Wolf's Bane

by Kelley Armstrong

  There are three levels of teleporting half-demons, depending on their demon sire. At the lowest level, your dad was just some minor demon, probably not even in our records. At the highest level—an Abeo—your father was a lord demon. Even those guys aren’t exactly transporting themselves halfway around the world. The lowest level—and most common subtype—can move a couple of feet, which sounds useless but makes them really hard to catch and hold. Demonology is a fascinating subject, and as may be obvious, I can go on about it at length.

  The short version is that, at best, Mason could teleport fifty feet once he reached his full strength.

  I hunt in ever-widening circles around his last-known point. Five feet, then ten, then twenty, and when I hit forty, I know something’s wrong. There’s no way a teenage half-demon teleported this far.

  When I’m fifty feet away from the point of origin, I smell blood. I go still and sample the air.

  It’s definitely blood. Enough that I can smell it upwind.

  I also smell Mason.

  I lunge, ready to run. Then I pull up short, which makes me feel like the biggest asshole ever, but I don’t trust the guy. So I proceed at a quick walk, surveying while listening and sniffing.

  I see and hear nothing. I smell blood, though, and I smell Mason, the smell coming stronger until I spot Mason lying flat on his back in another clearing.

  I stop, my breath coming fast as I gulp deep breaths to calm down.

  It could be a trick.

  It’s probably a trick.

  Be careful.

  I approach one step at a time. At first, all I can see is a figure lying on the ground, almost hidden by the tall grass. It’s the smell that tells me who it is. I spot swatches of clothing and sneakers pointed at the sky, telling me he’s lying supine.

  It’s not until I’m barely a few feet away that I see the blood.

  Blood covers his face and soaks his shirt, and I know then this is no trick. He’s lying flat on his back, eyes closed, face and clothing covered in blood.

  I race over and drop beside him. My hands fly to his neck, and I can’t find a pulse. I know there was one earlier. Now there is not. No pulse. No heartbeat. No breathing.

  Mason mocked me earlier for calling him a vampire when he was very obviously alive.

  He isn’t anymore.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kate

  “Werewolf,” I breathe, the word coming on an exhale as I step back from Elijah. “You’re a werewolf.”

  “Uhh . . .” He rubs a hand over his face as if still dazed from the kiss.

  “That’s why you’re using that god-awful body spray. To cover your scent.” I back up another step. “I saw you earlier, before we met. You walked out of your room, spotted me and bolted back inside. You recognized me. Then you sprayed on that shit and strolled out to make an impression—the kind of impression designed to send me running the other way every time I saw you.”

  “Uhh . . .” He glances down at his shirt, points at it and offers a weak, “Team Half-Demon?”

  I sock him in the arm, hard enough to make him yelp. “That’s how you heard the counselor coming before I did. That’s how you heard me when I thought I was being quiet. And you broke open the office door, didn’t you? It wasn’t conveniently unlocked.”

  “Uhh . . .”

  “Great. Just great. Logan and I are here to prove werewolves aren’t muscle-bound brutes, and you are not going to help the cause. Can you say anything other than ‘uhh’?”

  He hesitates and then thrusts out a hand. “I’m Elijah.”

  “The werewolf.”

  “I don’t usually introduce myself like that but . . .” He leans against the wall, all practiced nonchalance. “No law against being a werewolf.”

  “How about the one against misrepresenting yourself to Pack?”

  His eyes roll. “No such thing. Nice try, though. I know the Laws, and I’ve never even bent one.”

  “Sure, because you haven’t started Changing yet.”

  Those mahogany eyes narrow, as if I’ve insulted him.

  “Your werewolf scent is faint. You’ll notice mine is strong. I’ve been Changing since I was nine.”

  He crosses his arms. “Not possible.”

  I shrug. “I’m a prodigy. Now, about hiding from me . . . ?”

