Chapter 27
Deputy Collins and Sheriff Royle stroll along the edge of a gravel road downwind from me, their cruiser parked and silent. Shit, how did I blunder right into them? So much for super-sharp wolfish senses. I flatten myself against the ground and creep behind a sagebrush bush. What are they going to do if they see me like this?
“They’re pups, sir,” Collins says. “It’s easy to see how someone might call them cute.”
“Cute?” Royle spits on the dirt. “The littlest ones are the most infectious ones. Just like baby rattlesnakes have the most venom.”
They must be talking about werepuppies. No idea if that’s a bullshit theory or not.
“Yes, sir,” Collins says, not looking his boss in the eye.
“If you see a little one, don’t be fooled. Shoot it on sight.”
A shudder of disgust bristles the fur along my spine. I can just imagine a dumb little werepuppy skipping up to Royle and trying to lick his hand, only to get a bullet right between its eyes. What kind of asshole kills an innocent pup?
Collins’s radio crackles, and he holds it to his ear.
Royle keeps walking and talking. “Don’t let that tiny cur anywhere near—”
“Sir?” Collins says. “We’re getting a call I think you should hear.”
“Is that right?” Royle stops and looks back. “What did they say?”
“Some lady just called the 911 dispatch from Pray, Montana.” The deputy’s eyes light up. “She saw a huge wild animal, like a dog.”
“Like a wolf,” Royle murmurs. “I knew the pack was here.”
No, you idiot. They’re way far ahead, and you’re after the wrong wolf.
“Looks like we know who to question first, Deputy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Royle strides on ahead, his legs kind of bowed like he just rode up on a Wild West stallion instead of sitting on his ass in his cruiser.
Why do the police have to be so useless?
I’m going to have to change back and explain everything. As soon as they’re far enough away, I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate. Human. I wait for the shivers, the feverish skin, but all I feel is stupid. Why isn’t this working? I grit my teeth and strain all of my muscles, trying to shove them back into human shape. Nothing.
Oh, fuck almighty. I’m stuck, aren’t I?
Ahead, Royle and Collins near the little white ranch house. I creep after them, keeping low to the ground. I can still hear the rat-dogs yapping. When I’m as close as I dare, I lie in the shadows and swivel my ears toward the house.
Royle rings the doorbell. That woman—Sadie—answers the door, rifle in hand.
“Oh!” she says, lowering her weapon. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were something else.”
Yeah, like wolves can ring doorbells.
I try one more time to squeeze myself back into my human body, but only a whine escapes me from the strain of it. The peanut-colored dog appears at Sadie’s ankles, its head cocked, followed by the black dog.
“Ma’am.” Royle flashes his badge. “We just happened to be in the area when you called.”
Sadie frowns. “911? That wasn’t more than two minutes ago.”
“A fortuitous coincidence,” Collins says.
Man, somebody’s been studying really hard for the SAT.
Royle lowers his voice. “Ma’am, we’ve been on a special assignment for quite some time now, tracking the whereabouts of a pack from Washington.”
“What sort of pack?” Sadie says.
Collins steps forward, his hat in his hands. “A werewolf pack.”
Sadie gasps. “Barnes?” she hollers back into the house. “Come here a minute!”
Her husband shuffles up in ratty old slippers. “Police here already?”
“That’s what I said,” Sadie says, “and then they said they’ve been tracking a pack of werewolves all the way from Washington.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Royle says. “That is the unfortunate truth of the matter.”
All this time, the two rat-dogs are sneaking closer to the door. The black one thrusts its muzzle into the wind, then barks and sprints outside. The peanut-colored dog races after the other one, yapping like Armageddon is upon us.
“Daffy, Trixie, no!” screams Sadie.
Before I can really think about what retarded names those are, both rat-dogs discover me hiding in the shrubbery. The peanut one snarls like an angry bee, but the black one wags its tail frantically and sticks its nose in my face.
“Daffy!” Sadie claps her hands, and the black dog flinches. “Don’t touch that cur!”
I’m a wolf. And I’m being attacked by fluffy, kind-of-cute dogs. Shit? What’s definitely shit, though, is Royle marching up with his gun out.
