Raised by Wolves
Page 53
And, I promised silently, I won’t shoot unless I’m sure I can kill.
They still didn’t like it. I’d always known that Devon was protective, and it had been perfectly clear from day one that Chase and I hurt more for each other’s suffering than our own, but I’d never realized that Lake felt the same way, that every illicit adventure we’d ever been on, she would have thrust me behind her in a second, the instant danger appeared.
I-am-doing-this.
Out loud, all I said was, “You guys.”
“Fine.” Chase was the first to agree. Even as he did, he lowered his head to mine and nuzzled me—the universal wolf gesture for Come home safe.
Lake fixed me with a steely glare. “You die, and I’ll find someone with a knack for raising the dead, bring you back all zombified, and kill you myself.”
“I’m not helpless,” I told her, dropping my gaze to my wrists. She nodded.
Ultimately, Devon was the hardest sell. “I would rather shave my head and mold my personal look after a prison guard named Bubba than let you do this.”
Of all of them, Dev had been protecting me the longest. He was also the only one who’d seen me after my first run-in with our Rabid. I could sense that image, of a skinny, blood-soaked child, close to the surface of his mind.
Taking a step back, I twisted my wrists sharply and settled into a fighting pose as the claws came out.
I’m not that little girl anymore, Dev. I’m tougher than I look. If you don’t let me do this, you’re saying I’m helpless. You’re making me helpless, and I’m really sick of playing the victim.
In the back of my head, it occurred to me that I might be able to make Devon agree—the same way I’d forced Chase to promise to stay out of it when Callum had Sora beat me. But Dev had an incredible ability for holding grudges, and I wasn’t sure that I could put up with the dramatics inside my head as well as out.
“Fine. But Bronwyn Alessia St. Vincent Clare, I’d not have you endangering yourself on my watch.”
I smiled. “My stubbornness is my folly?” I guessed.
“You said it. I didn’t.”
Somehow, I doubted he was joking this time. Rather than reply, I twisted my wrists inward, and the silver blades whooshed in, hidden again.
And then, I went to kill the Rabid.
Devon, Lake, and Chase were all in my head. My senses—human and therefore dulled—confused them and put them at a handicap for fully understanding what was going on, but I trusted that they’d get used to it. I knew the way into the woods as well as the Rabid who lived there did. I’d seen it through his eyes, and even though the glance had been fleeting, I’d discovered that the knowledge behind it stuck in a way that made me feel closer to my prey than I’d ever wanted to be. For better or worse, I knew where to find the Rabid. The only difficulty was staying downwind and keeping to the upper ground. My Glock ate into my back, a solid reminder that from this point forward, we were playing for keeps.
As silently as I could, I moved toward Wilson’s cabin, my path twisting enough that if he did hear or sense me, he might not read anything into it.
Wolf. Close by.
I wasn’t sure which of the little hitchhikers in my head had sent that message, but as soon as they pointed it out, I recognized the feeling in my gut for what it was. A wolf. Not Pack, but a wolf.
Burnt hair and men’s cologne. Baby powder.
I wondered at the additional component to the Rabid’s scent but didn’t let it throw me. Even monsters could pride themselves on good personal hygiene.
I crouched, covering my back with a tree, and I looked. From this distance, I could make out the cabin, which was much larger than I’d realized from what I’d seen inside the Rabid’s head. The difference gave me the illusion of distance, let me forget how close to this man I’d come in my mind.
Settling into my crouch, I scanned the perimeter of the cabin, identifying each and every point of entry. Unless Prancer decided to do us all a favor and take an early evening stroll, I wasn’t going to be able to get a sight on him.
That silent admission had the other three nipping at the heels of my mind, pushing against our bond, willing me to call them in.
But I didn’t. I held my position, and I watched.
Wolf, I thought, feeling it. Baby powder and burnt hair and men’s cologne.
And then there was movement behind one of the windows. With steady hands, I reached for my gun and pulled it out of my jeans. I could almost make out the edges of a person’s form, but given my inferior human senses, it could just as easily have been an armchair. And then, I got unbelievably lucky.
The front door opened.
I moved my arms, aiming my gun at the door, and my finger began to press down on the trigger, little by little, as I waited for my target to appear. A mile away, Lake, Devon, and Chase prepared themselves to converge on me. To protect me.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
The door was almost open. I could almost see … there, a body—
No.
The instinct surged up from my stomach, like vomit in the back of my throat. This wasn’t right. Something didn’t feel right. It didn’t smell right. It smelled …
Female. I eased my finger off the trigger, just a hair, as my intended target cleared the door.
It wasn’t the Rabid.
The realization shook me, but I didn’t lower the gun.