  “I wasn’t hiding. I was avoiding putting myself in the crosshairs of a Pack wolf, for the same reason I won’t drive my mom’s BMW. After getting pulled over twice in the first month, I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.”

  “If you don’t cause trouble, we don’t hassle you. If you’ve heard otherwise, then I’d appreciate the chance to clear that up. Right now, though, the problem is that you’re misrepresenting yourself to the camp, too, pretending to be a half-demon. Let me guess: you told them you just haven’t come into your powers yet.”

  “Technically true. I knew they wouldn’t let in a werewolf, so I lied, which is also not against Pack Law.”

  “Why are you here at all?”

  He shrugs, leans against the wall again. “It seemed cool. I thought it’d be nice to spend a week in the forest especially when I’m so close to my first Change.”

  “You do not want to be alone for that.”

  A laugh sounds from down near the dining hall.

  “We should move this conversation outside,” I say. “Better yet, help me find my brother, and we’ll talk together.”

  “Or you can just drop the matter and let me go back to what I was doing.”

  “The computer is password protected. Unless you’re a hacker . . .” I catch his expression. “You’re a hacker.”

  “A game designer. With a little bit of hacking know-how.”

  “Well, you won’t crack that password before the small group sessions break. I might be able to get you access to that computer another way—after you tell me why you want it. Now, let’s go find my brother.”

  “And if I say no?”

  I grab him by the T-shirt and start walking.

  “I can slip out of the shirt,” he says as he lets me drag him along.

  “Please do,” I say. “I’d appreciate the scenery.”

  He chokes on a laugh. “You are not what I expected, Kate Danvers.”

  “Less judging. More moving.”

  * * *

  Logan isn’t in his room. The scent pattern outside the door suggests he returned recently and left again. At that point, my hunt is delayed by Elijah, who wants to know how I can tell the scent is new.

  “Your dad isn’t in the picture, I presume?” I say.

  He tenses, eyes darkening as his voice chills. “What makes you presume that?”

  “Tracking scents is the kind of thing your father should have taught you, so I’m guessing he didn’t stick around. He wouldn’t be the first werewolf to do that. It’s against the Laws, though. If you father a son, you can’t let him grow up without knowing what he is. What’d he do, send you a letter? We had a Pack member whose dad did that. Asshole move if you ask me.”

  He tenses again, but this time, his voice doesn’t chill. “My father told me what I am, but he wasn’t around to teach me. He died when I was five.”

  I rise, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “He knew it was coming, so he wrote notes explaining everything I’d need for when I got older. My mom and I were prepared.”

  “Your mom knew what he was?”

  “Yes, and before you say it, he knew that was against the Laws. He didn’t tell her. He was shot while in wolf form. Someone found him in the forest and called the local veterinarian, thinking he must be a huge dog. The local vet is my mom. She treated him—in wolf form—and put him into a kennel, planning to call wildlife services in the morning.”

  “And the next morning, she arrived to find a naked guy in that kennel.”

  “You got it. Dad tried to escape. Mom knocked him out with a shot of ketamine. Then she interrogated him.”

  “Interrogate
d?”

  “Mom’s kinda kick-ass, even if she doesn’t have supernatural powers. No one was going to stand in the way of her solving that mystery. Dad eventually confessed, and they lived happily ever after. Well, happily for a couple of years, and then I came along unexpectedly—Mom figured she was too old for kids. Dad was even older, and when I was four, he started having heart problems. He knew he didn’t have much time, so he wrote notes for me and made some videos. What I don’t have, though, is access to other werewolves to ask questions about things like scent trails.”

  “But if your mom’s human and you don’t know other werewolves, how’d you end up at a camp for supernaturals?”

  “You answer my questions, and I’ll answer yours. You got the fatherhood one free.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. You can ask your questions later. First, I want to find my brother.”

  “Maybe he joined one of the small group sessions. I think I hear them getting out now.”

