Chapter 15

Randall exits the highway and pulls into the Texaco. We’re not really in a town, just near a few tumbledown cabins hiding in the trees. Beneath the gas station’s rusty roof, a cherry-red ’70s convertible sits parked outside.

“Looks like they beat us to it,” Randall says.

“They?”

Then I see a dark-skinned woman in a flowery dress that clings to every curve. Her wavy black hair snakes past her high cheekbones. She lights a cigarette, and her eyes—light apple-green, shot with yellow—lock with mine.

Shit, I’ve seen those eyes before.

“That’s Jessie,” Randall says. “But you’ve already met.”

So this is the black wolf who chased me and bit my leg so savagely. Pretty, if I didn’t know that those red lips of hers were once a bloody muzzle. She doesn’t blink. I don’t blink. She curls her lip, then gives me the finger.

“Bitch,” I growl.

“Well, yes,” Randall says. He drives up to one of the pumps, kills the engine, and looks me in the eye. “Stay.”

I bare my teeth at him.

Randall hops out of the truck, slams the door, locks it, and saunters to the werewolf woman. “Jessie! Where’s Isabella?”

“Inside,” Jessie drawls, with a Southern accent that oozes molasses-sweet.

Another woman clicks out of the Texaco in ridiculously spiky heels. She looks a lot like Jessie, only she has sleek, short black hair and dark eyes. Sisters, for sure. “Jessie, honey, I told you they wouldn’t have any mentholated cigarettes here.”

Jessie sighs a puff of smoke. “Damn.”

Randall’s eyebrows arch skyward. “You stopped for cigarettes?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Jessie says.

He mutters something under his breath that I can’t hear through the window, then strides into the gas station. I hunch lower in my seat and yank my wrists against the handcuffs. Shit. I need to get them off, but I have no idea how.

I glance at my door, which has one of those push-button locks. Jessie and Isabella still aren’t looking my way—too busy talking to each other—so I twist in my seat, bite the push button, then yank it upright and unlocked. Yes! I twist the other way, so my handcuffed hands can reach the door handle, and grope to get it open. With a loud clunk and rusty squeal of hinges, the door swings open. I tumble onto the ground.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream. Time to get the hell out of here.

Before those two werebitches can even glance over at me, I’m lurching to my feet and sprinting for the trees, head down, breathing hard. I’m halfway across the highway when I hear a laugh. I don’t look back. Only when my feet hit the pine needles do I risk a glance over my shoulder, ready to fight that black wolf who—

Jessie and Isabella stand by the Texaco. Smoke ribbons drift from their cigarettes.

What the fuck? I keep running but can’t stop looking at them. A root catches my foot. I stumble and hit the dirt. Air knocked from my lungs, I cough, spitting pine needles. I try to get up but fall again, bruising my ribs. When I look back at the Texaco, both of the werebitches are gone. Shit. They were waiting for me to fall.

“Pity Winema won’t let us kill him,” Jessie says, her voice much closer now.

Isabella laughs. “You’re going to scare that poor bloodborn shitless.”

I roll onto my side and stare at the trees. Pine branches wave gently in the breeze, masking the monsters behind them. Cigarette smoke prickles my nose. I wriggle on the dirt, trying to haul my ass up, as helpless as a worm.

Jessie runs between the trees, her eyes glowing. She sighs a cloud of smoke, then flicks her cigarette butt onto the ground and grinds it beneath her sandaled foot. Her toenails have sharpened into black claws.

“Bloodborn,” she says, “you were safer with your sire.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl.

Isabella appears from the shadows, her hair less sleek and more like a pelt now. “Randall. He’s your sire. You have a lot to learn, honey.”

Jessie curls her lip. “Learn? We sure as hell need to teach him a thing or two.”

“You’re going to regret that, bitch,” I say, still trying to get on my feet.

Isabella laughs. “Silly thing. Play nice, bloodborn, and we might help you.”

“My name is Brock.”

Jessie paces around me, her eyes burning, her fingers tipped with claws. “Brock.” She spits the word. “You shouldn’t even be alive.”

“Fuck you,” I say.

“We don’t have to help him,” Jessie says, flashing a glance at the other woman. “We can just tell Winema he got lost, and—”

“And?” Isabella narrows her eyes. “We were all bloodborn, in the beginning.”

Jessie growls, her arms and legs shadowed by the start of a pelt. “But not this stupid.”

My heartbeat thuds inside my ears. This is going to be two werewolves against one human who was never very badass to begin with. Oh yeah, and I still have no fucking clue how to get these handcuffs off.

“Really, honey,” drawls Isabella. “We all remember the time you tore up that trucker. Lord, that was a lot of blood.”

“That was different,” Jessie says. “He was—”

“Isabella! Jessie!” Randall jogs into the clearing. “What the—”

“Your dog got lost.” Jessie’s lips thin into a smile.

