“A breathing, eating, not-dead vampire.” Mason shakes his head and pushes to his feet. “Enough of this bullshit.” He unzips his tent and reaches in, grabbing his sleeping bag as if to start packing. One of the tent pegs wobbles.
“Watch—!” I begin.
The tent collapses on him.
I could help. That’d be the nice thing to do. But that would mean I’d miss out on the scene of Mason cursing and batting his arms with the tent draped over him. At least I’m polite enough to avoid laughing. Or avoid laughing loud enough for him to hear over his curses.
He staggers about, scrambling to get free, the tent draped squarely over his head. When he heads straight for the log, I leap up to catch him before he trips.
“Get your paws off me,” he roars.
I let go. He falls face-first to the ground. More cursing. I helpfully tug the tent off his head. Blood streams from his nose. He swipes it and lifts his hand to me.
“Not a vampire,” he says.
“Vampires can bleed if they’ve just fed,” I say. “That might also explain the scent. I believe they have one if they’ve recently—”
“For fuck’s sake, I am not a vampire!”
“Then what are you?”
He puts his face inches from mine. “None of your business.”
Mason kicks the tent aside. Then he stomps to a backpack, hefts it and stalks into the forest.
“Don’t forget your tent!” I call.
“It’s all yours. I’m going back to camp.”
I munch on another granola bar as his footsteps recede . . . in the wrong direction. I continue eating. Mason continues crashing through the brush.
I polish off the rest of the bar. Then I rise, brush crumbs from my shorts and start fixing his tent in case he returns. Otherwise, I’ll go after him to make sure he gets back to camp. I’m just not in a hurry. If he gets lost and starts to panic, that brick wall might drop enough for me to find out—
“What the—?” Mason’s voice rises, shrill, from deep in the woods. Then he bellows in pain, the sound cut short.
The forest falls silent.
I drop a tent peg and run.
Chapter Ten
Kate
Earlier, as we came upstairs for dinner, Holly said the other end of the hall belonged to the counselors. Bedrooms mostly. That’s where Elijah’s heading.
You messing around with a counselor, Elijah? Technically, none of my business, but you’ve piqued my curiosity. And I could use a little blackmail ammo in case you decide to continue your weird performance art with me.
He doesn’t glance over his shoulder again, which seems odd. He was obviously being so careful before. Yet when my shoe scuffs the floor, he freezes. He turns then, but I’m still back by the stairs, where I can easily duck out of sight.
I’m surprised he heard that. Sound must really echo down here. It’s definitely quiet. Also bright and sunny with the skylight ceiling. I’m envying the counselors’ bedroom space until I realize that they’ll be up at the crack of dawn, blasted awake by spring sunshine. Maybe my den-like main floor bedroom isn’t so bad after all.
I track Elijah’s footfalls. A doorknob turns with a squeak. A hard jangle, and the door creaks open on new and stiff hinges. Another creak, followed by a soft click as the door shuts.
If he’s rendezvousing with a counselor, I definitely don’t want to hear that. But if I can ID his hookup, that’s a pellet of blackmail ammo to tuck in my back pocket.
The left side of the hall seems to be bedrooms. On the right, the first door is labeled Storage. A thunk comes from farther down the hall, still on my right. There’s one more door on that side. I reach it and read the sign. Office.
Another thunk, like a desk drawer closing.
Elijah is rifling through the office. Huh. Now that’s more interesting than hooking up with a counselor.
There’s a keyhole, but the door’s unlocked. I ease it open a crack. Elijah has his back to me. He is indeed rifling through a desk, and somehow I don’t think he’s looking for a pen.
As I watch, he finishes checking drawers. Whatever he’s searching for, he can tell at a glance it’s not there. He’s moving fast enough that I don’t think he expects to find it—he’s just checking. When he zeroes in on the desktop computer, I nod in understanding. If I had to guess, I’d say he’d been looking for papers, seeking information that would be easier to get at than computer files. The twenty-something staff aren’t going to keep much on paper, though.
