Wolf's Bane

by Kelley Armstrong

  The ice demon turns and glares at me, and then helps his telekinetic friend stand as Hayden stalks out.

  “Can you believe those fucking guys?” Mason slaps the door shut behind them and flicks on the light. Then he wheels on me. “And you. What the hell were you doing?”

  “Let’s see. First, I retrieved this.” I pick up the knife and hand it to him. “Potentially saving your life again because you forgot the first rule of fighting an armed opponent. Then I disabled the other guys. I believe I did my share.”

  “I mean before that. They were going to cut your goddamn tendon. Do you know what that means?”

  “I’d be unable to walk and would require prompt surgery to repair it or risk a lifelong serious disability. Even after surgery, I might have difficulties. Also, there’s the risk of cutting more than they intended, after which I could bleed out.”

  He shakes his head. “So you know exactly what it means. And yet you were lying there, listening to them plotting to maim you, letting them put the damned knife to your leg.”

  “I was waiting for the first cut. I wanted proof of what they intended. Otherwise, they could have claimed they were joking.”

  Mason shakes his head and thumps onto his bed.

  I look at the closed door. We’ve made enough noise to bring someone running, but no one has. People heard the fight. They must have. And they’re ignoring it.

  “I need to warn my sister,” I say.

  I’m heading for the door when I see the blood on Mason’s bare torso. “First, though, let me look at that.”

  Mason waves me off. “It’s fine. I thought he got me good, but I barely feel it.”

  “Still, it’s a long gash. It’ll probably need stitches.” I manage a wry smile. “At least that’s one thing you won’t have to worry about when you go full vamp. You’ll get insta-healing. Have you ever seen that?”

  He shakes his head as he grabs a discarded T-shirt from the floor.

  “Wait!” I stop him as he’s about to wipe off the cut. “Blood doesn’t come out easily. Trust me. I know.”

  “That’s okay. It’s not my shirt.”

  I say nothing. He mops the blood and then stops, looking down at the red-smeared shirt. “Fuck.”

  “Yep, that is your shirt. Mine wouldn’t be on the floor.” I point to where my clothing is neatly folded on the dresser.

  I expect another curse. He’s just staring down, not at the shirt, but at his wounded side. The shadow from his arm hides the injury.

  “Is it worse than you thought?” I ask. “We should notify the counselors anyway. At the very least, it’ll need cleaning. My sister has a first-aid kit—she’s the future doctor—but the counselors should . . .”

  I trail off as he pulls back his hand. Underneath the faint wash of wiped blood, I can see his skin where it’d been sliced open.

  The gash is gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kate

  I’m asleep when Logan taps on the door. I don’t wonder for a second who it is. I know that tap.

  For the first years of our lives, Logan and I shared a room, right up until that became awkward. Awkward for everyone else. That was the only time in my life I wished I were a boy, and only because if I had been, no one would have insisted on separate bedrooms until we wanted them. But there comes a time—too soon, in my opinion—when opposite-gender siblings are not supposed to share a room.

  Mom made it seem like a celebratory rite of passage. We were old enough to have our own bedrooms. Wasn’t that special?

  No, it was not.

  I had shared a crib with my brother. I don’t remember it, of course, but I’ve seen photos, and I’ve heard the stories, how they’d bought two cribs, but I’d scream until Mom and Dad put Logan in mine. Even if they tried keeping me up and putting him down alone, he’d fuss softly until I was beside him. When it came time for beds, one of us always crawled in with the other until Mom and Dad gave up and shoved them together into a double.

  While Mom said we’d “earned” our separate rooms, we knew it was more about them than us. They wanted us in our own rooms because that was “proper.” So we didn’t complain, but if we couldn’t sleep, we’d creep to the other’s door. While I’d slip into Logan’s room, he’d always tap on my door, and when he did, it sounded just like this.

  I slide from bed and crack open the door to see Logan with a burly dark-haired guy.

  “There’s been an incident,” Logan whispers. “May we come in?”