Now that Randall’s back, at least I don’t have to face the werebitches alone. Even if he is giving me the kind of glare that can melt steel.

“Get the hell out of here,” he says. “The cops are right on our tail.”

Jessie rolls her yellow eyes. “They’re always right on our tail.”

“Grady reported a patrol car less than ten minutes away.”

That wilts the smirk on Jessie’s face. “Shit,” she whispers.

The two women sprint toward the Texaco, amazingly fast in their high heels. Randall grabs my leash and yanks me to my knees. The collar tightens, choking me, and I gasp, staggering to my feet to stop the pressure.

“Where’s Cyn?” I rasp.

“Safer than we are right now. Move!”

By the time we make it back to the truck, it’s too late. A state patrol cruiser idles outside the Texaco, and I can see someone talking to the clerk inside. Randall swears under his breath and shoves me into the truck, shutting the door so that it doesn’t slam. He glances at Isabella and Jessie. Both women stand taut and ready to run.

“We’ll take care of him,” Isabella murmurs.

Jessie rummages in a tiny purse and flips open a compact mirror to check her makeup. She slides a fresh stain of blood-red lipstick over her lips. Isabella smoothes her hair, and I can see her face hardening into a calm mask.

“You sure…?” Randall says.

Isabella nods. “Take the bloodborn and get out of here.”

Randall walks back to the truck and opens the door, just as the cop exits the Texaco. It isn’t Sheriff Royle or Deputy Collins—it isn’t even a him. Isabella and Jessie share a glance, and I can see the oh, shit pass between them.

I almost laugh. No way in hell are they going to flirt their way out of this one.

The state patrol officer—a middle-aged, iron-haired lady—zeros in on Randall. I’ll bet he’s got the longest criminal record of all three werewolves. She starts advancing on him, but Isabella flutters into her path like a butterfly.

“Excuse me, ma’am!” Isabella says. “You’re just the person I was looking for.”

Jessie smiles shyly. “We’re a little bit lost, officer.”

Distracted, the officer’s stare moves away from Randall. “I’m sorry?”

Now’s my chance. “Hey!” I shout. “Police lady!”

The officer glances at me. Can’t she see the dog collar around my neck? Or does she think it’s some sort of punk thing?

“Don’t mind him,” Isabella says. “He’s a little… disabled. Mentally.”

Hands cuffed behind my back, I lurch against the window. “Fuck!”

“Tourette’s,” Jessie says.

Randall strolls around to the driver’s side of the truck, his steps carefully casual. He climbs in, shuts the door, and buckles up.

Barely moving his lips, he murmurs, “If you fuck this up, you’re as good as dead.”

The officer glances at me again, flips out a notepad, and scribbles something. “All right. You said you were lost?”

Isabella purses her lips. “We’re trying to find our way to—what was it called, again?”

“Wallace Falls?” Jessie says.

“Wallace Falls.” The officer’s forehead creases. She flips out a notepad from her shirt pocket. “Your names, please?”

“My name’s June,” Isabella says, “and this is my sister, Eve.”

“Last names?”

“Montgomery. With two O’s. Officer… what was your name?”

Randall twists the key in the ignition. The truck sputters but doesn’t start. He keeps glancing at the officer without moving his head. I hunker in my seat, my armpits wet with sweat. Think. There has to be some way to escape.

“I’m Officer Downing,” says the cop. “Have you seen anything unusual in the area?”

“Unusual?” Jessie’s eyes round, oh so innocent. “What do you mean?”

Randall twists the key again. The engine hiccups, then rumbles to life. He shifts into drive and pulls away from the pump. Officer Downing takes a step toward us, looking right between Isabella and Jessie, but they block her way. Randall pulls onto the highway and revs up to cruising speed.

No shouts. No flashing lights. The patrol officer lets us go.

Aren’t the werewolves fugitives wanted for attempted murder, mauling, firearms violations, and a shitload of other crimes?

“Jesus,” I mutter. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

Randall grins at me, his teeth too sharp. “This answer your question about how we’ve been able to stay alive for so long?”

“What about our plates?”

“Plates?”

“Our license plates. Don’t they have them on record?”

“We change them every few states or so. Isn’t easy, but Winema knows some faeries who can glamour them to look different.”

I shake my head. “Haven’t the police caught on?”

“Faeries won’t talk.”

I heave a growling sigh, my body trembling as the tightness in my muscles relaxes.

“For future reference,” Randall says, “if you try to pull another stunt like you did back there, I’m not going to save your ass from Jessie.”

“I don’t need it.”

His eyes go cold. “She would’ve killed you weeks ago if you weren’t my bloodborn.”

“Your bloodborn?” I grimace. “That makes it sound like we’re related.”

He laughs, a humorless bark. “We are.”