Wolf's Bane

by Kelley Armstrong

  Then I remember the cut on his side, the one that healed instantly. And I remember a story in one of the council books I’d been too young to read: the eyewitness account of the burning of a vampire.

  You cannot kill a vampire by burning. Nor by a stake to the heart—that makes no more sense than needing silver bullets for a werewolf. The only way to kill a vamp is to inflict the one injury that cannot heal: decapitation.

  In that account, the mob did not decapitate their victim before lighting the pyre, and I had nightmares for weeks afterward, of imagining her torment, able to burn but unable to die, her flesh constantly healing.

  When I confessed to Mom what I’d read, I’d half expected to be banned from that library for life. Instead, I no longer had free access to it, needing to run my selections past Mom or Dad.

  I think of that story, and I smell Mason’s terror, and I know he’s realized the same thing. He will heal. Burn and heal.

  I swallow hard, and I open my mouth to say something to the mob, to convince them to start with us. But if they start with him, is that not the distraction we need? He’ll heal.

  How cold does that feel? To let him suffer so we can get free? Yet it’s the logical choice. He will suffer, but he will heal, and we will have the chance to free all three of us.

  “Burn the vamp!” someone yells, and others take up the chant, and I clamp my mouth shut.

  “Sure!” Kate yells. “Burn the vamp. So he can come back and slaughter every last one of you. You do understand that’s how it works, right? He’s still human. He hasn’t died yet. But if you kill him, he comes back, and then you have a real vampire to deal with.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. She’s drawing them to us. Protecting Mason because even if he’s been nothing but an asshole to her, that’s who she is. He’s defenseless. We are not.

  “Why the hell isn’t she gagged?” someone yells.

  “Because some of you know I’m right,” she says. “Some of you want to hear what I have to say. You want to listen to reason.”

  “Shut that fucking bitch up!”

  Someone lights a match. Another lifts a lighter. Kate hooks her pinky with mine, and we wait. We grit our teeth, and we wait. One of the counselors lowers a lighter to the kindling at our feet.

  A cry goes up. Kate’s pinky tightens on mine, but she stays perfectly still. Waiting.

  A piece of crumpled paper catches fire. I watch it, my heart hammering, smoke wafting to my nose, every primitive survival instinct screaming for me to break this rope.

  Fire. They’re setting us on fire.

  I will myself to be calm. We are waiting on purpose. Waiting for the fire to catch and the mob to relax, and then we will break free.

  They dare set us on fire? We’ll use it against them. We’ll fight them off with the very weapon they sought to use against us.

  They light another piece of crumpled paper. As soon as they do, though, the first goes out, having never come close enough for me to feel heat. The second piece ignites, and they light a third, right beside my sneakers, but both only burn to ash, the wood below untouched.

  Someone shouts in the distance. A cheer and a cry goes up as others turn. Kate gasps, and I twist to see Tricia running toward us. In her hand, she carries a familiar red canister.

  A gas can.

  “This will get the job done,” Tricia says, hoisting the can.

  “Oh shit, oh shit,” Kate whispers. “Now, do it now.”

  I flex, preparing to snap the rope, knowing it’s too soon. They’re not distracted, and there’s no fire to use against them.

  Someone has grabbed the can from Tricia, and he’s twisting it open as he runs, lifting it to slosh onto the wood, the others ready with matches and lighters, their faces glinting, teeth bared, as predatory as a starving wolf that scents prey.

  “Three,” Kate whispers. “Two—”

  “Hey!” a voice shouts. “Did I hear something about a werewolf-killing party? I think you guys forgot my invitation.”

  I look up as Elijah walks around the building.

  “You’re just in time,” someone says. “Come join the party.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. I presume that other pyre is mine?”

  The rumble of the mob subsides as all eyes turn his way.

  “That other funeral pyre,” he says. “The empty stake. That’s mine, right?”

  He pulls a length of steel construction rebar from behind his back and lifts it over his head.

