Chapter 10

I stride into my bedroom and yank open my curtain. The full moon sails high, ruling her queendom of sky. I lock my legs to keep them from shivering. I slide open my window, and the sweet, sweet perfume of the night nearly undoes me.

The owl sits in the maple outside my window. Gray-feathered, with big yellow eyes.

I bare my teeth. “Get off my property, gick.”

The owl floats from the maple on wide wings and perches on a low cedar branch, its talons crunching bark. It swivels its head toward me.

“You here to spy on me?” I say. “You work for the werewolves?”

A red fox trots from the bushes and glances at the owl. The owl looks at me and shakes its head. I knew it. Definitely a gick.

“What do you want?” I growl.

The moon presses on my bones, bending them out of shape. I clench my abs and grab the windowsill, keeping myself together. The owl blinks slowly. The fox sniffs the air, one paw raised, then snarls and paces beneath the owl.

I lunge and clap my hands. “Scat!”

The fox narrows its eyes, giving me a very human look of contempt. Also a gick.

“Leave me alone,” I say.

The owl screeches, then pumps its wings and scoops higher into the sky. The fox trots after the owl’s shadow, leaving me standing by the window, my hands limp and useless by my sides. What does everyone want from me? Are they here to deliver the killing blow? Or welcome me to my new life as a gick?

Moonlight burns my skin like cold fire. I’m panting now, breathing shallowly.

I glare at the moon. “You think you can win, bitch?” I snarl. “I’m too strong.”

Clouds drift across her facelessness as she stares down at me. I climb through my window and lower myself to the roof. I stand, shaking, my eyes on the moon. She can’t stab me in the back if I’m watching her. I’m as rigid as a figurehead, withstanding the waves of moonlight and shudders that crash over me.

I laugh, and it sounds harsh, a barking cough. “I was a good boy. I took my medicine.”

The moon burns brighter. She is determined to pierce my flesh and make me hurt. She whistles softly to the wolf inside me, urging it to claw free from my rib cage. The owl is back now, perched in the maple, watching me.

“I’m not a gick,” I tell the owl as I gasp for air. “I… am… a human.”

The owl fidgets its feet, inching farther along the branch.

I yank off my shirt just to let the moonlight pour over my shoulders and trickle down my back, just to prove that it can’t touch me. This silver glow, the opposite of sunlight, bathes me in coolness I never felt before, when I was human.

A cramp rips through me and brings me to my knees. I stumble down the slope of the roof and grip shingles to keep from falling. My vision swims, sharpens, the night snapping into focus, clearer than it ever should be.

“No.” I spit the word.

I grit my teeth and squint. Moonlight sweeps over me, leaving cool tingling in its wake. I steal a glance at the sky and see clouds advancing across the face of the moon. She vanishes into the darkness, veiling herself from my eyes.

I straighten, witnessing my salvation, then stagger inside. I fought the wolf and won.

Two moons down, forever to go.

~

In the morning, I ache like I got tackled by every player on the football team, but I feel fucking awesome. Of course, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again. I’m a walking time bomb, and there’s no way to defuse this disease.

I’m in my bed, reading the book on werewolves, when someone knocks on my door. I clap the book shut and dump it into the crack between my bed and the wall, like I’m about to be caught with some really bad porn.

“Yeah?” I call.

Dad opens the door, his head bowed. “Brock.”

Shit. My gut tightens. What did I do now? Dad’s got that granite look to his face and a dangerous softness to his voice.

“Dad?” I keep my face blank.

He grabs my bedpost and leans forward. “Last night was the full moon.”

What did he see? I didn’t lose it. I stayed human.

“Well, last night… your…” Dad clenches his jaw, the muscles in his temples moving. “Your brother didn’t make it.”

“What?” I feel like I’ve jumped into a cold pond, only I’m not sure whether it’s relief or fear. “You mean the Lycanthrox didn’t work?”

Dad nods.

“And he turned into a wolf? Holy shit, that must have scared the nurses and—”

“Chris didn’t make it.”

“You already said that.”

Dad just stares down, his gaze moving over the pattern of the floorboards.

Chris. Didn’t make it.

“I don’t get it,” I whisper.

Dad swallows hard. “Chris passed away last night. His body couldn’t take it anymore.”

Chris, convulsing on the bed. Fur bristling from his skin. A tail wriggling from his spine, claws curving from his fingertips, teeth erupting into fangs, yellow eyes rolling back. His body tearing apart from the inside out. Blood. Silence.

“Brock?” Dad’s kneeling in front of me, his eyes on mine.

“How did it happen?” I hear myself asking, sounding normal.

“He didn’t turn into a wolf. Not all the way. His heart just gave out.”

“Just gave out.”

“Yes.”

