Chapter 12

Pain throbs in my head with every heartbeat. I pry open my eyelids and squint at white overcast sky, then haul myself upright. The movement sends fresh, sickening pain rippling out from the back of my head. When I can see again, I climb to my feet. My left leg aches. I glance down at it, at my shredded jeans, stiff with blood.

Where did the werewolves go?

I limp in a slow circle, swinging my head from side to side. What the fuck? You know you don’t belong here, Randall said. It’s almost time for you to go. I thought he was going to take me out. But the pack left me here to bleed.

My leg, and my head, are killing me. Dad must be awake now. He’s definitely going to kill me. Or maybe he thinks I’m already dead. Gritting my teeth, I limp along the trail of scuffed leaves and dried blood—my blood—from the night before. I can’t find Dad’s shotgun. They must have taken it.

Armed with nothing, bearing no excuses, I stagger toward home.

Of all people, guess who I see on the doorstep, small and bright in her red hoodie.

“Brock!” Cyn’s fists ball by her sides. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t even know why you’re here,” I say, not looking at her, walking straight past. When I try the door, it’s locked. “Nobody’s home?”

She gapes at me. “No. When I called, your dad sounded… really weird.”

Dad must have been drunk, or crying, or both.

“I thought something happened,” she says, “so I drove here.”

I rummage behind a rock, find the spare key, and let myself in. I need to find some painkillers and get this blood off of me, fast.

“You need to go,” I say. “Now.”

Cyn gives me a look. “Brock. You need help. You’re covered in blood and you’re limping… did something bite you?”

I give her a look right back.

“Oh. God! Was it the werewolves?”

“What do you think?” I say.

When I hobble upstairs, Cyn follows me. It’s dark and quiet in the house. Where did Dad go? Shit. I’m getting blood on Mom’s carpet. I hurry to the bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. My hands shake as I screw open a bottle of aspirin. I pour eight into my palm, but Cyn grabs my wrist and shakes her head.

“Too many. You’ll overdose.”

“It really hurts,” I say through clenched teeth.

“You should call 911.”

“Yeah. Right.” I pop two aspirins into my mouth and swallow them with water. “Cynthia. Why are you still here?”

She folds her arms. “Because I’m not going to let you do something stupid.”

“I need to take a shower.” I peel off my shirt and turn on the water. “Go.”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked already,” Cyn mutters, but she leaves the room.

I shut the door and gingerly strip off my jeans, hissing at the pain. The bloody, ragged denim clings to the gashes in my skin.

“Where’s your dad?” Cyn calls from behind the door.

I step into the shower and yank the curtain shut. “I don’t know,” I shout back.

With the water near-scalding, I scrub myself hard, as if I can wash away all traces of the werewolves. The pounding in my head slowly numbs. When I crouch and inspect my leg, the torn flesh looks less ragged than it did an hour ago.

Clean, I shut off the water and yank open the curtain. I breathe in the steam.

“Brock? Are you—” Cyn opens the door.

I grab a towel, but she’s still staring. I bend my leg gingerly, even though the pain feels older and more distant now.

“Your leg,” she says. “Is it… already healing?”

“Yeah. One of the perks.” I wrap the towel around my waist and sidestep past her, to my bedroom. “I’ll see you later, Cyn. Goodbye.”

“I’m not going.”

I shut the door of my bedroom, but she opens it again right as I’m pulling on a new pair of jeans. Is she asking for trouble?

“What do you want?” I say. It sounds harsher than I intended.

She crosses the gap between us and stares up at me. Frowning, her fingers shaking a little, she takes my face in her hands, then slides her fingers into my hair. I wince when she touches the wound on the back of my head. Deeper than that, her touch feels like a key in a rusty lock, twisting my insides with a sweet ache.

“Brock,” she says. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

“Chris,” I say. “He…”

Her eyes glimmer as she stares at me, waiting.

“Chris is dead.”