  “’Cause if you’re burning werewolves?” He bends the rebar. “You forgot one.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Kate

  I hear the voice behind me. I can’t see who it is, even when I twist, but I know that voice and my heart leaps. Then Elijah says something about not getting an invitation, and I realize he’s not here to help—he’s joining in, hiding what he is in case they wonder why he didn’t participate.

  Survival of the fittest, baby. Can’t blame a guy for trying.

  Yes, actually, I can, and when I start to stifle my rising outrage, I stop.

  No, use that. Get angry.

  I channel my fury at Elijah’s betrayal and flex, snapping my bonds just as the crowd goes quiet, and I think, “Oh, shit.” They’ve noticed. They see that I’m free, and there’s a moment of surprise before they’ll attack.

  Then Elijah’s voice penetrates the blood pounding in my ears.

  “’Cause if you’re burning werewolves? You forgot one.”

  I twist to see him bending something metal over his head, a feat of strength that proves his claim. That’s when I realize Logan’s still bound.

  “Lo!” I say as the mob rushes for Elijah.

  Logan snaps the rope as I drop to claw at the one binding our feet. Someone notices. A shout goes up. Logan’s already bending, his hand still misshapen with those very useful nails.

  Once he’s working at the rope, I leave him to it. I have my fists free, and I use them, slamming the first half-demon within range. Without thinking, I strike full-strength, and the sickening crack of his jaw rings out, echoed by his scream of pain.

  I swing at the next one, hitting lighter, but not holding back the way I should. I cannot afford to truly hold back. They need to see what they’re up against, as I couldn’t demonstrate earlier in the melee that knocked me down before I managed more than a few clumsy blows.

  Now they get the real Kate Danvers.

  With every blow, every scream of pain, a couple of those rushing at us falter, something deep in their infected brains still aware enough to fear. Others, though, rush in howling, the cries of pain and the crack of breaking bones only setting their fevers aflame.

  A smell hits my nostrils. Acrid and sharp. Something splashes onto my jeans.

  Gasoline.

  The rope binding my legs finally falls free. I twist and kick the guy with the gas can as more sloshes onto me. He falls back. Someone throws a match. I dive out of the way just in time.

  I grab the gas can and swing it, contents spraying across the mob. A few cry out in agony as the gas splashes into their eyes. I empty the canister as Logan stumbles free of his foot bindings.

  A half-demon rushes in. Logan swings, but the guy teleports just out of reach. Another charges my brother with a penknife raised. I wheel, grab his arm and wrench the knife from his hand.

  My brother keeps fighting. I don’t worry about him. He has this. As I run for Mason, fog billows up around me. I slow, thinking a sorcerer is casting against me. Then I see Allan on the forest’s edge, his fingers raised as he casts fog to hide me.

  I wave my thanks and bend behind Mason, using the penknife to cut him free.

  When he’s loose, he rips off the duct tape gag with, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Setting you free, asshole. You’re welcome.”

  He turns, sees me and blinks. “You? I thought . . .”

  He thought it was Logan, and I don’t mistake the disappointment that flashes through his eyes. He might have
been giving Logan shit for coming to his rescue, but he’d been pleased, too. Seeing his mistake, he switches gears with, “I thought you didn’t like me much.”

  “You’re an asshole. Not a hanging offense. Or a burning one.” I take his hand and slap the penknife into it. “We’d appreciate some help.”

  “There are two dozen supernaturals. You can’t fight—”

  “Eighteen, but who’s counting. We’re not trying to take them down. We’re trying to get out of here and maybe give them a reason not to follow. Now—”

  A half-demon charges. I hit him with a right hook that sends him yowling into the fog.

  I turn back to Mason and point at the knife. “Use that. Put a few holes in them. Remember you can heal. Try not to die.”

  I take off before he can respond.

  I’m racing through my fog cover when a girl stumbles in. It’s Mackenzie, still wearing her Team Witch shirt.

  I lift my hands. “Just stay out of my way. I know you can hear me and understand me. This has gotten way out of hand, and I hope you see that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Well, I want to hurt you, parasite.”

