Chapter 37

He stops on the edge of the sidewalk. He carries a rifle, with the barrel pointed at me.

Dad, no. It’s me, Brock.

I step closer to him and wag my tail, a whine escaping. Dad looks between my bloody face and Blackjack’s ruined body.

“You killed my dog.” His voice sounds hoarse. “You gick bastards.”

But I had to, Dad. I try to tell him with my eyes. Randall growls softly behind me.

Dad’s shoulders stiffen. “Oh, Jesus… I know you…”

Why did I think he would have forgotten the silver wolf? I was the one who told him who that wolf was.

Randall starts to run, but he’s limping badly. And Dad’s already aiming. He sights down the barrel of the rifle and fires.

No!

The one who bit me, the one who made me—Randall—collapses on the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut.

Dad turns to me now, his rifle ready. I’m going to die, aren’t I?

I whimper again, pleading with my eyes, trying to show him that Brock the Human still lives inside Brock the Beast.

Dad hesitates.

And I wrench myself from wolf to human form. My skeleton reshapes in a red-hot agony, my fur melts away from me and bares my skin. I kneel before him, naked and defenseless, then raise my head to meet his eyes.

“Oh, God.” Dad recoils, lowering his rifle. “No.”

“Dad.” I stagger to my feet as if unused to human legs. “Dad, it’s me.”

“What did they do to you?”

“I… I changed. I’m a werewolf.”

“Oh, God, no.” Dad’s voice quavers now. “I didn’t think… what did they do to you?”

“Nothing. They treated me all right. They—” I glance back.

But Randall is gone. A bloody trail of footprints disappears into the alley. He’s dragged himself away to die.

I’m never going to see him again.

“Jesus.” I’m shaking now. “Dad, you shouldn’t have done that. He was good to me.”

“He bit you.”

“He had to! It had to happen that way!” I realize I’m screaming and struggle to control myself. “Dad. You didn’t have to kill him.”

Dad looks horrified. “He killed Chris.”

“I know, but—”

“There is no but. Have they warped your mind? Made you think that they’re not so bad?”

“Dad, no—”

“A gick is a gick.”

I swallow hard. “Are you going to shoot me now?”

His face hardens. “I followed the police here to rescue you or put you out of your misery. Whichever I had to do. And now…”

“You think I’m a beast,” I say. “You think I’m not the same Brock at all.”

But I know that to be the truth when I look down at my bloody hands and Blackjack lying dead at my feet. And it breaks my heart.

I speak barely above a whisper. “Do it.”

Dad raises the rifle. His eyes glitter. “Are you asking me to?”

“You don’t want a gick for a son. You would rather see both of your sons dead and buried than see them become werewolves.”

Dad says nothing.

“If you’re going to do it,” I say, amazed how level my voice sounds, “you can’t touch the werepuppies. Okay? They still have a chance.”

“Werepuppies?” Dad squints at me. “You mean these curs have pups?”

And I know he will never see Others as anything more than gicks.

“Yes.” I stare him down the way I never could before. “And I won’t let you hurt them.”

Dad lowers his gaze, and it wavers over the bloodstains on the road. He doesn’t seem to know what to say or do after his hate has weakened.

“If you’re going to kill me,” I say, “do it now.”

He won’t look at me.

“Do it!” I advance on him until the metal of the rifle barrel presses into my chest. My voice cracks. “For Christ’s sake, do it.”

“Brock, no.” Dad’s face crumples. “Brock.”

He withdraws from me, but I keep walking. Fear sharpens his eyes, and my throat constricts. Does he think I would kill him? I stop following him. Finally, he lowers the rifle. We stand so close I can feel his breath.

“Dad?”

I wonder if he will hug me now and admit he’s crying. But he still won’t touch me.

“The past five days,” he says, “we thought you were dead.”

It took less than a week to change everything.

I speak, barely above a whisper. “Did you hope I was?”

“Brock, no.” Dad’s voice sounds gravelly. “First Chris, then you—” He looks away from me and runs his hands over his face.

I swallow hard. “I missed his funeral, right?”

Dad shakes his head. “Not yet. We had him cremated.”

“Can I come?”

Then I will know it’s real. The realness will beat my nightmares.

Dad nods, his chin trembling, and he looks so old and weak it tears me up inside.

“Before we go,” I say, “we need to tell the police about Cyn. They drugged her with faerie wine, to wipe her memory, and—”

“The police already know where the pack is,” Dad says. “Cyn should be safe soon.”

“We need to make sure. I can’t abandon her.”

“Brock, you talking to the police right now isn’t a smart move.”

I clench my jaw. “Then let’s go back and get her ourselves.”

Dad sighs, but nods.

I follow him to a pickup in an abandoned parking lot. For a heartbeat I think it’s Randall’s, but no, of course it isn’t baby blue. It’s Dad’s pickup from the dairy. He opens the door, tosses me a pair of jeans, then climbs into the driver’s seat. I pull on the jeans, grateful to not be naked any longer, and climb in after him.

We drive to Rex’s Steakhouse. Outside, the lights of an ambulance and cop cars swirl in the blackness of the night. I jump out of the truck and run to the back door, but Cliff Sterling is already there, talking to a cop.

“One of my patrons discovered her in the alley,” Cliff says, casually smoking a cigarette.

Oh, God. Discovered her dead?

“What did you see?” the cop asks Cliff.

The Zlatrovik Alpha shrugs. “Nothing. I suspect she had too much to drink, that’s all.”

“Okay.” The cop scribbles something down.

“I can only hope she has a better day tomorrow.” Cliff flicks his cigarette into the street. “I have business to attend to, if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”

“Not a problem.”

Cliff’s gaze meets mine, and he stares longer than someone would with a stranger. I look away—he might be my future Alpha.

“Brock?” Dad calls. “Come here.”

He’s standing by the ambulance. I run to him, and then I see her. Cyn, lying on a gurney, her face pale and sweaty. She’s wearing an oxygen mask. Relief floods through me—she’s breathing, she’s alive. The ambulance’s doors close before I can talk to the paramedics, but I know this glimpse will have to be enough.

“We can go now,” I tell Dad.

We drive back to Blackjack’s body. Together, we lift him into the back of the pickup. It, not him. It’s hard to think of my dog as an unmoving thing.

We’re done with Denver. We hit the highway and drive for I don’t know how long, then turn onto a gravel road that heads through the slumbering prairie. Dad refuses to look at me. He pulls over beside a ditch, beneath a wrinkled old cottonwood.

He grabs a shovel from the back. I shiver. Did he bring it to bury me?

“Help me carry him,” Dad says.

We move Blackjack beneath the cottonwood and take turns digging his grave. Finally, we lower the dog into the earth. I toss a handful of dirt onto Blackjack’s body. Before we leave, I crouch in the ditch and wash the blood from my hands and mouth. I can’t help but think he could have been a good dog.

I can’t help but think I could have been a good guy.