Her face tightens with lovely sadness. “I’m sorry.”

I try to pull her closer, but she flinches away. I let my hands fall to my sides. She withdraws from me, her face blank.

“I heard the werewolves howling last night,” I say, “so I went out to meet them. I found the whole pack. One of them bit my leg, and then this woman cracked me over the head with a shotgun. When I woke up, they were gone.”

“And Chris…?”

“The full moon.” I force out the words. “His body couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Cyn says again.

“You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s not going to make any difference. I’m the one who has to fix things. He was my brother.”

“What do you mean, fix things?”

“Kill the werewolf who bit us both.” I clench my jaw and grab a shirt, a jacket, my shoes. “He can’t keep hiding in the forest forever.”

“Brock. You can’t go out there now—”

“I have to.”

“Are you crazy? They kicked your ass last night. You got knocked out by a shotgun. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking straighter than I ever was before.” I head for the door.

“Brock!” She laughs an I-can’t-believe-this laugh. “You’re not even dressed.”

I sit on the floor and start pulling on my shoes.

Cyn stands in the doorway, blocking my path out. “I can’t let you go.”

Finished dressing, I advance on her. “Move. Please.”

“No.” She braces herself in the doorway, her arms on the frame. “I don’t want to be the one who could have stopped you and didn’t. I wasn’t there when you were bitten, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

We stare at each other, only a hairsbreadth away. I’m holding my breath, and I think she is, too. Neither of us blinks. Her eyes glitter with fire. She slides her foot toward me and closes the last fraction of distance between us.

I’m distracted by the warmth of her body so close to mine. “You can’t do this.”

“Why not? We can work this out together.”

“There is no we.” I bare my teeth since it’s easiest to feel angry. “You dumped me. You don’t get to come back whenever you feel like it and pick up your discarded boyfriend.”

Cyn sucks in her breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to break up with you? How hard it’s been to stay away from you? I’m trying to help you. I can’t believe you’re throwing this back in my face.”

She’s saying what I’ve wanted to hear for so long, but she’s saying it too late.

I look away. “You can’t help me.” I sidestep past her and stride into the hallway.

Smack in the middle of Mom’s carpet, I see a small bloodstain. Frowning, I crouch over the spot. No, it’s the miniature rose I picked from the garden, before I went after the werewolves. I can’t believe it survived the night and fell here.

“Brock,” Cyn says, right behind me. “Stop.”

I straighten quickly, the rose in my hand. Her eyes snap onto the brilliant red, and her fingers drift to it as if she can’t help herself.

“What’s this?” she says.

“A rose,” I say, “from my mom’s garden.” I hold it out to her.

She lifts it from my fingers, twirling it between her own. A few petals have opened since I plucked it. “Why is it here?”

“Doesn’t matter. You can have it; I won’t need it where I’m going.”

If I stay any longer, I might change my mind.

I jog downstairs and open the kitchen door. I stride outside, letting the door swing shut behind me, but Cyn still slips through.

“I’m going to call the cops,” she says.

“On me? You are crazy.”

She jogs alongside me. “I think you’ve got things backwards.”

“Cyn!” I growl. “If you’re going to follow me, at least be quiet.”

She makes an impatient noise.

I break into a run, half-hoping she won’t keep up, half-wishing I could just turn back and work things out with her, but it’s far too late for that now. That, more than anything, really twists the knife of regret deeper into my heart.

Of course I can’t stay. Of course I wish I could.

I shake my head to fling these thoughts away and concentrate on following my own blood back through the forest. Where could the werewolves be now? Surely, when Cyn sees them, she’ll run away. She should be running from me.

Behind me, I can hear her quick footsteps. At least she stopped shouting at me.

“Brock!” Cyn hisses, surprisingly close. “Get down!”

Startled, I duck behind a tree. She crouches beside me.

“Look,” she whispers, pointing.

Ahead, squatting in the leaves, I see the unmistakable figure of Sheriff Royle.