Wolf's Bane

by Kelley Armstrong

  She laughs. “You kids today. You’re all so ‘woke.’” She actually air-quotes woke. I try not to gag. I don’t exactly succeed, and she turns to me with “Kate? Are you all right?”

  “Tricia!”

  Footsteps thunder down the corridor. It’s a guy in his early twenties. He doesn’t see us, too intent on his target.

  “Fight,” he pants. “There’s a fight. Outside. We were doing a team-building exercise, and two people started going at it.”

  “Arguing?” she says.

  “No, fighting. Hitting each other. With their fists.”

  “Better than swords,” I murmur under my breath, only Logan hearing and appreciating it with a smile.

  Tricia exhales. “Teenage boys. They’re all testosterone and hormones.”

  “Testosterone is a hor . . .” I begin, and then trail off, shaking my head.

  “It’s not the campers,” the guy says. “Well, one of them’s a camper. Arjun. The other is Jared.”

  The guy starts to explain, something about a trust-building exercise gone awry, which is a total shock because I’d completely trust people I met less than twenty-four hours ago. Tricia waves off the guy’s explanation and begins to follow him. Then she remembers us.

  “Room three up ahead is yours, Logan. You’re with Mason. Kate, you’re in twelve with Holly. Turn around and go all the way to the end.”

  When she’s gone, I look at Logan, hoping he’ll say we can drop off our stuff and meet up to explore. But he just rocks on his heels, as if eager to escape my company. I hate thinking that. It sounds whiny. I feel like whining, though, as if any moment of connection has evaporated.

  “So . . .” I say. “I’ll see you around?”

  He nods and goes before I can add anything. I watch him leave. Then I head back down the hall.

  Ahead, I see an open bedroom door. Inside girls are laughing. I should pop my head in and say hello. Instead, I wonder whether I can sneak back to that abandoned cabin and set up camp there.

  I won’t do that, obviously. Still, I can’t summon the energy to introduce myself. My best bet is to slip out the front doors and see whether there’s another entrance closer to my room.

  I jog to the door, and, distracted, I throw it with full werewolf strength. There’s an oomph and, on the other side, a guy goes flying. I drop my duffel and scramble to help him. As I do, he peers up, his brow furrowing.

  “Kate?” he says. “Kate Danvers?”

  I take a better look at him and . . .

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter Five

  Logan

  I tramp down the hall, duffel bag slung over my shoulder. The door to my room is closed. I knock. No one answers, and I guess that makes sense, since it’s afternoon and everyone will be at the team-building exercise.

  I’m not sorry to have missed that. Kate may be the one vocalizing her objections, but she speaks for both of us. As pack animals, we’re all about team dynamics, yet we know better than anyone that you can’t build “team spirit” with total strangers in an hour. Trust and respect are things you earn.

  My room is pitch dark, not surprising with the complete lack of windows in this ridiculous building. Again, my sister might be the one complaining, but she’s doing it for both of us. This main floor feels like a creepy old basement. It even smells like one, musty and unnatural despite the new construction.

  My night vision helps, and I can make out two twin beds inside. I open the door just enough to spot a light switch. I flick it and—

  “What the fuck?” a voice snarls.

  A guy jumps up from the bed across the room. He’s over six feet tall, with broad shoulders. Pale skin. Wavy black hair. And a scowl that would beat any of Kate’s.

  He’s not wearing a team shirt. That’s the first thing I look for—some hint of his supernatural race. It’s impossible to tell otherwise, and from the way this guy is scowling at me, I’d like to be forewarned before I get hit with a sorcerer’s knock-back spell or an ice half-demon’s touch.

  He rips earbuds from his ears. “Did you hear me, asshole? What are you doing in my room?” He squints at me. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Logan,” I say, extending a hand. “Logan Dan—Logan Michaels,” I amend, as I remember we’re going incognito. Not that it’ll help much. My mother is Elena Michaels. Still, Danvers is the better known werewolf name, the family having been around since the dawn of the American Pack.

