Chapter 29

There’s no time to sleep, but exhaustion drags me down anyway. When I wake, the sun has already risen while Randall drives on.

We pass pines with branches like gap-toothed combs, the road following the curves of a boulder-dotted jade river. My legs itch to move. I wish I were outside the truck, running alongside. No, I would run away from the road, into the trees, where the air is sweetly cold and plump rabbits and fat deer wait for my teeth…

I shake my head. Leftover wolfishness.

“How did you find me?” My voice sounds thick with sleep.

“Tracked you down. You left a clear trail.” Randall sounds matter-of-fact about it, but he might be too tired for anything else.

“Well.” I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

We both carefully avoid looking at each other.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I say.

“South,” he says.

Farther away from home. I think back to my bedroom, the cows, Dad. Mom’s rose garden, wilting, but still hanging on.

What’s left for me there?

The red rose… Cyn. A weight settles on my ribs. I failed her. But how was I supposed to know the police are psycho?

“Why did you run?” Randall says, still not looking at me.

“To get help for Cyn.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. “That was a damn stupid thing to do.” His voice softens. “But I know why you did it.”

I glance at him, a question in my eyes.

“Remember the murders in Klikamuks?”

My stomach tightens. “How could I forget?”

“One of the victims… a dryad… her name was Chloe.” His face remains perfectly still. “I wish I could have known her longer. But I loved her.”

Killed by Benjamin Arrington, the man I helped. An image of him strangling Cyn blinks into my head, and I blink it away, but a bitter taste lingers on my tongue. I’m beginning to understand how little I knew, back in Klikamuks, when all I thought I was doing was helping a guy run some gicks out of town.

Gicks like Randall. Like me.

My jaw clenched, I stare out the side window. I won’t look at him.

Randall hits the brakes. “Traffic jam.” He growls under his breath. “We’re definitely in Yellowstone now.”

“Yellowstone?” A flicker of excitement revives me. “Where are the…?”

But I don’t see geysers ahead, just a long line of cars, and tourists swaggering around with two-foot-lens cameras. They must be taking pictures of something. Through the spindly pines, there’s a meadow dotted with dark shapes.

“We’re going to be here for a while.” Randall sighs and kills the engine.

We both hop out to see what’s going on in the meadow. Peering through the tourists, I realize the dark shapes are distant elk. They clump in a tight herd, their heads high, their antlers thrown back. Scared. But why?

Randall passes me a pair of binoculars. “Look.”

A big white wolf slinks through the grass. To its right, a black wolf circles around. They’re sneaking up on an elk with a limp.

“Normal wolves?” I say.

Randall gives me a look. “You think?” The glint in his eyes says it all.

“Damn!” I whistle under my breath. “They’re hunting right in front of all these tourists?”

“Shhh,” he says.

Right next to me, a family whispers in what sounds like German, their camera shutters snapping. They have these looks on their faces that say they can’t believe what amazing Nature we have here in America. If they only knew.

The limping elk’s head swings up, and it stamps its hoof. All the nearby elk freeze.

Then, the black wolf charges. I track it through my binoculars, watching its paws pound across the ground while all the elk burst into a run at once. No wait, I know that wolf—Jessie. Damn, she’s fast. She doesn’t even waver as the enormous prey animals hurtle around her; she keeps her gaze glued to the limping elk.

The muscles in my thighs tighten and every instinct in me is hissing, Hunt.

The limping elk gallops through the grass, struggling to keep up with its herd, but it’s already flagging. Jessie leaps at the elk’s flank and latches on, tearing into its flesh. The elk bucks and kicks, but Jessie jumps away, and the white wolf surges out of the grass and latches onto the elk’s nose. The elk stumbles but doesn’t fall, flinging the white wolf away. Another black wolf—Isabella?—runs and bites the elk’s rump. Blood streams down the elk’s flanks and drips as it runs. It’s going to bleed to death.

Along the road, the tourists gasp and chatter like this is some sort of fireworks show.

Jessie catches up to the elk again, and, in an impossible leap, soars onto the elk’s back and latches onto its neck. Her weight drives the elk to a halt, and the other two wolves attack, pinning their prey. Within minutes the elk’s legs fold. As soon as it hits the ground, maybe a dozen other wolves appear from the trees.