A girl. My age, maybe, or a little older. She had light brown hair and pale gray eyes, and there was something horribly, gut-wrenchingly familiar about the lines of her face.
Madison.
My gun lowered itself. My mind reeled. This was impossible. Madison was dead. She’d been declared dead when she was six years old. The Rabid had torn her so far apart that there was nothing but scraps left to bury.
Nothing but scraps.
No body.
Not dead.
I tried to adjust to that information, to reconcile the waiflike teen in front of me to the little girl, but before I could do that, I was body-slammed with another realization.
She wasn’t alone.
They poured out the front door, one after another, and it finally sank in that the Rabid wasn’t the only person who lived in this mammoth house in the woods.
He had people with them. Children. And every single one of them was a Were.
Retreat wasn’t in my DNA any more than it was in the average werewolf’s, but I couldn’t stay there, not when I’d almost shot a dead girl who couldn’t have been more than a year older than me.
Where had Wilson gotten all of these werewolves?
The answer was obvious. I’d always assumed that the Rabid was killing the targets we’d so painstakingly marked on our map. Hunting them. Feeding his bloodlust with prey more satisfying than a rabbit or deer. I’d assumed that Chase was a mistake, an aberration who’d gotten away and survived.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
Wilson hadn’t been killing the children he’d attacked. He’d been turning them. Creating his own little werewolf army. It was sick.
Sick and impossible. According to what Mitch had told Keely, there had been a grand total of three, maybe four cases of a human being changed into a Were in the past thousand years. One case every two hundred and fifty years, even though the prevalence of attacks was much, much higher.
Yet somehow, this Rabid had managed to change dozens.
The girl I’d almost shot—the one who’d come outside when she’d sensed me near, the one who was my age and my height and my build almost exactly—Madison—she could have been me.
If Callum had arrived at my house a few minutes later, she would have been.
Come out, come out, wherever you are. I won’t hurt you. The Big Bad Wolf always wins in the end.
Had I been the first? A trial run? A way for him to test whatever method he’d found for changing humans? Were my parents just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Had they died because of me? Why hadn’t they changed? If this Rabid knew the secret to making new werewolves, why had he only used it on children? Did it work on adults? How could a six-year-old even survive the kind of ravaging it took to trigger the change?
My pack—my friends—descended on me the second I came within their range. Their questions pushed mine out of my head, and their touches—soft on my face, my arms, and my stomach—calmed me enough that I was able to make a sound. And unable to keep from crying.
They still didn’t like it. I’d always known that Devon was protective, and it had been perfectly clear from day one that Chase and I hurt more for each other’s suffering than our own, but I’d never realized that Lake felt the same way, that every illicit adventure we’d ever been on, she would have thrust me behind her in a second, the instant danger appeared.
I-am-doing-this.
Out loud, all I said was, “You guys.”
“Fine.” Chase was the first to agree. Even as he did, he lowered his head to mine and nuzzled me—the universal wolf gesture for Come home safe.
Lake fixed me with a steely glare. “You die, and I’ll find someone with a knack for raising the dead, bring you back all zombified, and kill you myself.”
“I’m not helpless,” I told her, dropping my gaze to my wrists. She nodded.
Ultimately, Devon was the hardest sell. “I would rather shave my head and mold my personal look after a prison guard named Bubba than let you do this.”
Of all of them, Dev had been protecting me the longest. He was also the only one who’d seen me after my first run-in with our Rabid. I could sense that image, of a skinny, blood-soaked child, close to the surface of his mind.
Taking a step back, I twisted my wrists sharply and settled into a fighting pose as the claws came out.
I’m not that little girl anymore, Dev. I’m tougher than I look. If you don’t let me do this, you’re saying I’m helpless. You’re making me helpless, and I’m really sick of playing the victim.
In the back of my head, it occurred to me that I might be able to make Devon agree—the same way I’d forced Chase to promise to stay out of it when Callum had Sora beat me. But Dev had an incredible ability for holding grudges, and I wasn’t sure that I could put up with the dramatics inside my head as well as out.
“Fine. But Bronwyn Alessia St. Vincent Clare, I’d not have you endangering yourself on my watch.”
I smiled. “My stubbornness is my folly?” I guessed.
“You said it. I didn’t.”
Somehow, I doubted he was joking this time. Rather than reply, I twisted my wrists inward, and the silver blades whooshed in, hidden again.
And then, I went to kill the Rabid.
Devon, Lake, and Chase were all in my head. My senses—human and therefore dulled—confused them and put them at a handicap for fully understanding what was going on, but I trusted that they’d get used to it. I knew the way into the woods as well as the Rabid who lived there did. I’d seen it through his eyes, and even though the glance had been fleeting, I’d discovered that the knowledge behind it stuck in a way that made me feel closer to my prey than I’d ever wanted to be. For better or worse, I knew where to find the Rabid. The only difficulty was staying downwind and keeping to the upper ground. My Glock ate into my back, a solid reminder that from this point forward, we were playing for keeps.