Elijah flicks on the monitor. The computer pops to life with a login screen. He grunts and flips up the keyboard and then checks behind the monitor. Looking for a conveniently placed password.
I push open the door, and he jumps, spinning.
“Found you!” I chirp as I sail in. I waggle a forefinger. “You are playing hard to get.”
He stares at me. Then he gives a strangled. “Wha—what?”
I stop in front of him and bounce on my toes. “I looked for you at dinner and saw you with those girls.” Another finger waggle. “You better not be one of those guys.”
“One of . . . ?”
“A player.” I pronounce the word like a private school kid who’s never said it before. “Hitting on all the single ladies. Because you”—I step closer and grab him by the shirtfront—“are mine.”
He backpedals, and I release him with a giggle. “Kidding. I won’t manhandle you. Not yet at least.” I give an exaggerated wink.
“I, uh, don’t understand . . .”
“You made it very clear earlier that you were into me, and I have decided the answer is yes. Let’s do this thing.”
“Do . . . ?”
“Hook up. Or at least make out.”
He arches his brows. Just arches them, an unspoken question that he thinks he knows the answer to, but he’s not guessing in case he’s wrong.
“Player,” I say, drawling the word in my usual voice, that chipper squeal gone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his eyes twinkle.
“You played me. I played you back. Now, can we move on, or do we want to neg each other a bit more first?”
His brows knit. “Neg?”
“Flirting with me while pointing out my flaws to make me want to convince you that I’m good enough to date.”
“There’s a name for that shit?” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen guys do it, and I just figured they were really bad at picking up girls.”
“You weren’t trying to hit on me,” I say. “You were trying to scare me off, so I wouldn’t follow you and see what you’re up to.”
One split second of confusion, followed by a wide grin. “You got me.”
Liar. My explanation makes no sense, and he was far too quick to jump on it. Interesting. I’ll drop it for now. I need more info before I figure out what he’d really been up to with this afternoon’s performance.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask.
He shrugs, that overly nonchalant kind of shrug that precedes another fib. “Trying to get online, you know. They confiscated our phones, and I’m in a band, and we just posted our video to YouTube. I wanted to check our likes.”
“Band, huh. What do you play?”
“Drums.”
“What’s in your trap set?”
He gives me this lopsided grin. “Four-piece mostly. Kick drum, snare, two rack toms, plus cymbals. I’ll mix it up, but I’m fond of my four-piece. Keeps things simple.” A knowing look. “Did I pass the test?”
I give a grudging nod.
He leans against the desk. “I’m guessing you’re a drummer.”
“I play a few instruments. All the loud ones.”
He laughs at that, and his eyes . . . God, he has gorgeous eyes. I step back, telling myself I’m escaping the lingering cloud of body spray.
“I’ll accept that you might play the drums,” I say. “You might even be in a band.”
“I am in a band. Comatose Honeymoon
. And believe me, I couldn’t make that name up.”
“Maybe, but you aren’t sneaking into this office looking for internet access to check your video stats.”
He sighs. “You’re going to turn this into a serious conversation, aren’t you? I guess that means we aren’t making out.”
“Depends on whether you tell me the truth.”
He gives a sharp bark of a laugh. “So that’s my incentive?”
“Potential bonus.”
He laughs again, his eyes on mine, warm and open. Then a look passes behind them, almost like regret, and he straightens. “As tempting as that might be, whatever I was doing, it’s my business and—”
His head jerks up. I catch footsteps. I should have heard them first, and I kick myself. Apparently, those eyes and that smile distracted me, which is insanely embarrassing.
My consternation lasts a split second before I look for a place to hide. There isn’t one. No closets. No back exits. No filing cabinet big enough to hide behind.
I grab Elijah’s arm and yank him toward the door.
The footsteps are still a ways off. I peek into the hall. No one’s in sight. I push Elijah out and follow, shutting the door behind us. When I turn, he’s looking down the corridor, his lips parting in a “shit” that tells me we don’t have time to duck out the way we came.