  Her lips move in a spell. I rush her, but she launches a fireball. It’s a small one, barely worthy of the name, and I mentally laugh.

  Then the fireball hits my shirt. It ignites, and my brain freezes, still thinking, But it was just a tiny fireball.

  That’s when I remember the gasoline splashing.

  Fire scorches me. Mackenzie laughs. She throws back her head and laughs, and all I can think is, She’s not infected. This is her. All her.

  I yank up my shirt, biting back howls of pain. I manage to get it off, and I’m still holding it by one corner when I see her grinning at me, and I whip the shirt at her. She yelps and flies back. That’s all I meant to do—scare her—but she must have been in the path of that gasoline, and her own shirt catches fire. She screams.

  I run at her. Run, and shove her to the ground and hope she has the sense to roll out the fire, because I cannot stop to help. Cannot pause to care.

  I race through the fog, hitting anyone who appears in my way. The fact I’m wearing only a bra seems to help—it gives my attackers pause. Still, I pull on my scorched shirt.

  When a figure stumbles into me, I grab him by the shoulders, ready to throw him aside. Then I see his short locs.

  “It’s me!” Elijah says as he twists and sees who has him.

  I let him go, and he steadies himself, turning with a wry smile as blood drips from his mouth. “You might want to hit me, but I’m on your side.”

  “Move,” I say.

  “What?”

  I gesture that he’s between me and the fighting ahead.

  “Oh, right,” he says. He does not, however, move. He wipes blood from his mouth. “Look, about earlier—”

  “Do you know why I wanted to talk to you then? To warn you about this.”

  His gaze drops. “Yeah, I’m sor—”

  “And I don’t actually care. My brother is in there.” I point toward the sounds of fighting. “That’s what I care about. Mason’s free. We’re fine. We’d appreciate your help, but that’s your choice.”

  I start to go around him.

  He catches my shoulder. “Kate.” He pauses, seeing my expression, and murmurs, “Okay. Not the time. Go on. I’m right behind you.”

  I run, protected by Allan’s fog. Once I reach the locus of the fighting, though, the fog hinders more than it helps, and he dissipates it. The mist clears, and I see . . .

  I stop short, my breath catching.

  My brother is fighting, but he’s not overwhelmed, as I feared. He’s facing off against three guys. Holly is just around the corner of the building, casting spells to help him, mostly sorcerer knock-backs to keep him from being jumped while he’s midswing.

  Off to the side, Mason has indeed joined the fray, fighting two half-demons. And the rest of our attackers? Some have fled. Others are tending to their injuries. At least a half-dozen, though, aren’t standing around watching Logan and Mason fight. They are fighting each other.

  At first, I think some—maybe the non-demons—have come to their senses and are trying to shut this down. Then I realize that’s not what I’m seeing at all.

  This is blind frenzy. Powers flying and spells flying and blood flying. The air seems to sizzle with electricity and sets even my nerves ablaze. A hyperawareness that raises my hackles and makes me want to wheel on Elijah and tell him what I think of him.

  No, it makes me want to hit him. Slam my fists into him and say I don’t care if he came to our aid—he is not forgiven for hurting me.

  But he knows that. I’ve made that clear, and whatever I’m feeling, it affects me only enough to sense that rising rage while knowing it’s unfounded.

  Around me, some of the snarls of rage and howls of pain have taken on a different note. Calls for help. Cries for mercy.

  It’s the non-demons, realizing at last that something is wrong, that this isn’t just a way to indulge their most sociopathic impulses. They realize they’re in actual danger, and that’s what flips the switch in their heads. They’re under attack from crazed half-demons, and they’re screaming for rescue, and to be bluntly honest, I’m a lot more worried about the half-demons themselves. They’re the infected ones. They have an excuse.

  Yet even when I see a fire demon grab a gasoline-splattered half-demon, her shirt igniting, I can’t stay to help. I will have nightmares about that. Against all better judgment, I will look her up later, see her smiling school photo and say to myself, “This is the girl who caught fire. This is the girl I couldn’t help.”

  But I can’t. As horrible as it feels, I must take advantage of this madness and let them attack one another because it keeps them from attacking us.