“Come out, werewolf,” he says. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”
Seriously? This guy wins the award for dumbest sheriff ever.
I sigh, and Daffy licks my muzzle. When I lumber to my feet, she flattens herself against the ground in submission, her tail wagging hard. Trixie keeps growling and yipping at me, never mind that I’m a hundred times her size.
“No sudden moves,” Collins says, his gun also pointed at me.
Okay. I’m screwed. There’s no way I can explain myself because there’s no way I can get myself back into human form.
When I walk into the light, Sadie gasps. The barrel of her rifle swings up. “It is a wolf!”
Barnes whistles low under his breath.
“I said so,” Sadie says to her husband. “Didn’t I say so? And you said it was imaginary.”
Royle shushes her. “Ma’am, step back and let us do our job.” He points his pistol right between my eyes. “Change back to human form. Then we talk.”
I shake my head and woof to say that I can’t.
Royle’s forehead wrinkles. “Change back, now.”
That’s not happening any time soon. I lie down and lower my head to my paws.
“Sir,” Collins says, “do you think it might be a real wolf?”
Royle snorts. “Of course not. A real wolf wouldn’t understand us.”
I nod, then wag my tail like a dog to prove that I’m not dangerous. Daffy dives into a playful bow, wriggling with excitement.
“Oh, Lord.” Sadie marches up to us and scoops her dogs into her arms.
“Stand back, ma’am,” Royle says. “This werewolf is dangerous.”
Sadie purses her lips. “To be honest, sir, I don’t think this one is. It acts kind of tame.”
“Collins,” Royle says, “get the catchpole.”
“Yes, sir.” Collins jogs in the direction of the cruiser.
Jesus, I wish I could tell them what’s going on. Every minute we waste here, the Bitterroot Pack is taking Cyn farther away from safety.
Wait a second… maybe I can tell them.
I climb to my feet and start to scratch in the gravel driveway with my paw. Clumsy, but not impossible. H… E…
Collins returns with one of those snares on a pole for catching feral dogs.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
L… Now Sadie is squinting at what I’m writing. The last letter is the hardest, because it’s not all straight lines, but I manage. P.
“Give it here, son,” Royle says.
Collins tosses Royle the catchpole, and the sheriff advances on me, his boots scuffing my word. HELP disappears. I growl in frustration and the sheriff lunges at me, the snare of the catchpole aimed for my neck. I snap at the thick wire but miss.
“Wait!” Sadie says. “That wolf… help…”
“I could use a little help,” Royle shouts.
Collins draws his gun and levels it between my eyes. I bare my teeth at the idiot and let a terrifying snarl ripple my muzzle. He knows I mean business, because he takes a step back, his eyes huge, and—Royle swoops with the catchpole. Wire loops around my neck, digging past my thick pelt and biting into my skin.
I scrabble back, yanking Royle with me. He topples to his knees.
“Don’t move!” Collins says. “Or I’ll shoot!”
I crouch, my ears flat against my skull, my tail between my legs, and cough at the tightness around my windpipe. If they’re going to kill me, why don’t they just put a bullet in my brain? Why choke me to death?
Royle struggles to his feet, both hands on the catchpole, and turns toward my flank. The wire twists tighter still, and my growl comes out as a whining wheeze. He swings one leg over my back, like he’s going to ride me, and my legs buckle under the weight of him and the fact that I’m just whistling for a bit of air…
Sadie stands watching, clutching her two silent dogs. “What are you going to do?”
“Shut him down,” Royle says.
Panic surges through me, and I lunge to my feet, trying to buck Royle, but he grips fistfuls of my fur. Blood drains from my head and I black out for a second. Then, a needle-sharp pain stabs me in the scruff of my neck.
I yelp and shake hard like I can fling away the hurt, the needle, the poison.
Both Daffy and Trixie stare at me from Sadie’s arms, their bug-eyes huge. Fucking ridiculous. My vision swirls like ink going down a drain. I slump onto the gravel. Royle climbs off me and kicks my muzzle with his boot.
His voice sounds echoing and faraway, like we’re all underwater. “We’re finished here, ma’am.”
I’m finished, too, because… everything… is… black.