by Sierra Dean
No, the time for the fight option of fight or flight was over.
Now was the time for running away.
I followed the path at a distance, so it was only vaguely visible, like an oasis I was moving away from. I still planned on finding where the others had been waiting for Anderson because it was my best chance at finding the road out of here. I had no inclination to pick any more fights tonight.
After a few minutes of tense uncertainty—my skull throbbing in pain so bad I could barely see straight—an old plantation mansion came into view. It hadn’t weathered the end of the Civil War quite as well as Callum’s had. The paint was peeling and turning gray, the porch was a mess of broken slats, and a swing dangled from a lone rusted chain. Windows were broken and haphazardly covered with plywood.
It would have looked haunted, if not for all the lights on inside.
A few voices called back and forth to each other, but not in fear or panic. It sounded all the world like a family was getting ready for supper. I stopped in the trees about a hundred yards from the house and stared through one of the windows on the main floor.
The little girl I’d seen in the woods, still clinging to her battered teddy bear, was seated at a dining table, and a five other children were around her, all with blonde or strawberry-blonde hair. A woman sat next to the head of the table, her own hair as red as a sailor’s delight sunset, and she was leading them all in prayer.
What. The. Fuck.
It was like a Norman Rockwell painting as seen through the filtered lens of a doomsday cult.
The more I saw of Timothy Deerling’s carefully constructed world, the less I understood. The children around the table were clearly all related and most likely all belonging to the redheaded woman. Their ages seemed to vary enough that with a year or so between them, she could have mothered them all and still looked as young as she did.
I thought about Timothy’s beautiful pregnant wife kissing him goodbye on the front step of his house before he drove all the way out here to this. This…whatever it was. His other family? The little girl in the woods had talked about her daddy, and though I didn’t have any evidence she meant Deerling, I couldn’t help but notice a remarkable resemblance to Tim in the face of the oldest boy.
I had no idea what I was seeing here. It was too idyllic to process, considering I had almost been gutted less than a quarter mile away from where they were about to eat mashed potatoes and ham.
It would have been a picture postcard of familial bliss, except the woman’s faint smile faded as soon as the prayer was done and none of the children looked happy. They looked thin and wild, their hair and clothes unkempt. Not so cheery after all.
Josie had said Timothy and Shannon moved here five years ago, but some of the kids were much older, ten, twelve years old even. How long had they been out here, and why had the little girl said they would need to move if they were seen?
This was a bonus mystery I had no way to solve right now, but it left me feeling sick with worry about what was going on inside that house.
Moving the knife from one hand to the other, I wiped my sweaty palm against my pants leg. The scent of magnolia wasn’t as dense here. Perhaps I was getting closer to the road out. A girl could only hope.
I gave one final glance to the unhappy family scene in the sad excuse for a mansion and shook my head. Whatever sympathy I had for those people was diminished by the memory of the little girl watching with her dead-eyed, passive interest as I was attacked and dragged off to certain death.
How many others like me had she seen die? Deerling had been killing wolves all over the state since before she was born. Was it a normal part of her daily routine to see people executed? She hadn’t even flinched while I was beaten.
Male chatter echoed down the trail, Anderson’s voice among them now. I’d never be able to forget how he sounded as long as I lived. His scent, masked by the terrible body spray, might have been trickier, but I had smelled his fear.
He couldn’t hide from me.
I was just hoping I could hide from them.
“He’s going to be pissed when he finds out.”
“If we can find her, it won’t matter. We need to find her before she gets back to town.”
Anderson snorted, but when he spoke, his voice was unmistakably nervous. “And what if she does? It won’t matter. No one will believe anything she says.”
The sound of an open-handed slap was unmistakable. One of the other men had struck Anderson hard enough my own cheek burned in response. “You fucking idiot. How could you have told her anything?”
“Y-you weren’t there, man. You d-didn’t see it. She’s not like any of the others. I never seen anything like her before.”
“Are you new? You’ve killed their kind before. Gut and dump, Anderson. When she started talking, you should have slit her damned throat. They do that to slaughterhouse pigs so they won’t squeal. These bitches are the same.”
I clenched my hands, palms itching, and bit down on my lip so hard I thought I might draw blood. The urge to burst out of the trees and claw their eyes out with my bare human hands was so intense I almost tasted it.
It would be bitter, but the sweetness of my revenge was all the sugar I needed.
Whoa, there, crazy face.
I took several deep breaths through my nose and pressed my back to the tree. I’d been crouching long enough my thighs were starting to burn, but I didn’t dare sit in case the leaves beneath me crunched loud enough to draw attention.
Whatever was said or done next, I had to keep my shit together. It didn’t take a genius to realize my new fiery powers were activated by high emotion. Specifically by rage.
One flare-up would show them exactly where I was. It would be impossible to miss a fireball in the woods now that the sun was gone and the sky was the same purple of a fresh bruise.