  He’s right. Footsteps sound overhead, enough to suggest the groups are indeed breaking. We head down the hall and up the stairs. Elijah is making no move to ditch me now, and he follows at my heels as I move fast, dodging the exiting campers, looking for familiar faces.

  Finally, I spot one down the hall.

  “Holly!” I call as we draw near.

  She perks up and looks over. I lead Elijah to her.

  Holly looks from him to me and murmurs, “I thought you went looking for your brother. Found something better, I see.”

  She figures Elijah won’t hear over the din, but his enhanced hearing means he does, and he stifles a chuckle. Fortunately, she misses that. I do a quick intro and then ask whether she’s seen Logan. She hasn’t, but she stops a few people to inquire. Of course, that turns into Holly needing to introduce me, and then people looking from me to Elijah, working out our connection. No one has seen Logan, though.

  When I spot Allan, I ask him.

  “I haven’t,” he says. “Is he missing?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “I’m just trying—”

  Someone cuts between us, blocking my answer. When the kid passes, Allan waves us down into the dining hall, where we can speak more easily. Getting there makes me feel like a salmon fighting its way upstream. When we emerge in the dining hall, we pause to catch our breath.

  “What the hell?” a voice says.

  The brunette from earlier springs from the hallway crush. Mackenzie. Two of her hangers-on trail after her, both fixing me with self-satisfied smirks.

  “What. The. Hell,” Mackenzie repeats, because obviously she didn’t enunciate dramatically enough the first time.

  The question seems to be directed at me. Is she wondering why I’m still here after I’ve revealed I’m actually a ravenous killing machine?

  She strides over and plants herself in front of Elijah instead. Then she looks from me to him and repeats, “What the hell?” her voice rising to a trill at the end.

  Elijah inches closer to me and says, casually, “Hey, Mackenzie. What’s up?”

  “What’s up is that I just overheard Tricia telling another counselor that she saw you and her”—she jabs her chin my way—“making out in the counselors’ hall.”

  Allan masks his laugh with a sudden coughing fit. Mackenzie glares at him. Then she crosses her arms and steps up to Elijah. “Tell me Tricia was mistaken.”

  Elijah shrugs. “Sorry.” His arm goes around my waist, pulling me against him so fast I stumble into his side. “We were hoping to keep it on the down-low for a while, get settled in before we let everyone know we’re together but . . .” He shrugs. His hand moves around my shoulders, and he toys with one of my curls. “We couldn’t help ourselves.”

  Mackenzie skewers me with a lethal gaze, spins on her heel and stomps off. Her flunkies both give me a once-over and a dismissive sniff before following.

  When they’re out of earshot, I spin on Elijah. He backs off fast, hands rising as if to avoid a blow, but instead I bounce and squeal, “OMG, Elijah, are you asking me to be your fake girlfriend? That is the sweetest . . .” I trail off and frown. “Wait, I don’t remember you asking. You just presumed I want a fake boyfriend.”

  “Uhh . . .” He says. “Shit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He pauses, and then looks at me, brow rising hopefully. “Do you want a fake boyfriend? It might not be a bad idea. It’s hookup central here, and it’s barely been twenty-four hours since the conference started. Hormones gone wild. It’s crazy.”

  So says the guy who just made out with a total stranger on the flimsiest of pretenses.

  “I’m not looking for a hookup,” I say. “Or a romance of any kind.”

  Elijah grins. “Excellent. Then it’s settled. I’ll be your fake boyfriend. You’ll be my fake girlfriend. Everyone’s happy.”

  His arm goes back around my shoulders. I pluck it off. “There’s no one here except two people who know we aren’t actually dating.”

  “Did Tricia really catch you two making out?” Holly says.

  “Accidentally,” I say.

  Allan snorts a laugh so hard he doubles over.

  “Caught accidentally?” Holly says with a smile. “Or made out accidentally?”

