Praise for Kelley Armstrong
“Armstrong is a talented and evocative writer who knows well how to balance the elements of good, suspenseful fiction, and her stories evoke poignancy, action, humor and suspense.”
The Globe and Mail
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“[A] master of crime thrillers.”
Kirkus
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“Kelley Armstrong is one of the purest storytellers Canada has produced in a long while.”
National Post
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“Armstrong is a talented and original writer whose inventiveness and sense of the bizarre is arresting.”
London Free Press
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“Armstrong’s name is synonymous with great storytelling.”
Suspense Magazine
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“Like Stephen King, who manages an under-the-covers, flashlight-in-face kind of storytelling without sounding ridiculous, Armstrong not only writes interesting page-turners, she has also achieved that unlikely goal, what all writers strive for: a genre of her own.”
The Walrus
Also by Kelley Armstrong
Rockton series
City of the Lost
A Darkness Absolute
This Fallen Prey
Watcher in the Woods
Alone in the Wild
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Standalone Novels
The Masked Truth
Aftermath
Missing
Wherever She Goes
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Completed Series (fantasy)
Otherworld
Darkest Powers
Darkness Rising
Age of Legends
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Completed Series (mystery)
Nadia Stafford
Cainsville
Wolf's Bane
Kelley Armstrong
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission of the Author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Copyright © 2019 by K.L.A. Fricke Inc.
All rights reserved.
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Cover Design by Cover Couture
www.bookcovercouture.com
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Photo (c) Shutterstock/Voraorn Ratanakorn
Photo (c) Shutterstock/Anntuan
Photo (c) Shutterstock/Stephen Moehle
ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-989046-06-7
ISBN-13 (e-book): 978-1-989046-07-4
For Julia
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Wolf’s Curse
The Summoning
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Chapter One
Kate
I’m crouched in a thicket, listening to the drawn-out howl of a wolf, blood calling to blood.
He’s coming for me already? How is that even possible? I only dove into this hiding spot a few minutes ago. Maybe I misheard a dog from a neighboring farm.
I peer through the thick brush. The moon slides from behind a cloud and for a heartbeat, I see forest, acres of empty forest. Then darkness again. I stare into the night as I listen. The smell of spring-damp earth floats past on a sharp breeze. At a soft thump, I freeze, ears straining. Undergrowth crashes as a rabbit darts for cover. Then the forest falls silent again.
Okay, it really was just a neighbor’s—
Another howl slices through the silence, raising every hair on my body. Even as it dies away, I feel it strumming through the air.
Unmistakably wolf.
Unmistakably him.
So stop listening and do something.
I swallow hard and concentrate, fingers digging into dirt. It’s too late. He’ll be here any second and—
Focus. Just focus.
I hunker down and slow my breathing. I might have time. I was careful choosing my spot, climbing through trees and dropping into my thicket so I didn’t leave a trail for him to follow.
Paws thump over hard earth.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus and ignore the fact that those thumps grow louder with each slam of my heart.
He only knows the general direction of where to find me. He’s coming from upwind. He won’t smell me. I still have a chance. He’ll run past, and then I’ll have time.
I just need time.
I flatten onto my stomach, swathed in darkness and shadow. The footfalls slow to the soft pad of sure steps. I stop breathing. He’s walking straight toward my hiding spot, as if I’m doing jumping jacks in the moonlight.
I hold my breath and hold my body too, as still as can be. He’s still upwind and can’t smell me. He doesn’t actually know where—
A pale muzzle pushes into the thicket. Jaws open, sharp teeth behind inch-long fangs. Then eyes appear, a blue as bright as my own. My brother tilts his head, the question as clear as spoken words.
What’s taking you so long, Kate?
I snarl. Logan withdraws with a snort and plunks down to wait. I growl, telling him to move farther away. He lifts his furry ass and transplants it exactly six inches.
Ever since we were kids, we’ve competed to see who can shift faster. The short answer is: Logan. Oh hell, the only answer is: Logan. I swear, he gets faster every year. Tonight, I’d barely undressed before he was in wolf form.
I’d hoped to still Change quickly and then slip out and pretend I’d been just hanging around, waiting. That would work a lot better if he hadn’t somehow known exactly where to find me, strolling over like there was a neon arrow flashing over my thicket.
Damn him.