  My roommate, thankfully, doesn't figure it out. He just keeps scowling at me.

  “Get the hell out of my room, Logan Michaels,” he says.

  “If your name is Mason, it’s our room. I’m your roommate.”

  “The hell you are. I was promised a room to myself.”

  I toss my bag onto the empty bed. “If they want to move me, I’ll go, but I get the impression my sister and I took the last available spots.”

  “No, you took an unavailable spot. Get the hell out of my room.”

  As my temper sparks, I remind myself this isn’t a true territorial dispute. It’s just a misunderstanding, and if they find me a new room, I will indeed move.

  “This is my assigned bed,” I repeat, as calmly as I can. “I’m here until I’m told otherwise.”

  I begin to unpack my bag, which isn’t really necessary at this moment, but yes, my hackles are up. I’m asserting my claim to this particular patch of territory, discreetly but significantly.

  “Put your shit back,” Mason says. “You aren’t staying.”

  “If I’m not, then I’ll repack. Until then . . .” I drop onto the bed. “I was up at five. I’m going to take a nap.”

  He moves so fast I only see a blur, and my brain blurts, Teleporting half-demon. I roll off the bed and onto my feet, and I’m behind him before he realizes I’ve moved.

  He swings around and snorts, and I have this image of a bull pawing the ground. I might laugh. Well, it’s more of a snicker, which is smaller than a laugh but potentially more insulting.

  Mason pulls himself to his full height and advances until he’s close enough for me to see the vein pulsing in his neck. I look up into his face.

  “Yes?” I say.

  He hesitates at that, obviously accustomed to guys backing down from him. I meet his gaze and wait.

  He steps even closer, heat rolling off him.

  “If you’re trying to intimidate me, don’t bother,” I say. “It won’t go as well as you hope.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A threat is what you’re doing, encroaching on my physical space. A warning is what I issued, suggesting that threatening me is a very bad idea.”

  “Let me guess . . . you know karate,” he says with a sneer.

  “No, I’m not very good at martial arts.”

  “So what is your sport?” He looks me up and down and sneers. “Beach volleyball?”

  “Yes. Now, I’m going to suggest you back off—”

  The guy attacks. Again, it happens so fast I see only a blur. This time, he’s too close for me to dodge. Close enough for me to hit, though. And . . . well . . . catching me off guard means I react on instinct, without holding back. He sails into the opposite wall.

  He doesn’t crumple to the floor. I’ll give him credit for that. He stays on his feet, though he is propped against the wall, doubled over and gasping for breath. I didn’t hit him in the stomach. I know better. It was a hard blow, though.

  He lifts his head. “What the fuck are—?”

  The words are a distraction, and halfway through, he charges. I can tell now that he isn’t teleporting. He’s just really fast, especially for a guy his size. I swing out of the way. He twists and lunges at me, and I can’t back up—I’m against the wall. So I knock him to the floor and pin him there.

  He’s not a half-demon.

  I don’t know what he is, but something in his eyes sends a chill through me. He’s spitting mad, his face contorting, and in that face, I see a fellow predator. Not a werewolf, though. H
is scent would give that away.

  I pin Mason as he thrashes. After a moment, he stops and stares up at me.

  “You’re a werewolf,” he says, almost breathing the words. He struggles up as I back off. “They put me in a room with a fucking werewolf?”

  I manage a laugh. “Of course not. I’m a Ferratus half-demon.” As the name implies, a Ferratus has skin like iron. They aren’t necessarily stronger than humans, but if one hits you, you know it, and that seems like a reasonable explanation.

  “Didn’t you say you’re here with your sister? Daddy Demon must have really liked your mom, knocking her up twice.”

  “We’re twins.”

  “A multiple birth, just like wolves.”

  “Actually no, multiple births aren’t any more common among werewolves than humans because only the father is typically a werewolf.”