  I lift a finger. I’m wearing a T-shirt, which is decent enough with Logan, but I’ll pull on sweatpants for the stranger. I also rouse Holly, whispering that Logan needs to talk to me and asking whether she’d like us to go outside. She says no and rises to put on her own clothing.

  I let Logan in. When the big guy starts to follow, I block him.

  “Are you Mason?” I ask.

  He nods and steps forward again, presuming that’s the ticket to entry. I grab him by the shirtfront and say, “Outside. Now.”

  His brows lift. Behind me, Logan says, “Kate, he’s—”

  “Having a conversation with me. This won’t take long. Now move, asshole.”

  Those brows rise higher, but I march him to the exit by the stairs. The entrance door is only secured with an internal deadbolt. I undo it and push him outside. When we’re far enough from the building, I swing in front of him.

  “You must be the sister,” he says, looking amused.

  “And you must be the jerk roommate who’s been hassling my brother. Who stomped off when he saved your ass from your blood-sucking afterlife.”

  “Kate,” Logan says behind me, his footfalls swishing over the dew-damp grass. “It’s fine, Kate.”

  “Has he thanked you yet?” I ask.

  “There’s no need—”

  “The hell there isn’t.” I turn on Mason. “You can’t treat people like shit and expect them to stick their neck out for you. You’re lucky Logan didn’t just run to camp, yelling for help, telling them you were dead. By then, you would have been, and let’s hope your family knows enough not to embalm you or you’re going to have the worst vamp-life ever. Logan brought you back to life. And you walked away without letting him know you were okay, let alone thanking him.”

  “I didn’t ask him to save me.”

  I sputter. “What the hell? I bet you told your parents you didn’t ask to be born, either. Seriously, you need an image makeover. Emo-vamp is so 1990. Wear bright colors. Smile once in a while. Say thank you.”

  Mason starts to walk away. “As amusing as this is, I don’t have time—”

  I haul him back. “Oh, you’ll make time. Logan might not get into a pissing match with you, but I will. You want to compare fangs?” I lean into his face. “Trust me, mine are bigger.”

  From behind me comes soft laughter that must be Holly.

  “Just apologize,” she says. “Kate’s not letting you go until you do.”

  “I’m sure I’ve already thanked him.”

  I turn to Logan, who shrugs.

  “That’s a no,” I say.

  “Fine.” Mason calls a too-bright, “Thanks, roomie!” He turns back to me. “Better? I’m not sure he actually saved me, though, considering this.”

  Mason yanks up his shirt. It’s awash with smeared blood.

  “You two got in a fight again?” I say. “Well, I’m sure you started it, and I don’t see any damage, so quit whining.”

  “Whining?”

  “He was slashed with a knife,” Logan says.

  Logan doesn’t need to clarify that it wasn’t him—we don’t use weapons.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Here.” Mason points to unmarked skin under the smear of blood. “Asshole split me open a good six inches. Bled like a son-of-a-bitch. That was ten minutes ago.”

  “You healed,” I say. “Like a vamp. You’re obviously alive, though.” I peer at the spot and then straighten. “Logan mentioned you were part of an Edison Group exper
iment. I know they played with side effects. They might have given you pre-vamp-life healing abilities, but I’m sure you’d have noticed by now.”

  “Kinda.”

  “Huh.” I glance at Logan. “So the death-and-resurrection cycle triggered a partial change to vamp-hood.”

  “That’s what I presume,” Logan says.

  I turn back to Mason. “If you start craving blood, do not ask my brother to donate. He’s done enough for you already. Start with the guy who stabbed you. Unless you deserved it.”

  “He didn’t,” Logan says. “It was that kid you talked to in the dinner line. The blond. Hayden.”

  “You mean the Aberzombie who talked at me. Let me guess: you mouthed off to him. I’ve heard you like to do that.

  “I didn’t. He came for your brother . . . to cut his Achilles tendon while he slept.”