  An ice demon grabs my bare arm, his fingers burning as much as any fire. I hiss in pain and spin, my fist raised, but Elijah rips him off me and throws him aside. Another camper jumps on Elijah, and I wrench that one off, and Elijah says a quick, “Thanks,” but I ignore it and barrel on toward my brother.

  The three of us make quick work of Logan’s attackers. These may be supernaturals, but the half-demons’ powers aren’t mature enough to be a serious threat, and the spellcasters are too busy shouting for someone to come to their rescue. No one does. No one will.

  Once Logan’s free, we help Mason, but he’s only fighting one guy. As Elijah and Logan run to help, I notice Allan at the edge of the fray, casting his fog spells. A figure is advancing on him. It’s Hayden, the sorcerer who tried to cut Logan’s tendon. He’s homing in on Allan, who’s too busy casting to notice.

  I leave my brother and Elijah to help Mason, and I jog over as Hayden shouts, “Bitch!” Or that’s what he must be saying, because it sounds like witch but only Allan and I are around, and Hayden sure as hell knows what I am, which is—in canine vernacular—technically a bitch. But his gaze stays fixed on Allan. He grabs Allan’s shoulder and whips him around.

  “I’m talking to you, witch,” he says. “Do you think you’re fooling anyone?”

  Allan hits him with a knock-back. Hayden staggers. Then he recovers, his face gathering in a sneer.

  “Just because you can do sorcerer magic doesn’t make you one, witch.”

  Hayden’s fingers rise. I charge and knock him flying, whereupon Hayden proves that he might look like a jock and act like a jock, but he’s sure as hell not a jock. He tries a few weak spells and weaker punches, but I only need to land a few blows of my own for him to take off, yowling like a scalded cat.

  “I’m thinking we were wrong about whatever’s infecting people,” I say to Allan. “Or else that guy is high as a kite. Calling you a witch?” I shake my head.

  Allan looks at me, his gaze searching mine. Then he grins. It sparks just for a moment before he sobers, eyes still glittering as he says, “Don’t worry about him. He’s fine—just a grade-A asshole. But you and I need to talk later.”

  Holly comes ru
nning over. “Logan’s looking for you, Kate.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. They’re clear and ready to get out of here.”

  I glance at Allan. “You were saying?”

  “Later,” he says. “Time to flee this shit-storm.”

  We run back to the others. Holly casts blur spells and Allan casts fog, and between the two, we escape the melee and make it into the forest.

  “Tell me you found cell phones,” Elijah says, panting.

  “Yes, but they took out the SIM cards,” I say. “We’re going to need to get to the highway and flag down a car.”

  “The three of us will Change forms,” Logan says. “If they come after us, we’ll be better able to fight as wolves.” He looks at Elijah. “How fast can you shift?”

  “Uhh . . . I haven’t had my first Change yet.”

  “Kate?” Logan says.

  “I’m not nearly as fast as you.”

  “Can we just go?” Mason says. “You guys fight just fine in human form.”

  “Yes, but—” Logan begins.

  I wheel, cutting my brother short. From somewhere at the edge of the fog comes a noise. A snuffling.

  “Lo?” I say.

  “I hear it,” he says, tracking the sound.

  “Allan?” I murmur. “Can you kill the fog?”

  With a wave, Allan cancels his spell. Holly casts a cover spell. As long as we stand still, we’re covered. Or that’s the theory though I’m not sure how well it works on a group this large, even huddled together.

  When the fog dissipates, I see . . . nothing. We’re in the forest, the chaos of the camp behind us, and around us there are only trees.

  The snuffling comes again, like a giant wolf. But nothing is there.

  No one speaks. We’re all peering around, trying to figure it out. My mind flips through possibilities. The only one even remotely plausible is a werewolf covered by a cover spell. Yet the snuffling doesn’t sound like a wolf’s. It’s too wet, too . . . My skin prickles. I can’t even name what I hear in that snuffle, only that it isn’t human, isn’t wolf, isn’t natural.