I glance in the other direction, but the hall ends ten feet away. Still, I grab his hand and pull him in that direction.
He resists. “That’s a dead end.”
I yank harder, hauling him along after me. Then I spin him around, pushing his back into the corner as I lace my hands behind his neck. We’re face-to-face for a heartbeat before his eyes close and his lips move toward mine. When I don’t follow, his eyes fly open.
“Oh,” he whispers. “You didn’t mean we should . . .”
I didn’t. I’d figured putting my arms around his neck would be enough of a hint about what was going on, to fool whoever is about to see us. But I shrug and murmur, “Sure, why not,” and lift up to kiss him, pausing at the last second to be sure he’s game. His lips meet mine just as the person must step into the hall, because sneakers squeak, and a female voice says, “Oh!”
I fully intended to stop there. The person approaching will see us and say something, and we’ll leap apart with a fake-startled yelp and then sheepishly slip past her. Except Elijah doesn’t stop. He pulls me to him, his mouth on mine, kiss deepening.
The newcomer retreats with a tapping of footfalls. I have no idea where she goes. I’m a little too busy to notice. Elijah’s lips are on mine, his breath as sweet as fresh hay. There’s a moment where I realize that’s a really weird analogy, but the thought only flits past, banished by the kiss.
The kiss . . .
Hell and damn. It’s a kiss that makes wonder whether I’ve been doing it wrong all this time.
His hands rest in the hollow just above my hips, his fingers encircling my waist, and there’s a sturdiness there. Again, that’s a weird word to use, but it’s what it feels like, as if he’s planted his hands there, firmly gripping me, to say this is where his fingers will stay, that they aren’t going to suddenly inch toward another destination.
I wrap my arms around his neck, and the kiss goes deeper still. I close my eyes as I swear I smell the tang of grass and trees, taste sharp water fresh from a cold stream, hear the sigh of wind in trees as I smell beyond his horrible body spray to a deep musk that lights my insides on fire.
My blood pounds as if I’m running, as if we’re both in the forest and running, and within that sighing wind I hear the pant of a wolf at my side, the pound of paws, a soft growl, the musky smell of Elijah enveloping me and—
Holy shit.
I yank back, breaking the kiss, and I stare into his eyes. I blink. Then before he can react, I bury my nose in the crook of his neck, inhale sharply and breathe, “Werewolf.”
Chapter Eleven
Logan
I run in the direction of Mason’s bellow. I’ve been shouting for him, but I’ve heard nothing.
Nothing at all.
It must be an animal attack. A bear, because I can’t imagine anything else out here big enough to hurt him into silence. No, that’s not true. The even more likely answer is human. I’m just struggling to wrap my head around that because these woods feel so empty.
Nick had driven miles down an empty road. On the mile walk to camp, we saw no sign of anyone else out here.
If it is a person who attacked Mason, what could they have done to make him cry out in pain and then fall silent? I’d have heard a gunshot. If he was attacked with another kind of weapon, I should have heard more. A single blow could knock him out, but he wouldn’t have had time to bellow in pain first.
A bear doesn’t seem like the answer, either. Any animal attack, again, would take longer. Mason’s bigger than me. A three-hundred-pound black bear could kill him, but not so quickly.
So what—
I brake suddenly, and my feet twist. In a year, I’ve shot up four inches and put on thirty pounds. Operating my new body is like playing a familiar video game with a new controller. Just when I think I’ve gotten the hang of it, I try to stop and nearly trip over my own feet. I drop to one knee before I catch myself, poised there in a sprinter’s starting position, hands on the ground as I lift my nose to sample the air, and when I don’t smell him, my eyes narrow.
I stopped because I’ve realized the answer to my problem. There’s no logical solution to the puzzle of what attacked him. The answer, then, is “nothing.” Nothing attacked him.
Mason is playing me.