Chris’s heart, beating fast, faster, then stuttering to a halt.

I realize I’m clutching my shirt over my own heart, my nails digging into my skin. I pry my hand away and flex my fingers.

“So he’s gone.”

“Yes.” Dad’s voice sounds croaky. “He’s gone.”

He leaves. I’m staring at my fingers, wondering what just happened, wondering what I should be feeling right now.

Chris is gone. He passed away. He. Is. Dead.

I run the words through my head, testing the newness of them. I’m never going to see him open his eyes again. Never going to talk to him. Never going to have a brother. My family is almost gone. It’s just me and Dad now.

I want to quit and start over, but yeah, life doesn’t have a reset button.

I slam the door so hard it rattles on the hinges, then claw at the wall, my nails shredding curls of wallpaper. A high, keening whine escapes between my clenched teeth. I’m going to kill Randall. I’m going to fucking tear his throat out.

~

The werewolves howl that night, taunting me in a triumphant chorus. Dad doesn’t hear them—he’s passed out drunk on the couch after a day talking to the hospital and the funeral home. I’m not going to any funeral, period.

I go downstairs like a walking statue, unfeeling, unthinking. In the garage, the musty, mousy smell twinges my supersensitive nose. I can hear a rodent scratching in the wall, even the high squeaks it makes to its mate. I grab my coat, two boxes of rounds, and Dad’s favorite shotgun. I’m more than a match for the werewolves.

I slip outside, shadow-quiet, and lock the door behind me. Darkness shaved a sliver from the moon, but she still has power over me. I grit my teeth and stride straight through her light. My skeleton creaks and stays human.

The silver glow erases all of the deadness from Mom’s garden. Grounded leaves shine like a windfall of faerie coins. The single bud of the miniature rose blossomed into a tiny, perfect, blood-red flower. I twist its stem from the branch and bring the flower to my nose, the perfume tied to memories of Mom. I’m glad she never had to know what happened to her sons. I tuck the rose into my breast pocket, trying not to bruise its petals.

I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment, Mom. I’m going to fix things now.

The werewolves are howling again, their ghostly voices drifting over the sea of trees. I stop at the edge of the lawn, my head tilted in their direction. They can’t be more than a mile or two away. I enter the forest, passing through puddles of moonlight and a shimmering rustling of ferns, all shadow and glow.

I’m coming for you. No one will have to hear your howls again.

The farther into the wilderness I go, the faster I walk, until I’m running, my arms swinging, boots pounding the dirt. I clutch the shotgun so it won’t slip out of my sweaty hands. I can’t hear the werewolves anymore, but I’m going to find them. My calf muscles burn from the effort of sprinting. My breath comes in quick gasps.

The moon sweeps across the sky, dressed in a ragged ball gown of clouds. Electric-shock excitement worms its way deeper into my chest. I charge up a hill and sprint down, feet skimming the ground. I feel fast enough to outrun any werewolves, tough enough to fight the whole pack, even if I have to take them down with me. A log juts from the ferns and sends me flying. I tumble into a ravine, the shotgun spinning from my hands.

I spit the dirt and leaves from my mouth. “Fuck.”

Lightning crashes in the mountains, followed by the pattering of rain. Rounds flew from my pockets and now lie, glinting in the moonlight, scattered all over the forest floor. I scramble to pick them up and return them to their boxes.

A growl rumbles from the darkness.

My breath sticks in my throat. I ditch the rounds and grab—no wait, where is it? What happened to the shotgun?

Ferns rustle. Two eyes flash yellow. Randall. I know it’s him.

“Hey, gick,” I say, bravado steeling my voice, even though my knees feel like water. “Stop cowering in the shadows.”

A black nose pokes through the ferns, followed by the massively muscled head and body of the silver wolf. He’s got to weigh between a hundred-fifty and two hundred pounds. Real wolves don’t get that big. He bares wicked fangs.

Where the hell is the shotgun?

“I was looking for you,” I say, stalling for time. “You following me?”

The silver wolf cocks his head.

“Can’t talk, huh?” I sweep the leaves with my gaze. Every stick and log looks like the barrel of the shotgun. “Guess it’s just barking.”

A louder growl rumbles from the wolf’s throat. He stalks toward me, bristling. Then I see it, wedged between a fern and a boulder. The shotgun. I dive for it just as the wolf lunges, quicker than me but farther away, and I—

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’m staring right into the green-gold eyes of a soot black wolf. It lifts its lip and snarls. I freeze in a crouch, my hand halfway toward the shotgun, but also very close to the black wolf’s jaws. Behind me, I hear the silver wolf pad closer. Movement flickers in the corner of my eye, and I glimpse yet another wolf circling me.

I withdraw from the black wolf guarding the shotgun. I stand.

I am surrounded by wolves.