Steaming red blood, everywhere. Delicious and disgusting.

I can’t even tell if the elk is totally dead before the wolves start feasting. And the scary part is, the wolf in me aches to join them.

“Shit,” Randall says softly.

I glance at him, then see what he’s staring at: park rangers exiting their jeep. A guy and a lady park ranger. Pretty soon their binoculars are on the wolf hunt, too. When the lady lowers her binoculars, she frowns and says something I can’t hear.

Randall grips my arm. “We’ve got to warn Winema.”

“Isn’t she out there with the rest of them?”

“Of course not. She can’t.”

“Can’t? But…”

He’s not even listening, just jogging toward the truck. We hop back in and start crawling past the clot of tourists. Randall revs the engine impatiently and a few slow-moving, slug-fat women glare at him as they cross the road.

Then I see her: Cyn, running headlong toward the rangers. There’s a hard look on her face. She grabs the lady park ranger’s arm, and I can tell by the burning in her eyes that Cyn is seconds away from doing something reckless.

“God dammit,” I say. “Stop the truck!”

“What? Why?”

“Cynthia.” I jab my finger in her direction.

Before Randall has even hit the brakes, I open my door and jump out. We’re going so slow that I hit the ground walking.

What the hell is Cyn thinking, running past werewolves with bloody muzzles? Jessie’s going to kill her when she sees. I already know in the pit of my stomach that Cyn’s about to spill the truth to the nearest sympathetic ranger.

Sure enough, the lady park ranger says, “What’s the matter?”

And Cyn says, “My name is Cynthia Lopez.”

My heartbeat stutters. They have to be blaring her name on the radio.

“Cynthia!” I skid to a stop beside her.

“Brock?” She looks thrown off balance. “Why are you here? I thought you went to—”

“No. Not now.” I shake my head, praying she’ll get the message. “We need to leave.”

“What’s going on here?” says the lady park ranger—Hannah, her nametag says. She tilts her head to one side. “What did you say your name was again?”

Has she seen Cyn’s face on a missing persons poster? Or mine?

“Cynthia Lopez,” Cyn says, her cheeks flushed. “And I escaped the pack.”

“Pack?” says the guy park ranger. His nametag reads Pratt. “You mean the wolves?”

Randall walks up behind Cyn and his hands descend on her shoulders—she looks tiny next to him. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”

“No.” Cyn twists but can’t free herself. “Those aren’t ordinary wolves.”

I can tell by the fear in Randall’s eyes that we’re losing control of the situation. Cyn’s going to blow our cover, if she hasn’t already.

Is that a good thing? Is this going to work?

Considering what just happened with Sheriff Royle, I don’t even know anymore.

Pratt stoops to Cyn’s height, like she’s a little girl. “We very carefully regulate the wolves who travel between Yellowstone’s borders. Each animal is microchipped, and park rangers like us regularly patrol the area. There’s no need to be afraid of werewolves on our land.” He grins, flashing too-bright teeth. “There are none.”

Cyn’s face twists like she wants to spit on his shiny boots. “Well, there are now.”

Hannah, staring at me, tells Pratt, “Those wolves do look unfamiliar. Maybe we should call the paranormal unit.”

Randall lets go of Cyn and grabs my wrist instead, hard enough that my bones ache.

I frown at him and twist free, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My nails slide sharply across my skin, and my hand slows, my fingers trailing… claws. Adrenaline jolts my muscles; fangs slide from my teeth.

Cyn’s face pales. “Shit,” she whispers.

“Paranormal unit,” Pratt says, still grinning, only this time it looks more like the grimace of a taxidermied animal. “Good idea. I’ll call them.”

“We’d better go now,” I babble, “so we don’t get in you guys’ way.”

Randall sidesteps out of the conversation, and I see Winema approaching, her hand cradling her belly. With one look at the park rangers, her expression transforms from curiosity to fear. “Paranormal? What’s going on?”

Hannah looks at Winema. “Ma’am, we have to ask you to leave. For traffic purposes.”

“But my husband’s out there!” Winema’s eyes widen. “He wanted to get a few photos of the wolves, and I lost sight of him in the trees…”

Yeah, right. If anything, I’d bet her husband Charles is that big white wolf eating elk guts right now. Same blue eyes.

Hannah shares a scared look with Pratt. “We need to get these tourists out of here.”