  * * *

  I may be somewhat incoherent for the next few minutes. Logan explains once I’m calm enough to listen, but every sentence only reignites my rage. It doesn’t help that my brother stays completely cool, as if these guys really had snuck in for a camp prank as he first presumed. I’ll be angry for him. That has always been my role in our relationship. I rant and stomp and throw things, channeling his rage in a way he cannot.

  They tried to lame my brother. If this asshole’s dad is really a doctor, he’d have known exactly what he was doing. It’s called the Achilles tendon after the Greek Achilles, whose mother had protected him by dipping him into the River Styx while holding that part of his body, meaning it was his only vulnerable spot. Like most myths, it has a deeper meaning. We are all vulnerable there. It’s a necessary tendon for walking, running and jumping. Cut that and my brother would have been sent home with a serious injury, perhaps never able to run or jump properly again. For a werewolf, that would be catastrophic.

  This was no prank. It was malicious and cruel, and the only thing my brother did to “deserve” it was to be born a werewolf.

  “There really is something going on,” Holly says. “Those guys are jerks, but this is insane.”

  Logan explains the hormone-overdrive theory to Mason.

  When the vampire rolls his eyes, Holly says, “You were a real jerk the other night. Are you telling me that’s normal for you?”

  “Yep. Sorry. No excuse for my behavior except that I don’t want to be here, and if I have to be here, I want to be left alone.”

  “I introduced myself,” she says. “I wasn’t hitting on you. Wasn’t asking for your life story. Wasn’t trying to make a new BFF. I said, ‘Hello, I’m Holly.’”

  He shrugs, but color touches his cheeks in a look that says it’s a whole lot easier to be nasty to a stranger.

  “I’m an asshole,” he says.

  “And proud of it,” she mutters.

  “Should we warn Elijah?” I say. “Regardless of what’s causing this, these guys have a batshit crazy issue with werewolves, emphasis on the crazy.”

  “Elijah?” Mason says. “Wait, that’s the dude with the dreads, isn’t it? He’s a werewolf, too? Fuck, maybe Surfer Boy had a point. You guys are taking over.”

  “We are,” I say. “So please feel free to jump onto Team Surfer.”

  “Let’s leave Elijah out of it for now,” Logan says. “No one else knows he’s a werewolf, not even the counselors. We can quietly warn him in the morning. I don’t want to call attention to this.”

  “You were attacked with a knife,” I say. “In your bed. At the very least we need to tell the counselors.”

  “Do you trust them to handle this?” Logan says. “Or will they make it worse?”

  He’s right. I remember Tricia when we got back from the cabin walk. Earlier today, she didn’t want to tell others what we are. Now she’s openly talking about it herself. The cheerleading counselor has vanished, replaced by a petulant and testy babysitter.

  Something hormonal is sparking aggression and libido, increasing both tension and mood swings. Yet we are teens. Sometimes I want to just slam my fist into the wall for no reason. Sometimes I want to invite random cute guys into the nearest dark hallway and make out with them. Other times, I want to go in my room, shut the door and cry. And all three impulses can take place in a single day . . . or a single hour. Yet the situation here is exaggerated. It’s as if someone went looking for a teen-movie scriptwriter and hired a sixty-year-old who hasn’t spoken to an actual teen in thirty years.

  Worse, whatever’s going on, the counselors aren’t immune to it.

  “Paige will be here tomorrow,” Logan says.

  “We keep saying that.”

  “I know, but it’s true. Do you think we’re in serious danger? If you do, then let’s pack our bags and head into the forest. We can hike to the nearest town.”

  I shake my head. “No, you’re right. As angry as I am about what happened to you, it’s three guys, not a lynch mob.”

  “We’re on alert now. We’ll stick together until Paige gets here.”

  “What about calling her?” I say. “The cell phones are in the office, and I know where that is.”