I grumble for a few moments. Then I resume position, close my eyes and imagine sluicing through the long grass. Feeling the wind cut through my fur. Hearing every tiny creature shriek and scamper out of my path. Listening to the drum roll of my brother’s paws as he races behind me, both of us drunk on exhilaration and adrenaline . . .
My skin ripples. Muscles shift, stretching and bunching as my skin prickles, fur sprouting.
I close my eyes, position my hands and feet and lower my head. When the first jolt of agony hits, it’s as if this has never happened before, and I’m caught off guard, stifling a scream.
This too shall pass.
It’s like getting a tooth drilled. Well, I presume it’s like that because when I get a filling or a booster shot and the doctor says, “This is going to hurt,” I almost laugh. A needle piercing my skin? Try having your entire body ripped apart and put back together twice a month.
What I mean is that the pain, however severe, is temporary. You grit your teeth, tell yourself this too shall pass.
It does. Waves of agony nearly knock me out, and then I’m standing on four legs, panting and shaking, my yellow fur gleaming in the moonlight.
Yes, I’m a yellow wolf. A werewolf’s fur is the same color as our hair, which for me means that if I’m seen, I’ll be mistaken for a dog. Don’t ask me how I know that. All-caps rule number one: DO NOT BE SEEN. But, yeah, it happens, for some more than others, and it’s probably a good thing I’m blessed with golden retriever fur.
When a distant owl shrieks, my ears swivel to follow the sound. Most werewolves have excellent hearing in human form, and even better hearing as wolves. Logan and I hear just as well in both forms. We’re . . . a little different.
There are only a few dozen werewolves in North America and almost all inherited the genes from their dads—it passes through the male line. It can also be transmitted through bites, but the survival rate for that is so low that there are only a few bitten werewolves . . . including both our parents.
So what happens when two bitten werewolves have kids? No one knew. When it comes to werewolves, statistics are nearly nonexistent. The human world doesn’t know about supernaturals, so they’re not exactly conducting studies. We could do it ourselves, but for us, survival is a whole lot more important than note-taking.
Growing up, I only wished for one thing, with every birthday candle, every four-leaf clover, every wishing-well coin. Make me a werewolf. I got my wish at the age of nine, a decade earlier than normal hereditary werewolves. As far as anyone knows, I’m one of two female werewolves in the world—mom being the other. I’m the first female hereditary werewolf ever. That’s cool, but really, all I care about is that I got my wish: I am a werewolf.
When I step out of my thicket, Logan greets me with a welcoming snuffle. Seeing him, I don’t know how anyone can mistake us for dogs. We look like wolves. We retain our human mass, which makes him a huge wolf, ghost white in the darkness, sleek furred and muscular.
As he snuffles me, I twist away and then surprise-pounce, which would work much better with any werewolf who wasn’t my twin. Logan anticipates the pounce and feints out of the way, then twists and leaps at me. I duck and race around him so fast I swear I hear his vertebrae crackle as he spins to keep an eye on me.
Then I launch myself at him. I’m airborne, and he’s diving, hitting the ground in a roll, expecting me to fumble when my target vanishes. But I wasn’t jumping at him—I was jumping over him. With one massive bound, I clear his back, hit the ground and keep running.
It takes Logan a moment to recover from the fake-out. I bear down, my ears flat, muzzle slicing through the wind as the thump-thump of my brother’s paws gallop behind me. Scents whip past. Damp earth and spring bluebells and the tantalizing musk of a distant deer. I don’t slow. We can hunt later. Right now, I want to run, to feel the ground beneath my paws, the wind in my fur, my brother at my back.
The last is as important as the rest. Maybe more important now than ever. When I was little, Logan felt as integral to my life as a limb. Now, at sixteen, we’ve drifted, and I no longer feel whole. Yet whatever our problems, we shed them with our human forms. Out here, the rest of the world falls away and feels as it always has, and I am happy.
Ahead, the forest thickens. That’ll slow me down, but it also adds the challenge of an obstacle course. I leap over a dead tree and weave through thick brush while trying to gauge whether Logan is far enough back for me to hide and pounce.
I slit my eyes and swivel my ears to listen. Logan had to slow down in the forest, and I grin at that. I might have a slight advantage in speed, but I have an even greater one in agility, his recent growth spurt leaving him with a body he can’t quite operate yet. Behind me, there’s a thump and a yelp, as if he cut a corner too sharp and plowed into a tree.
I grin and nimbly swerve behind an outcropping of rock. Ahead, I see the perfect cover—the deadfall of a massive evergreen. I’ll hunker behind it, and when Logan vaults over, I’ll tackle him.