  “Typically?” His eyes narrow as he looks at me. “Oh, no. Fuck no. Don’t tell me you’re—”

  “I’m a Ferratus.”

  “Twin teenage werewolves. Multiple birth because double the werewolf blood. You’re Clayton Danvers’s kid.” Mason throws up his hands. “It wasn’t enough to lock me in a room with a fucking werewolf. I have to get the psycho’s kid. This is someone’s idea of a joke, isn’t it? Lock up the freaks together.”

  “Freak?” I frown. “What are you?”

  “Out of here, that’s what I am. Not sticking around to get my throat ripped out in the night.”

  “I’m a Pack wolf. The Alpha’s son. I don’t kill people.”

  His eyes narrow. “So you admit it? You’re his kid?”

  “Her kid. My mom’s Alpha. Dad’s her Beta, which isn’t actually a traditional Pack position, but that’s what he calls himself because it sounds much less scary than ‘Pack enforcer.’”

  “Your dad could call himself Tinkerbell, and he wouldn’t sound any less scary. You think I haven’t heard the stories about him?” Mason grabs a duffel from under his bed and starts filling it. “I think you cracked my rib. Not exactly the way to convince someone you aren’t dangerous.”

  “You came at me. After I warned you. I was quite reasonable about the whole thing.”

  He shakes his head, and I catch a glimmer of something almost like a smile, but it’s clearly an optical illusion because when he looks up again, he’s scowling.

  “You don’t need to leave,” I say. “I’ll talk to the counselors—”

  “The counselors hate my guts already. This is probably their idea of punishment. They think I need an attitude adjustment.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I murmur.

  He finishes packing his stuff and strides out. When he’s gone, I exhale.

  So, apparently, I lasted five minutes before giving away not only what I am but who. Off to a grand start.

  I thump back on the bed and sigh again. When someone taps at the door, I spring up.

  “Kate?” I call, hopefully.

  The door’s half open, and I can see no one’s there. I exhale again, this time in disappointment.

  Then I stop.

  If I want to talk to Kate, I should go find her. It isn’t her responsibility to reach out. It’s just that she always has. Kate has been the alpha in our twin pack. Which doesn’t mean I can’t take the initiative and let her know I’d like to hang out together.

  I head into the empty hall. Tricia said Kate was in room twelve at the far end of the hall. I pass the main entrance and then a partly open door with girls’ voices wafting out. They don’t notice me.

  I continue on to the end, where I find Kate’s door cracked open an inch. I tap on it. No one answers, but I hear a voice inside.

  I rap harder, and the door opens at my knock. Something flashes in the darkness, and a ball of flame flies straight at me.

  Chapter Six

  Kate

  When I was thirteen, I accidentally made out with a sorcerer named Allan Redman. It happened on summer break, as these things usually do. Logan and I had spent a few weeks in Portland with Paige, and we’d hung out with some other supernatural kids. Long story short, I met this thirteen-year-old sorcerer and accidentally made out with him.

  Okay, technically, the making out didn’t happen by accident. I knew what I was doing. A cute guy liked me and wanted to kiss me, and he was really sweet and nice, and I’d never kissed anyone, so he seemed like an excellent place to start. Get past the awkward first-kiss experience with a guy who lived clear across the country. But apparently, if you make out with a thirteen-year-old guy, he presumes it means something. Allan figured this was the start of a long-distance relationship, and while I didn’t exactly run away screaming, I handled it badly, and he really had been a nice guy, and I’ve felt guilty ever since.

  So who did I just knock flying with the door?

  Allan Redman.

  “Kate?” he says as I scramble to help him to his feet.

  “Hey,” I answer with a too-bright smile. “Fancy meeting you here. And by ‘meeting you,’ I mean slamming a door into your face and knocking you flat on your ass. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “Due to the bizarrely impractical lack of a door window?” he says with a slight smile.

