Chapter 26

Blinking hard, I clear away the dark. I’m lying flat on my stomach, a sprig of sagebrush poking my nose. The sweet-green scent overwhelms me, and I sneeze. It’s not evening anymore, but grayish overcast day. Above me, the moon hangs in the same spot in the sky. I wrinkle my nose. How much time has passed?

I climb to my feet—start to—but my limbs feel wrong. I stumble face-first, getting a mouthful of dirt, then I spit and look down.

Paws. Huge gray paws. Mine? Of course—nothing else can be true—and yet…

I shuffle one paw forward, then the other. Slowly, muscles shaking as if I’m sick, I haul myself to my feet. I glance down at my rangy long legs and silver fur flecked with cinnamon, then back at my haunches and plumed tail.

Wolf.

I skitter back, almost tripping over my paws, new to walking on all fours. A muffled yip of excitement escapes my throat. I wag my tail, and watch myself doing it—man, is it weird to have a different body. It feels like fitting into a hand puppet you’ve never tried before, but you kind of know what to do with it.

And it’s not day after all. No, it’s the beginning of night, but hot damn, my eyesight is great. Like night vision goggles, only sharper, and silver instead of green. And that sagebrush scent—it’s not the only thing I smell. I lift my muzzle to the wind, my nose quivering, and close my eyes against the rush of aromas: sagebrush, juniper, pine, dry grass soaked with trails of rodent urine, rabbits slumbering in their burrows.

Drool seeps into my mouth.

I start to walk, my legs stiff at first, then limber and strong and fast—I’m running now, devouring distance, barely touching the ground. My heart thumps strong in my chest. My thick pelt shelters me from the chilly wind.

Rabbit. Where are you? I shake my head and huff to clear my nose.

The tempting furry scent of my prey floats out from beneath a bush. I creep closer, almost quivering with hunger. A rabbit, sleeping. I paw at the dusty earth, the mouth of the rabbit burrow crumbling away. Fear spikes the air. The prey is awake, ready to run. I dig faster, my tongue lolling, my stomach aching so fiercely I whimper.

Not much farther now. The rabbit can’t be—

A flash of movement. Right between my paws! Instinct shocks my muscles into motion, and my jaws snap shut around the rabbit’s neck. Tiny bones crunch beneath my teeth. It doesn’t even have time to cry out. Blood seeps into my mouth, and I toss the rabbit to the ground to devour the hot meat. I’m in seventh heaven.

I lick the last bits of meat from my muzzle and exhale. Thank God.

I raise my head to the sky. The moon hovers overhead, watching me. I fill my lungs and loose my wordless emotion in a howl. When the last breath fades from my lungs, I barrel down and charge up the hills. I paw at the ground, kick up clumps of grass, and snap a dead branch between my jaws, just to prove I can.

Of all things, guess what I smell on the breeze: chicken soup.

The tantalizing scent of simmering broth, meat, carrots, and peas is comforting in the cold wild night. Back home, we used to butcher some hens and Mom would cook a huge pot of soup from scratch. The house smelled great for days.

I point my nose like a divining rod, then trot upwind.

Then, like a miracle, I see the lights of a town ahead. Jesus, I must have been walking in circles, only a few miles from salvation.

I lope toward the town, my paws grazing over the ground, a floating feeling inside.

Beyond a picket fence, sprinklers click and hiss over falsely green grass. Buttery light pours from a little white ranch house with pinwheels stuck in the lawn and hummingbird feeders on the porch. The scent of soup trickles outside. I pace at the picket fence, then crouch, the muscles in my haunches bunching, and leap. Paws tucked beneath me, I soar over the fence and land in a flower bed, crunching pansies underfoot.

Whoops. I bare my teeth in a wolfish grin.

Through a crack in the kitchen window, I can hear the scrape of a chair, the clink of silverware on dishes, the soft murmuring of dinnertime conversation. Crouching low to the ground, I creep closer to the window. A woman walks to the kitchen sink, right beside me, her eyes downcast. I flatten myself to the ground, trying to melt into the shadows. She sighs, a tired smile on her face, and starts washing her plate. She has strawberry-blond hair that she keeps tucking away from her face, and blue-gray eyes.

I watch her in a daze, as if I’ve never seen anything so calm and homey before. Maybe it’s because I’m daydreaming about walking in there and having some of her soup. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of Mom.

Then, the scrabbling of nails on glass, and yapping.

I swing my head toward the noise. A ridiculously fluffy pair of rat-sized dogs—one black, one peanut-colored—stand against a sliding door, barking furiously at me. Their buggy eyes roll back as they fight to get at me.

Jesus. This is too funny.

I wag my tail at the fluffy little dogs, but they aren’t any friendlier. I bare my teeth and growl, a low, exciting rumble. The little dogs go crazy, tripping over each other and hurling their bodies against the door. I huff with amusement. The woman frowns, glancing out the kitchen window, and then moves to the other window—

I lunge to my feet and bolt into the night, the lights flicking on behind me and flooding the lawn with light. I don’t know how much of it illuminates me, but I’m already over the fence by the time I hear a man speak from the porch.

“I don’t see anything, Sadie. You sure you saw something?”

“Yes. The dogs saw it.”

“Those dogs see all sorts of imaginary burglars.”

As I keep running, their voices fade.

“It wasn’t a burglar… it was a dog, a huge dog…”

A sick feeling curdles inside me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They could have a gun. Dad certainly didn’t wait at the chance to blow off Randall’s head.

But this is different. How do they know who I am? I’m just some random wolf… though I guess that’s the point. I’m a werewolf, nothing more. All they have to do is look at me to know they should fear and hate me.

You’re Other, now, Brock. You aren’t normal anymore.

As I trot through this little town, my gaze sliding from window to everyday window, I realize I will always be on the outside from now on. Even if I pretend to be human, I belong in the night, in the wilderness, in the loneliness.

My jaw tight, I stalk away. A startled bird bursts from the sagebrush and whirs into the air. I sprint after it, paws thudding, breath steaming the air. The bird peeps and zigzags, then crashes into a low tree and tumbles to the ground.

I stare as it flaps like a broken windup toy. A quail.

My mouth waters, and I lean closer to the bird. It stinks of fear. I can hear its tiny heart, beating so fast the sound blurs.

No. I’m not hungry anymore.

The bird twists onto its feet and flees into the sagebrush. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Scents unwind on a ribbon of breeze… sweet rain-heavy air, the ozone tang of lightning building in the clouds above, the musk of a man’s sweat—

“Really, sir?” says a familiar man. “The little ones?”

“Absolutely,” says another man I know all too well.

Sheriff Royle.