As silently as I could, I moved toward Wilson’s cabin, my path twisting enough that if he did hear or sense me, he might not read anything into it.
Wolf. Close by.
I wasn’t sure which of the little hitchhikers in my head had sent that message, but as soon as they pointed it out, I recognized the feeling in my gut for what it was. A wolf. Not Pack, but a wolf.
Burnt hair and men’s cologne. Baby powder.
I wondered at the additional component to the Rabid’s scent but didn’t let it throw me. Even monsters could pride themselves on good personal hygiene.
I crouched, covering my back with a tree, and I looked. From this distance, I could make out the cabin, which was much larger than I’d realized from what I’d seen inside the Rabid’s head. The difference gave me the illusion of distance, let me forget how close to this man I’d come in my mind.
Settling into my crouch, I scanned the perimeter of the cabin, identifying each and every point of entry. Unless Prancer decided to do us all a favor and take an early evening stroll, I wasn’t going to be able to get a sight on him.
That silent admission had the other three nipping at the heels of my mind, pushing against our bond, willing me to call them in.
But I didn’t. I held my position, and I watched.
Wolf, I thought, feeling it. Baby powder and burnt hair and men’s cologne.
And then there was movement behind one of the windows. With steady hands, I reached for my gun and pulled it out of my jeans. I could almost make out the edges of a person’s form, but given my inferior human senses, it could just as easily have been an armchair. And then, I got unbelievably lucky.
The front door opened.
I moved my arms, aiming my gun at the door, and my finger began to press down on the trigger, little by little, as I waited for my target to appear. A mile away, Lake, Devon, and Chase prepared themselves to converge on me. To protect me.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
The door was almost open. I could almost see … there, a body—
No.
The instinct surged up from my stomach, like vomit in the back of my throat. This wasn’t right. Something didn’t feel right. It didn’t smell right. It smelled …
Female. I eased my finger off the trigger, just a hair, as my intended target cleared the door.
It wasn’t the Rabid.
The realization shook me, but I didn’t lower the gun.
A girl. My age, maybe, or a little older. She had light brown hair and pale gray eyes, and there was something horribly, gut-wrenchingly familiar about the lines of her face.
Madison.
My gun lowered itself. My mind reeled. This was impossible. Madison was dead. She’d been declared dead when she was six years old. The Rabid had torn her so far apart that there was nothing but scraps left to bury.
Nothing but scraps.
No body.
Not dead.
I tried to adjust to that information, to reconcile the waiflike teen in front of me to the little girl, but before I could do that, I was body-slammed with another realization.
She wasn’t alone.
They poured out the front door, one after another, and it finally sank in that the Rabid wasn’t the only person who lived in this mammoth house in the woods.
He had people with them. Children. And every single one of them was a Were.
Retreat wasn’t in my DNA any more than it was in the average werewolf’s, but I couldn’t stay there, not when I’d almost shot a dead girl who couldn’t have been more than a year older than me.
Where had Wilson gotten all of these werewolves?
The answer was obvious. I’d always assumed that the Rabid was killing the targets we’d so painstakingly marked on our map. Hunting them. Feeding his bloodlust with prey more satisfying than a rabbit or deer. I’d assumed that Chase was a mistake, an aberration who’d gotten away and survived.
Apparently, I’d been wrong.
Wilson hadn’t been killing the children he’d attacked. He’d been turning them. Creating his own little werewolf army. It was sick.
Sick and impossible. According to what Mitch had told Keely, there had been a grand total of three, maybe four cases of a human being changed into a Were in the past thousand years. One case every two hundred and fifty years, even though the prevalence of attacks was much, much higher.
Yet somehow, this Rabid had managed to change dozens.
The girl I’d almost shot—the one who’d come outside when she’d sensed me near, the one who was my age and my height and my build almost exactly—Madison—she could have been me.
If Callum had arrived at my house a few minutes later, she would have been.
Come out, come out, wherever you are. I won’t hurt you. The Big Bad Wolf always wins in the end.
Had I been the first? A trial run? A way for him to test whatever method he’d found for changing humans? Were my parents just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Had they died because of me? Why hadn’t they changed? If this Rabid knew the secret to making new werewolves, why had he only used it on children? Did it work on adults? How could a six-year-old even survive the kind of ravaging it took to trigger the change?
My pack—my friends—descended on me the second I came within their range. Their questions pushed mine out of my head, and their touches—soft on my face, my arms, and my stomach—calmed me enough that I was able to make a sound. And unable to keep from crying.