  “Exactly. No windows plus a distracted werewolf.” I stop. “Shit. I mean, damn. Er, uh . . .” I look around. and lower my voice “They don’t want anyone to know what Logan and I are.”

  “Ah, so that explains why you don’t have a T-shirt. You lucked out.”

  He makes a face as he waves at his bright yellow Team Sorcerer shirt. The color doesn’t do him any favors. He’s grown up cute. Well, he was always cute, but once you pass thirteen, the next few years put you at the mercy of puberty. He’s coming through it very nicely with an early summer tan, summer green eyes, a lean build and dark blond hair gathered in a ponytail. It’s the tan that really doesn’t go well with the yellow shirt.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’d hate to see what color they’d use for werewolves. Blood red, probably. Anyway, you already know what Logan and I are so . . .”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thanks.” I transfer my duffel to the other shoulder. “I should, uh, probably take this to my room. It was good seeing you. It’ll be cool having someone here. And I’m sorry . . .”

  Sorry for being a total bitch three years ago. That’s what I almost say, but at the last second I manage to divert to, “Sorry for the door.”

  “You don’t know your own strength,” he says with a smile and winks.

  “Exactly.”

  I give a little wave that I hope doesn’t look completely pathetic, and then I jog along the side of the building. When I reach the back, I exhale.

  Well, that was awkward.

  I take a deep breath and continue on. There isn’t a door on this side, so I keep circling until I find a door exactly opposite the front one. So much for an exit closer to my room.

  I slip through and ease the door shut behind me, taking the light with it. My eyes need a moment to adjust to the dimness. There’s no hall to my left, which would have let me loop around and bypass the giggling girls. The hall in front of me returns to where I started. There’s also a corridor to my right, and when I look down it, I see twin rows of bedroom doors.

  A giggle rings out near my bedroom hall, and the very pitch of it scrapes my spine. When one of the girls breaks into a nasally twang, I know she’s imitating another camper. The others all laugh. I cringe. At one time, I had no problem dealing with mean girls. After the past month, though, I just can’t face them.

  Okay, let’s head down this other hall and see what Logan—

  I turn just as a guy steps from a bedroom. He glances my way. I see only a swing of what look like short braids. Then he zooms back inside so fast I glance down to make sure I’m not wielding an AK-47. Nope, just a very bulky duffel bag.

  Okay, that was weird. He must have mistaken me for a girl he’s avoiding, and I’ve had enough awkward today. I won’t go that way after all. I t
urn to face the exit I just came through.

  Really, Kate? Are you really doing all this to avoid walking past a room of mean girls? You used to be able to handle those just fine.

  Used to, yes. Back when handling the mean girls meant sticking up for their targets. Post-Brandon, though, I am their target. Yet the girls down that hall don’t know me. Time to channel the old Kate and handle this.

  I turn and stride toward my bedroom hall. I make it two steps before running footfalls sound. It’s the guy who vanished into his bedroom five seconds ago.

  “Well, hello there, hottie,” he says.

  I blink, certain I’ve heard wrong. “Huh?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.” His gaze slithers over me. “However, I definitely haven’t seen you before, and I’m really hoping I’ll see a whole lot more.”

  “What?” I can’t even manage a good comeback—my brain is too busy trying to process his words because he can’t be saying what he seems to be. Sure, I’ve been hit on before, but this is like watching the “Do Not” segment of a Flirting 101 video.

  The guy has a southern accent with a faint cowboy twang. Texas, Arkansas, somewhere like that. He’s about my age, and as much as it pains me to say it, he is very fine. Gorgeous mahogany eyes, dark skin, short locs. Even the bile-green Team Half-Demon T-shirt looks good on him, snug over a nice set of biceps.

  His smile sends convulsive shivers through me . . . but not the good kind. It’s the smarmiest hot-guy smile ever, the sort that says, “I know you’re checking me out,” when you just happen to glance his way. Also, he stinks. He’s wearing cheap cologne at gag-inducing levels.