Chapter 18

Randall hauls me to the baby-blue pickup. Around us, the pack collapses tents and tosses their stuff into trucks and cars. Isabella and Jessie shut Cyn into their cherry-red convertible, then speed away and leave us coughing in their dust.

“Why the fuck are we going to the Zlatroviks?” I ask.

“Don’t swear,” Randall says. “It’s getting annoying.”

“Who’s Cliff Sterling?”

He gives me a sidelong look. “Their Alpha.”

“Well, yeah. But who is he?”

“Badass. One time, in Chicago, he took down about a dozen werewolves in broad daylight and the police just let him walk away. He’s got them all by the balls.”

I narrow my eyes. “So he’s going to pull some strings for you guys?”

Randall snorts. “If only it were that easy.”

“Meaning?”

“Cliff’s favors aren’t free.”

The way he says it sends invisible spiders down my back.

We get into the pickup and pull out of the campground. The rest of the pack trickles from the trees and follows us down a washboard road. Our caravan of fugitives hits the highway, led by a silver sedan driven by Winema. Within twenty minutes, the pack thins along the highway, until me and Randall seem to be alone.

My heartbeat slows to a dull thumping. Maybe today will be less crazy than yesterday.

Fog floats through bristle-brush pines, mixing with sluggish gray clouds. Along the highway, a river winds like a silver snake. I can see bright leaves reflected in the water, all sorts of colors swirled together: pumpkin, butternut squash, rhubarb-cobbler red. My stomach groans. When am I ever going to be not hungry?

“I remember when I was first bloodborn,” Randall says. “Had a fierce appetite.”

I try to sound only kind of interested. “Oh?”

He glances at me, his eyebrows raised, then laughs. “You curious?”

“A little,” I mutter, since it’s easier to be gruff.

“Hmmm.” Randall rakes his fingers through his wild, thick hair. He glances out his window, rolls it down, and rests his arm there. “Well, I was sixteen when it happened. It was Reagan Moore who did it.”

I’m silent for a moment. “He’s your sire or whatever?”

“She’d be your granddam.”

“She?

“Yeah. Her parents gave her one of those ambiguous names.” His eyes look shadowy. “You can usually track bloodlines pretty far back. Especially if they’re pack wolves. Not so easy, though, if a lone wolf bites people.”

“So what happened with Reagan?”

“We met in high school. She screwed me over. I got into deep shit and left home.”

“Wait, wait, that’s it? No details?”

Randall sighs. “Reagan was one of those naturally gorgeous girls, you know? She knew it, too, and always dressed sexy. But that actually turned me off at first. I thought she was just a one-night-stand kind of girl.”

I nod, thinking of some of the girls at Klikamuks High.

“She was way smarter than that, though.” Randall laughs bleakly. “Really knew how to wrap people around her little finger. I started lusting after her, even though my mom called her trouble. Eventually, she started calling her mardagayl.”

“Huh?”

“Mardagayl. Armenian for werewolf.”

“You’re Armenian?”

“Half. My mom was. My never-present dad wasn’t. My sister really got the looks, though. Olive skin, black hair.”

“Sister?”

His face tightens. “I had a sister. She hasn’t talked to me in years. Neither has my mom.”

“Why?”

“They knew Reagan was going to ruin me, even though I didn’t believe them. There are some old Armenian stories about women whose deadly sins doom them to live as a werewolf for seven years. My mom really isn’t all that superstitious, but after a certain point, even she started looking for Reagan’s wolfskin.”

“So… you hooked up with Reagan, and…”

“What?” Randall scrunches his nose.

My face flames. “Sex ed. They talked about all sorts of disgusting shit, like herpes and chlamydia. And the werewolf disease.”

“Oh? Werewolves are like chlamydia, now? You sure do know how to be offensive.” He says this like he doesn’t give a damn.

And you sure do know how to be a royal asshole.

Out loud, I say, “You know what I meant. I’m not good with words.”

“Clearly.” Randall snorts. “And no, she bit me first.”

“How?”

Randall’s eyes focus on some distant place. “I asked her.”

“You asked her? But why?”

“She showed me what it was like to be a werewolf. And I was fascinated by how strong and beautiful it could be. I wanted to join her, wanted to know what it was like to be able to run faster and fight harder than any human.”

I’m staring at him, my heart thumping.

“You have to understand,” he says, “that I grew up in L.A. The gangs were awful. Humans versus Others a lot of the time. So when I asked Reagan to bite me, she understood why I wanted to become a werewolf.”

“What happened when you first changed?”