What I heard was horror-movie fodder. An exclamation. A scream cut short as the monster rips out its victim’s heart.
Mason strode into the forest and enacted a horror-movie sudden-death scene, one guaranteed to bring any decent person running. I’ve already proven I’d fall for it, having tracked him into the woods to make sure he’s okay. Such a chump. Easy prey for an asshole like Mason.
Whatever Mason’s plan, I’m prepared, and I’m going to flip this on him. He’s the one who’ll learn a lesson.
I should Change forms. Give him a real scare. Show him exactly what kind of risk he takes by threatening me.
As I realize what I’m thinking, I stop short. Sure, Change forms and then if he attacks, I’ll defend myself with fangs and claws. Lethal fangs and claws.
I shiver and fight against the rage pulsing through me. If I’m this angry now, I definitely can’t afford to Change. I need to rein in my temper and confront Mason . . . as a human.
I rise, rolling my shoulders as I slough off my anger. I sniff the air again. There is a faint scent of Mason that I missed before. That scent means he was ahead of me, not that he’s still there. Scent works like . . . well, I remember seeing old Charlie Brown comics, and there’s this character called Pigpen drawn in a constant floating cloud of dirt. That’s us, except the “cloud” is hair, dead skin, even breath particles, all of it laden with scent. Our scent floats downwind on the breeze. Once we walk away, it lingers there before drifting to the ground where it leaves a trail. I still smell Mason faintly on the wind, which means he was here but no longer is as his scent settles to the ground.
I move forward with extreme care, tracking those tendrils of scent while looking and listening for anything that shouldn’t be in this forest. I resist the temptation to drop to my knees and sniff—that makes me an easy target. After about a hundred paces, I can no longer smell him. I’ve overshot. Somewhere nearby he veered off, probably after he cried out.
Now comes the tricky part where I do need to sniff-check the ground. His scent’s too faint in the air to figure out exactly where he turned. I back up a few steps and look around. I’m in a small clearing, which makes this easier—I can see he isn’t within attacking distance.
I do a weird crouch walk, head bobbing up like a prairie dog’s, as I check left and right for attack. I listen, too, even more than I look, my ears straining.
A predator is near.
That’s what silence means. The birds and the animals hold their breath, waiting for the danger to pass.
Mason is near.
He’s a vampire. He can scoff at me for drawing what seems like a ridiculous conclusion, but it’s the only one that fits. I have eliminated the impossible, so my conclusion, however improbable, must be the truth. This silence only supports it. The clearing was quiet even before I entered, meaning another predator preceded me.
I find the spot where Mason’s trail ends. Then I hit a problem. It doesn’t go anywhere. He walked this far and stopped.
He must have retraced his steps. He knows I can track him, so he’s wisely backed up.
After fifty feet, I realize I’m mistaken. There is no way Mason perfectly backtracked that far over his own trail. It’s like drawing a line, taking the paper away, and trying to draw the exact same line again. There will be deviations. Yet this trail runs straight.
I return to where it stopped, and I sniff around, but his trail literally stops dead. I squint up. The nearest overhanging branch is ten feet to my left and another ten off the ground. No supernatural could spring into the air and grab it.
There are other scents. Deer, rabbits, fox and other small animals. No bear, though. No humans. Nothing spooked Mason. He stopped, let out an exclamation and a bellow of pain and then vanished.
Was I wrong about his supernatural type? I’d wondered earlier whether he could be a teleporting half-demon. That would explain the quick movements in our room. It would also explain this. He stops, screams for my benefit and then teleports.
Most supernaturals come into their powers post-puberty. For spellcasters, their powers kick in right around that time, and by our age, trained ones can cast decent spells, like Holly with her fireball. Necromancers start seeing ghosts around the same age. Werewolves are slower, with their secondary skills ramping up in adolescence and then culminating with their first Change around adulthood. Half-demons show sporadic power bursts in their early teens, but it’s a slow build. Which is the long way of saying that if Mason is a teleporting half-demon, he can’t have gone far.
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