Getting up speed for my own leap, I’m running full out when a whistle sounds, cutting through the quiet evening and sending me skidding to a stop.
The whistle comes again. It’s the Alpha—who also happens to be our mom. If she’s calling us in, something’s happened. Something important enough to interrupt our run.
I throw back my head and howl. There’s a question in that, and Mom returns two quick whistle bursts. No, Stonehaven isn’t on fire or under attack by rogue wolves—she just needs to talk to us.
A sigh ripples behind me, and I twist to toss Logan a sympathetic snort. We exchange a mournful look and separate to Change back.
Chapter Two
Kate
By the time I leave my thicket, Logan is already in human form, waiting for me. We were late getting back from our last day of school, and he’s still wearing his uniform. Mom bought it new this term, and the pant legs already show a half inch of sock while the polo shirt strains over his shoulders and biceps. A year ago, Logan and I could share clothing. Now he could share Dad’s. Not that he does, of course—my brother is decidedly more fashion conscious than our father.
As for me, I inherited Mom’s build, which means I didn’t wear a bra until I was fifteen, and I still need a belt to hold my jeans up because my hips sure as hell aren’t doing the job. I also inherited her height. I’ve nearly caught up to her five-ten, and I’m hoping to pass it.
Strolling across the lawn, I smile when the house comes into view. As the name suggests, Stonehaven is made of stone, a mansion surrounded by acres of forest, the perfect home for werewolves. The Danvers have always lived here, and they’ve always been werewolves. I’m a Danvers by name—Jeremy Danvers having raised Dad after he was bitten as a kid.
The back door clicks, and there’s a canine yip as our dog, Atalanta, comes running. We usually take her on our runs, but she’d been sleeping after a jog with Mom. As she races toward me, I break into a run. Logan bears down, his footsteps thudding.
“Give it up,” I call back. “You might be able to shift faster than me, Lo, but you can’t run faster.”
And, of course, as I say that, I stumble. I recover, but not before Logan yanks on the back of my T-shirt.
“Cheat!” I call.
“Cheating is party A starting a race without informing party B.”
“Blah-blah-blah.”
From the back door, Mom smiles as she leans against the doorframe to watch. She hasn’t failed to notice the growing gulf between Logan and me. I tell myself this too shall pass, but it still hurts. Hurts me. Worries Mom. Yet the gulf isn’t so wide that we can’t still reach over it, racing across the yard like kids again.
Mom wears blue jeans, sneakers and an oversized plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’s tugged her white-blond hair into a high ponytail. From across the yard, she could be mistaken for a teenager. Up close, you’d guess she was in her late thirties. She’s actually fifty-one. Werewolves age slowly. Dad’s six years older, and girls at my school still check him out, which is really gross. A moment later, he appears beside Mom, in his usual outfit: worn jeans, a plain white T-shirt, old sneakers, and a few days of beard scruff.
I skid to a stop, hand reaching to tag the doorframe. “Home!”
“Really, Kate?” Logan says. “How old are we? Five?”
“I wasn’t racing myself there.”
“I was humoring you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good excuse.” I swat his shoulder as he walks past, and he tosses me a very Logan smile, his lips barely moving but his eyes twinkling.
“I’m glad to see you both in good moods,” Mom says as she and Dad back into the house, Atalanta tumbling after them.
I slow and eye her. “Because whatever you have to say is totally going to ruin it?”
“I hope not.”
I slide a look Dad’s way. His expression is studiously neutral.<
br />
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Language, Kate,” Dad says.
I flip him the finger. He only grins. Growing up, I heard those two words a lot from Mom. I wasn’t the only one relieved when she finally stopped bothering. If Mom doesn’t call me on my language, Dad no longer has to watch his. Let’s just say I come by my profanity-propensity honestly.
We head into the study, site of all family conferences. It’s my favorite room in the house. Pretty sure it’s everyone’s favorite—it’s certainly where we usually hang out, despite the number of options, and I think that’s why it is my favorite. It’s where my family will be, and where I want to be, even if I’m just studying on the floor while Mom or Dad or Jeremy reads, not a word exchanged. I’m a werewolf, and this is my Pack, and I like having them around, however seriously uncool that might be.
Speaking of reading, that’s what Jeremy’s doing. Without looking up from his novel, he lifts a hand in greeting. I high-five it. Logan just says, “Hey, Jer.”
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