  “Wake her in the middle of the night to say weird stuff is happening? That some guys came after me, but I’m fine? It’s . . .” He checks his watch. “Three in the morning here, which makes it midnight in Portland. Too late for her to catch a flight. She’s due here around noon tomorrow, so she must already be booked on the first flight out. If you are really concerned, we can call Mom and Dad.”

  “If I was really concerned, I’d do what you said, grab my bag and head out. I’m not there yet, so you’re right. Hanging tight and waiting for Paige is the best option. I just really don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kate

  The next morning, Holly and I head into the dining hall for breakfast. We’ve decided to play this cool, not hang out in our little “pack” as Tricia called it. That would signal fear, closing our ranks. Whatever is happening here, not everyone is affected. I’m not sure I’d know if I was—I’m already prone to mood swings and making out with guys I’ve just met. Logan’s testosterone is definitely spiking, but only around Elijah, which is normal for werewolves. Maybe as adolescent werewolves, we’re already too high on hormones to notice an increase. I don’t see anything with Holly and Allan, though. Whatever is happening, it only impacts some campers. Why? Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?

  “You can have breakfast with Elijah if you want,” Holly says as we walk to the dining hall. “You two don’t need a third wheel.”

  “You’re not a third wheel,” I say. “You’re a second wheel. Unless that’s a polite brush-off . . .”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then it’s you and me for breakfast. I want to hear about your Sabrina training.”

  As we walk through the dining hall, I spot Elijah.

  Damn it.

  I just told Holly I was going to have breakfast with her—just her—but I do need to speak to Elijah about last night

  I’m still figuring this out when he looks over. He goes still, as if trying to decide whether to join us or hang out with others. I glance his way, ready to motion that I need to speak to him a moment. Yet as I turn, he wheels, and I’m left looking at his back. Then he makes an exaggerated show of checking his watch and stiffening in a “Shit, I forgot something” way before he lopes off down the other hall.

  Did Elijah just dodge me?

  Did he duck out before I could pounce and insist on eating with him?

  Annoyance darts through me. I’ve done nothing to suggest I’m that kind of girl. Sure, I hauled him to talk to Logan when I first discovered he was a werewolf, but after that, he was free to leave. Logan made it clear he’d like Elijah to leave. It was Elijah who tagged along. It was also Elijah who invited me on the kitchen raid. I’d been the one watching the time, not wanting to make Holly stay up late waiting for me. He’d been the one delaying my departure until the last possible moment.

&n
bsp; I’m overanalyzing this, aren’t I?

  Elijah wants to have breakfast with someone else, and rather than say so, he pretended not to see me. That isn’t cool, but he doesn’t know me well enough to realize he could just say, “Catch you later.” He overreacted, and now I’m overreacting.

  I do need to speak to him about what happened with Logan, but my brother’s right—no one realizes Elijah’s a werewolf, so he’s in no immediate danger. I’ll warn him later.

  I forget Elijah and gather my breakfast. No one comments on my overflowing plate this time. I hear the whispers, though, snaking down the line.

  She’s a werewolf.

  The Alpha’s daughter.

  Her brother’s here, too.

  Oh, did you hear about the vampire?

  Vampire?

  I also catch other whispers.

  I’d do her.

  Oh yeah, I hear werewolves like it rough.

  She’s cute, but have you seen her brother? Damn . . .

  Whatever is happening here, the heightened sex drive is at least as strong as the heightened aggression, and so far, those two haven’t overlapped, thankfully. I’ve barely even formed that thought before a guy says, “Hey, I thought you were coming to my room last night.”

  He’s talking to a girl ahead in line, who’s giggling with another girl. When she doesn’t respond, he surges forward.

  “Hey!” he says. “I’m talking to you.”

  He grabs for her arm, and I’m setting my plate down, ready to run interference, but the girl tosses his hand off easily.

  “I changed my mind,” she says. “Especially since you apparently found company elsewhere.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, in that fake belligerent tone that says he knows exactly what she means and he’s wondering how he got caught.

  “You found someone else,” she says, “and so did I.”