  “We intended to be caught,” I say. “That was the point. We were someplace we shouldn’t be, and there was no escape, so we pretended to be there looking for a quiet place to make out. And then we ended up actually making out.”

  “Accidentally,” Holly says through sputtered laughter.

  “It happens,” I say.

  “Only to you, I think,” Holly says. “I’m not judging. A little jealous maybe . . . but not judging.”

  “Did I miss something?” Elijah says.

  “Holly?” someone says, coming in from the hall. It’s a girl I don’t recognize. She smiles at me and then turns to Holly. “Did I hear you were looking for the new guy?”

  “Kate’s brother,” Holly says, nodding to me. “Yes.”

  “I saw him earlier. I ran down to my room to grab my notebook, and when I came back, he was heading out the back doors. I noticed because he’s . . .” Her cheeks redden as she sneaks a furtive glance at me. “One of the girls pointed him out at dinner, so I noticed him leaving.”

  We thank her. Once she’s gone, Elijah says, “See what I mean? It’s like real-life Tinder here. You can’t walk five feet without someone checking you out.”

  I pat his back. “That’s just you. But don’t worry. Your werewolf fake girlfriend will keep you safe from raging hormones. Except maybe mine. Now let’s go see what trouble Logan’s gotten himself into.”

  “You think he’s in trouble?” Holly says.

  “No, but we can always hope. It’s been a long day, and I am in need of an adventure.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Logan

  Mason is dead. He’s lying on the ground, covered in blood, and he’s dead. No heartbeat, no pulse, no breathing. He’s still warm, though, and blood trickles from his nose. That’s the only source of blood I see. It’s a lot—far more than his earlier nosebleed—but it all seems to come from there with no obvious signs of injury.

  I’ve taken first aid. If a Pack brother goes down, we need to treat him until we can get him to Jeremy. Kate hopes to fill the role of Pack doctor one day, but for now, Jeremy is our medic. Kate has learned all that she can from him, and I’ve sat in on every lesson. Now, finding Mason still warm with no sign of what stopped his heart, my brain switches into paramedic mode. His heart has stopped very recently, which means there’s a possibility of reviving him.

  I open his mouth and check inside. There’s blood here, too, but it comes from a gash inside his cheek, as if he bit it. There’s no sign of vomit or stomach bile. I clear the blood, and then I set him down, making sure he’s flat and stable.

  I have to be careful with chest compressions so, in my panic, I don’t use more strength than necessary. Otherwise, I could crush his ribs. I count off thir
ty compressions and then switch to rescue breathing. Under normal circumstances, someone like me, not a medical professional—would stick to chest compressions and wait for help. But there’s no ambulance coming, and it’s highly unlikely there would be when I’m trying to resuscitate a downed Pack brother, so I’m trained in rescue breathing.

  I tilt Mason’s head back and put my mouth to his, and breathe into his lungs, pull back for thirty more chest compressions, and then press my mouth firmly to his, give two more breaths and—

  Mason’s eyes open. Or I presume they do because I’m too busy to be looking. I see a flicker at the edge of my vision, and then he gasps. I pull back, and he flails, shoving me hard.

  “What the—” he says, breath raspy. “What the hell?”

  Before I can respond, he hits me, his fists slamming into my chest as I’m already backing away.

  “What the hell were you doing?” he snarls.

  “Bringing you back to life, asshole.” I back out of swinging range and glower at him. “I’m not into necrophilia.”

  He blinks, as if processing that.

  “Making out with a dead guy?” I say. “We call that necro—”

  “I know what the word means,” he snaps. “You were . . .”

  “Administering CPR. After finding you dead on the ground.”

  “Dead . . .”

  “No heartbeat. No pulse. No breathing. We call that dead.”

  His face spasms with sheer panic.

  “No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

  His gaze flies to mine, his eyes round and terror filled. “Am I breathing now? Is my heart . . . ?” He pats his chest, eyes widening even more when he doesn’t find what he’s searching for.