I breathed as evenly as I could and imagined soothing things. I thought of the way light filtered through leaves in the swamp and turned them to green stained glass. I remembered the smell of Lina’s roast chicken and the way strawberry beer tasted. I tried to conjure an image of Cash’s smile, but got Wilder’s squinty-eyed smirk instead.
It didn’t matter, as long as it worked.
I told myself it was the werewolf in me, recognizing a pack connection, finding comfort in the familiar. My brain was lying to protect itself, and for now I didn’t care.
I pictured his eyes and their stupidly beautiful flecks of green.
The pinpricks in my hands faded away, and I opened my eyes again. I was okay, for now.
“Man, don’t talk to me like it would have been so goddamn easy for you. She’s got a demon in her or something. Could be the damned Devil himself for all I know. But I don’t mind telling you that bitch put the fear of God in me.”
A slow, cold smile crossed my lips.
Good.
“They’ve all got demons in them. That’s what he’s been telling us all this time. You gotta let the demon out. Gotta purify the body. You had one job, and you let that thing get away.”
“We can use one of the other ones.” This from the third man who hadn’t yet said anything. “The one in jail, or the one who hit you. They’d work, right?” He sounded nervous, and I got the feeling he wanted to keep the other men from going for each other’s throats.
“Tim likes the girls more. Says they’re better for it since it was Eve’s mess to begin with. Women always letting sin in.”
Oh, goodie. Not only were they vile werewolf haters, they also subscribed to the all women are dirty and responsible for sin school of thought. I loved these guys. If I waited long enough, I bet they’d have some charming things to say about Cash too.
I briefly considered what the man had said.
Tim likes the girls more.
Go figure.
How could these guys not see that their beloved leader was basically Charles Manson with a boner for female werewolves? He was
convincing his followers we were evil and an affront to God. And then he was getting them to kill whatever wolves he could get his hands on.
Ten.
Ten other werewolves.
And he wasn’t content to murder us in private anymore. He had to make the whole world believe we were killers.
The truth was everyone was capable of murder, human and werewolf alike. Timothy was proving that was true of his own people. And he was trying to make people believe it of Hank, who probably had killed people. But I still wasn’t ready to put that girl’s death on him.
Deerling’s people were willing to kill for him, and one of them had been willing to die for him.
It was too messed up to wrap my head around.
We were supposed to be the monsters?
Their voices started moving towards the house, distracted as they fought over alternative sacrifices. I needed to get back to Wilder. We had to collect Hank and get the hell out of Franklinton like now. The means didn’t have to be legal. I’d break Hank out myself if need be.
When the front door of the house closed, I got up. I was on borrowed time. They wanted me, not the others, and they knew I was on foot. Chances were good they had another car around somewhere, and if I didn’t haul ass, it wouldn’t be long before they found me.
I saw a driveway leading away from the house.
With one last overcautious glance at the porch, I ran towards the dirt road. I sprinted full tilt, the hunting knife still clutched in one hand as I pumped my arms and prayed like hell the highway would come before my would-be killers spotted me.
My lungs burned and my brain screamed at me, but I didn’t listen to my body’s protestations. There wasn’t time for weakness, and pain was just the body being weak.
The main highway appeared so suddenly I was out in the middle of it before I even realized I’d arrived. A sedan blared its horn at me and swerved to avoid plowing me over. I heard, “Crazy bitch” howled into the night air, but he didn’t stop.
Cash’s car was gone, not that I expected Wilder to be out here waiting for me, but I hadn’t actually considered another way to get back to Franklinton.
Hitchhiking was out of the question. Deerling had the people in town wrapped around his little finger, and it was too dark for me to be able to see trouble coming.
At least I had my bearings now. I knew which way I had to go to get back.
I hobbled into the ditch, ready to hide in the trees at the slightest indication of headlights.
It was going to be a long walk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Two hours, give or take, was how long it took me to stagger up to the motel. I couldn’t tell for sure without my cell phone. But the sun was setting around eight o’clock most nights, and full night was on us now.
It could have been closer to four hours, but that felt excessive.
I stared at the motel for a good minute before deciding it was worth the risk to see if anyone was home. Cash’s car was parked out front, but his lawyer friend Matt’s was still gone. Our room was dark, but the light in Wilder’s was on.
After limping across the parking lot, I knocked on his door.
Every small sound behind me made me look over my shoulder. I half-expected the door to open and Deerling to be waiting for me on the other side. Escaping hadn’t brought me any relief. If anything, I was ten times more paranoid now that I was back in the so-called civilized world.
Wilder opened the door, cell phone pressed to his ear, and stopped speaking mid-sentence.
He couldn’t have been more stunned to see me if I’d been wearing a Big Bird costume.
“Oh my God.”
“No,” I mumbled. “Just Genie. God doesn’t live in Franklinton anymore.”
He pulled me inside with such force I had to brace myself against one of the double beds to keep from falling. The second my hands touched the soft material of the comforter, I sagged. My whole body gave up. Everything that had kept me on my feet said, Safe now, and I collapsed to my knees on the smelly pile carpeting, dragging half the comforter with me.