Randall grabs my wrist and yanks like he’s going to wrench my arm out. I grab Cyn, and the three of us snake away through the crowd of tourists while Winema keeps the park rangers busy with her worried pregnant-lady story. I can tell that Hannah still has her suspicions, though, because she keeps staring at me.

When we reach the truck, I say to Cyn, “Get in.”

“But Brock,” she says, her eyes boring into mine, even though Randall’s literally breathing down her neck.

I shake my head. “Later.”

She makes a frustrated noise but hops into the truck; me and Randall climb in on either side. Pratt shouts something at the tourists and waves his arms, trying to get them to move. Randall honks the horn and starts driving.

“Look.” Cyn leans forward to stare out the windshield. “The wolves.”

The pack has scattered into the grass; only the white wolf remains, his legs stiff, staring at Winema with pale eyes. Knew it was Charles.

“Cynthia,” Randall growls, his voice raw. “Next time you try to escape, don’t blow our cover like that. It could get us all killed.”

“You think the rangers wouldn’t have put two and two together on their own?” she says. “Besides, it’s not like they even had guns.”

“The paranormal unit of Yellowstone,” Randall says matter-of-factly, “is equipped to deal with Others ranging from rogue werewolves to frost giants who don’t appreciate cars in their territory. That means a lot more firepower than anybody would ever need to blast a bloodborn off the face of the earth.”

Cyn stares at the dashboard like she can burn holes in it with her eyes. “Sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ won’t cut it,” Randall says. “Especially not when you explain this to Jessie.”

“I can handle it,” she says.

We’re silent as Randall navigates out of the tourists and finally hits open road.

Cyn twists to stare me in the eye. “Brock, what happened to you… after…?”

It’s incredibly hard to sit so close to her, her hip scalding against mine, with my fingers still armed with claws. I keep my head bowed, my lips pressed together to hide my fangs. I don’t even know what my eyes look like.

“The damn fool bloodborn decided last night was a great night to escape,” Randall says. “He wandered around the mountains of Montana for a bit, then had the amazing luck to blunder right into Sheriff Royle. Not sure what happened in between, but I ended up saving his ass when I found the sheriff employing a little bit of torture.”

“Torture?” Cyn’s eyes darken.

My nostrils flare and I suck in a slow breath. “Yeah. Royle isn’t one of the good guys.”

“But—what happened?”

I twist my head toward hers and our faces are only inches away, close enough to kiss, or maybe bite. Her breath breezes across my lips.

“I changed, Cynthia.” My voice rasps in my throat. “That’s what happened.”

The muscles in her face tighten, then relax. She takes my hand in hers and gives it a little squeeze. The tips of my claws press into her palm, but she doesn’t let go. I fight the urge to turn away in shame. She smiles, though her eyes look sad.

“I knew you could,” she whispers.

“He had to,” Randall says.

Nobody says anything after that.

~

Wyoming whizzes past in a blur of trees and gray hills. Or maybe that’s just what it looks like to me, since I’m too distracted by Cyn’s bittersweet scent. Maybe it’s because I’m sitting so close, or maybe it’s because I finally changed into a wolf, but now I’m smelling all sorts of little pieces to the scent: the fading vanilla of her shampoo, the warm-fur aroma of her hair, and an almond sweetness that might be her skin itself.

God, I wish we were alone.

Randall’s phone buzzes, and he drives one-handed while he fishes it out of his pocket. He reads a text. “Really.”

“What?” I say.

He shoves it back in his pocket and says nothing.

It’s got to be past noon now, and my stomach is definitely letting me know it. Randall and Cyn both seem to be ignoring its louder and louder growls. We pass a billboard with a giant, juicy burger on it, and it’s all I can do not to drool. And on another billboard, a reclining, half-naked lady. No, more like three-quarters-naked. Her curly blond hair tumbles around her face, and she bites her finger between red lips. Her boobs strain against her almost-see-through-but-still-PG13 button-down shirt, like gravity doesn’t exist.

I read the fiery red letters on the sign. “Demon Dan’s. Wow.”

“Wow?” Cyn says. “I can’t believe you’re drooling over that.”

“I’m not! It was that burger billboard, I swear.”

“That’s disgusting,” she says, but she rolls her eyes.

Randall laughs. “That’s our next stop.”