“They hadn’t invented Lycanthrox then. Without it, the virus multiplied to a critical level in a matter of weeks. The first transformations were brutal on me, but I didn’t dare go to any doctors. Reagan tried to help me, for a while, but she got sick of my unpredictability. She didn’t think I’d be so wild. Pretty soon, we were arguing more often than not, and she dumped me for a guy from another pack.”

“Wow. That blows.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Silence passes for several miles. We’re winding along switchbacks now, climbing higher into the mountains. I steal glances at Randall, trying to imagine what he was like as a human, and as a new bloodborn. Reagan must have really been something, to be able to make werewolves look beautiful to him.

“I need to teach you,” Randall says, “how to be a werewolf.”

“What does that mean?”

He gives me a piercing stare. “First, how to change.”

An invisible fist tightens around my ribs. “It’s not the full moon anymore.”

“Oh, come on. You already know we don’t need that to change. Besides, it’s better to do it now, rather than have the full moon forcing you.”

I swallow hard and say nothing.

“I know you’re scared. I don’t think I’ve ever known a bloodborn who wasn’t.”

A dozen comebacks spring to my tongue, but I grimace instead. “When?”

He meets my eyes. “When do you want to?”

Spiders of fear skittle down my spine, because yeah, I’m scared. I’ve spent all my time as a bloodborn trying not to change, and now he’s asking me to willingly shove aside Brock the Human and unleash Brock the Beast.

At last, I say, “I don’t.”

Randall just sighs.

~

We stop in Skykomish, a tiny town that’s mostly a few stores strung along the weed-choked tracks of an old railroad line. Cloudy mountains and tree-furred foothills slumber in the background. Logging trucks brake at the one and only intersection before rumbling on. The buildings look old, two centuries old, with peeling paint, boarded-up windows, and dead grass drying beneath the autumn leaves.

“Why are we stopping?” I say. “Aren’t we supposed to be hightailing it out of here?”

Randall says nothing.

Outside a gas station, there’s Winema’s silver sedan. Guarded by Charles, she drops quarters into a rusty blue pay phone. And there, just round the back, the cherry-red convertible. Jessie and Isabella sit watching Cyn.

Randall gets out and opens my door. “Winema might need you.”

I frown at him. What are they going to do?

“Hello?” Winema says. “Is this the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office?”

Oh, shit.

“Yes, I’d like to report something.” Winema leans against the wall, her eyes heavy-lidded. “About the kidnapping of Cynthia Lopez. I have information.” She beckons for Jessie and Isabella to bring Cyn closer. “If the police continue to pursue the Bitterroot Pack, they will only endanger the girl.” She pauses. “What do I mean by that?”

Jessie smiles a cruel smile, enjoying this little act.

“The Bitterroot Pack is tired of being hounded by the police.” Winema’s voice is soft and dangerous, like steel hidden in velvet. “They want to be left alone. If the police leave the pack alone, then the girl will be safe.”

Cyn stares straight ahead, her lips thin, her eyes glittering.

“How do I know this?” Winema laughs quietly. “How do you think?” Her face sobers. “She’s here right now. Cynthia.”

I step toward them, handcuffed, useless.

“I can prove it.” Winema shoves the phone into Cyn’s face. “Take it. Tell them.”

Cyn’s cheeks flush, and she dares to glare at Winema, if only for a second. Her fingers shake as they curl around the phone. “Hello?”

You don’t have to help them, Cyn. Don’t make this easy for them.

“Yes, this is Cynthia Lopez.” She has the nerve to use her singsongy telephone voice. “Yes, I’m all right. The pack hasn’t harmed me, but you should do what they say. I—” She frowns, her face even redder now. “Can you do that?”

“Careful,” Winema murmurs.

“Mom?” Cyn’s voice wobbles. “Yes, it’s me.” Her eyes glitter. “No, they haven’t hurt me. No, Mom. Mom!”

Winema rests her hand on Cyn’s shoulder with gentle menace.

“Mom.” Cyn’s voice catches. “Please, let me talk. You can’t send the police after me, okay? I’m safe so long as the werewolves are safe. They just want to be left alone. As soon as they get away, they’re going to send me home, but there can’t be any police. Mom, listen to me. There can’t be any police. I have to go. Goodbye.” She says this last part very quickly, then hangs up, the glittering in her eyes nearly tears.

“Good,” Winema says.

Cyn brushes the werewolf’s hand from her shoulder, then gives me a stare that twists my guts. Why me? I’m not the bad guy here.

But I don’t manage to get any of the words out.