I clutched it to my chest and breathed in the now-familiar scent of Wilder, but it wasn’t him I was craving. He wasn’t the reason it gave me relief. The blanket smelled like wolf. It was the closest thing to home I could hold on to.
At some point between entering the room and now, I’d started to cry.
“…She’s here. No, I don’t know. I’ll call you back when I know.” He didn’t wait for a response. He hung up and threw the phone on the small table near the front door, then stooped next to me.
His hands were suddenly everywhere. He was pushing my hair off my shoulders, gently tugging bits of branches and leaves from it, letting them fall to the floor beside me as if I were a deciduous tree at the change of season.
His thumbs grazed my cheeks, brushing away my tears. With each new motion he checked another part of me, tilting my head one way, then the other. Rough fingertips trailed down my throat, and he squeezed my shoulders and tried to take the blanket from me.
I resisted, hugging it closer like I was a child.
“Genie, I need to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m o-okay.”
“Liar.” He tried again to take the comforter, and this time I let him, regretting it the second the material slid free of my hands. A small whimper escaped my lips as the blanket was placed back on the bed.
Wilder checked my arms and peeled my fingers free from the knife. Somehow I’d managed not to shred the comforter or accidentally stab myself when I’d come in. He set the knife on the bed, and his hands moved up and down my arms, turning them over to inspect both the front and back.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, still checking me as he went.
“I’m not hurt.”
He glanced towards the door, and I followed his gaze. Bloody footprints proved I was, indeed, injured. I hadn’t realized it until he drew my attention to the mess I’d made.
“I can clean that up,” I whispered, moving towards it, my brain on autopilot.
He grabbed my arms and held me firmly in place. He didn’t budge an inch, staying perfectly still until I lifted my eyes and met his serious, intense gaze. He was shaking. I could feel the tremors in my elbows.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked again, his voice straining to stay calm.
“M-my feet.” I pointed at my bare toes, which were caked with dirt and blood.
His eyes widened. It was amazing we’d both managed to miss the obvious, but he was probably looking for gunshots or stab wounds. And I’d gotten so used to the pain I’d forgotten how bad running here had messed up my feet.
Without missing a beat he released my arms and scooped me up, holding me close to his chest as he took us both into the bathroom. I didn’t protest. I didn’t have the energy or inclination to stop him, when there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than compassion and comfort. He was giving me both, so why would I tell him not to?
He put me down on the edge of the tub, and I braced my arms on his shoulders to keep from falling backwards. Methodically he got the water running and put a bath mat on the floor, which he kneeled on so he was even height with me.
“Do you think you can help me get your jeans off?” His voice was soft, but the edge of anger I’d heard earlier was still there. His words trembled slightly.
“Why?”
“We need to see how bad it is, and I don’t think you want me to rip them off. I can make sure you don’t need to put your weight on your feet, but it will go faster if you help.”
The way he explained it was so obvious I was amazed he didn’t walk around talking all women out of their pants every day. His point was valid, though. I only had the one pair of jeans. I hadn’t been expecting to stay in Franklinton this long.
I nodded and undid the button on my jeans with shaking fingers. Wilder looked up at the ceiling. He waited until I had the zipper undone then lowered
his gaze back to me. “Put your arms around my neck.”
I did as he asked. Any energy for more questions had vanished. He could have told me to stand on my head and sing the national anthem and I wouldn’t have resisted.
With my arms around him, he hoisted me up again, long enough for him to tug my jeans down over my hips. As he pulled them off, his fingertips lingered, the effort to remove my pants taking longer than it probably needed to. My breath hitched, and I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against his cheek. I felt the warmth of my exhalations on his skin.
We both froze there, his fingers behind my knees. I lifted my face, my lips next to his. He was warm and strong. Everything about this, the smell, the imagined taste of his skin, the way his fingers felt as they dug into my calf, it was all so perfectly right.
And yet, so wrong.
I shuddered. He let go of my knees and tugged the jeans over my feet cautiously. The frozen moment was gone. We were both in motion, remembering what had brought us here in the first place. I winced as he touched my feet, and braced myself against the cold tub.
When my feet hit the water, I growled, an unmistakably animal sound. I tried to recoil, but he touched my calf, stilling me. “I know it hurts. We need to clean it though. If you got anything stuck in your skin, you don’t want to heal with it still inside you.”
I gave a tight nod. He was right, of course, and thank goodness one of us was thinking rationally. Werewolves healed fast, and the damage to my feet was relatively superficial. But my body couldn’t just make rocks and glass vanish. If we didn’t get all the crap out now, it would mean cutting the wounds open later to get the stuff out.
Healing my feet twice in twenty-four hours was not my idea of a good time.
I looped one of my arms around his neck and closed my eyes against the pain as he massaged my feet and went over them with the focus of a doctor. He scoured every inch, top to bottom, up my ankles and down the back of my calf. It was agony. Everything he touched was raw and torn, and healing had already begun in a few places. He had to dig his nails into my skin to pull something free, and I whimpered, letting the tears flow free as he tugged it loose.
