle. His eyes glitter. “Are you asking me to?”
“You don’t want a gick for a son. You would rather see both of your sons dead and buried than see them become werewolves.”
Dad says nothing.
“If you’re going to do it,” I say, amazed how level my voice sounds, “you can’t touch the werepuppies. Okay? They still have a chance.”
“Werepuppies?” Dad squints at me. “You mean these curs have pups?”
And I know he will never see Others as anything more than gicks.
“Yes.” I stare him down the way I never could before. “And I won’t let you hurt them.”
Dad lowers his gaze, and it wavers over the bloodstains on the road. He doesn’t seem to know what to say or do after his hate has weakened.
“If you’re going to kill me,” I say, “do it now.”
He won’t look at me.
“Do it!” I advance on him until the metal of the rifle barrel presses into my chest. My voice cracks. “For Christ’s sake, do it.”
“Brock, no.” Dad’s face crumples. “Brock.”
He withdraws from me, but I keep walking. Fear sharpens his eyes, and my throat constricts. Does he think I would kill him? I stop following him. Finally, he lowers the rifle. We stand so close I can feel his breath.
“Dad?”
I wonder if he will hug me now, and admit he’s crying. But he still won’t touch me.
“The past five days,” he says, “we thought you were dead.”
It took less than a week to change everything.
I speak, barely above a whisper. “Did you hope I was?”
“Brock, no.” Dad’s voice sounds gravelly. “First Chris, then you—” He looks away from me and runs his hands over his face.
I swallow hard. “I missed his funeral, right?”
Dad shakes his head. “Not yet. We had him cremated.”
“Can I come?”
Then I will know it’s real. The realness will beat my nightmares.
Dad nods, his chin trembling, and he looks so old and weak it tears me up inside.
“Before we go,” I say, “we need to tell the police about Cyn. They drugged her with faerie wine, to wipe her memory, and—”
“The police already know where the pack is,” Dad says.
“Cyn should be safe soon.”
“We need to make sure. I can’t abandon her.”
“Brock, you talking to the police right now isn’t a smart move.”
I clench my jaw. “Then let’s go back and get her ourselves.”
Dad sighs, but nods.
I follow him to a pickup in an abandoned parking lot. For a heartbeat I think it’s Randall’s, but no, of course it isn’t baby blue. It’s Dad’s pickup from the dairy. He opens the door, tosses me a pair of jeans, then climbs into the driver’s seat. I pull on the jeans, grateful to not be naked any longer, and climb in after him.
We drive to Rex’s Steakhouse. Outside, the lights of an ambulance and cop cars swirl in the blackness of the night. I jump out of the truck and run to the back door, but Cliff Sterling is already there, talking to a cop.
“One of my patrons discovered her in the alley,” Cliff says, casually smoking a cigarette.
Oh, God. Discovered her dead?
“What did you see?” the cop asks Cliff.
The Zlatrovik Alpha shrugs. “Nothing. I suspect she had too much to drink, that’s all.”
“Okay.” The cop scribbles something down.
“I can only hope she has a better day tomorrow.” Cliff flicks his cigarette into the street. “I have business to attend to, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”
“Not a problem.”
Cliff’s gaze meets mine, and he stares longer than someone would with a stranger. I look away—he might be my future Alpha.
“Brock?” Dad calls. “Come here.”
He’s standing by the ambulance. I run to him, and then I see her. Cyn, lying on a gurney, her face pale and sweaty. She’s wearing an oxygen mask. Relief floods through me—she’s breathing, she’s alive. The ambulance’s doors close before I can talk to the paramedics, but I know this glimpse will have to be enough.
“We can go now,” I tell Dad.
We drive back to Blackjack’s body. Together, we lift him into the back of the pickup. It, not him. It’s hard to think of my dog as an unmoving thing.
