Page 2 of The Alpha Dire Wolf (Bloodlines & Bloodbonds #1)

Sylvie

Welcome to New Lockwood

S eeing that sign as I came around the curve on the bendy road, with the familiar logo of three oak trees rising up together under the sun, brought back many memories, many of them good.

Unfortunately, they were just memories, of a childhood that suggested a much better life ahead. That was before the move.

Back when life consisted of summers spent on the tire swing hanging from the big oak tree in my grandma’s backyard or exploring the forest that started at her property’s edge, soaking myself in the warm, welcoming embrace it seemed to exude every time I stepped inside it.

I never felt any danger at that house, just down the street from the one I grew up in.

My grandmother would always be watching from her second-floor sitting room, her favorite place in the house.

And if she wasn’t there, she was chasing me through the forest, playing a million and one versions of tag.

Smiling, I passed the sign on the outskirts of town, all wrapped up in times that were as comforting and delicious as the chocolate chip cookies Grandma would bake.

She would always open the window and set them on a tray there to cool.

The woman had invented chemical warfare of an entirely different sort, weaponizing the scent of fresh cookies to get my butt back into the house to wash up for dinner.

She always knew when I tried to steal one early by sneaking up on the window from the outside.

I would reach up, thinking for sure I had pulled one over on her this time.

And then whap , a gentle smack on the back of my hand just before I got my prize followed by a victorious laugh from inside as I shrieked in surprise and ran away.

Then it would be a home-cooked meal and bath time. After that I was usually allowed to watch a movie. Then Grandma would tuck me into bed and read me bedtime stories about all sorts of fantastical creatures, magical quests, and dragons—both friendly and fierce.

It was perfect. But that was before we moved. Before … everything.

So caught up was I in the nostalgia of Grandma’s house, I missed the first signs.

Only when icepicks ripped through my stomach did I react, whipping the wheel to the side as I came around a particularly sharp turn to find a truck in my lane.

Screams filled my car as I swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid the monster-sized red pickup and then wrenched the wheel as far back as I could, careening across the yellow lines back onto my side of the road to prevent a head-on collision with oncoming traffic.

My tires hit gravel, and I started to slide down the embankment before I got it back under control. The rear of the car fishtailed for a few dozen feet before I came to a stop, hunched over my wheel, finally able to draw a breath.

Looking in my rearview mirror, I watched the giant truck take off. Its windows were far too tinted for me to have gotten a glimpse of the driver, other than it was a big male. Getting the license plate never even occurred to me.

“Red trucks,” I cursed. “Why does it always have to be red truck owners insistent on messing up my life?”

Taking slow breaths, I tried to put my hands on the wheel, but they were still shaking too badly.

So I sat there. The driver of the other car came over and asked if I was okay.

I assured them I was, that I was just shaken up, but ultimately I sent them on their way, grateful that at least someone had the decency to stop.

I was beyond grateful to whatever sense of danger I possessed that had warned me to swerve away. Without it, I would be a pancake. That truck would have turned my tiny car into an accordion without breaking a sweat.

Several shaky minutes later, I pulled my car into the driveway of my grandma’s house, loose gravel crunching noisily under the tires.

Looking over the faded yellow bricking of the century home, I couldn’t see any signs of life, but that wasn’t unusual.

My grandmother wasn’t as spry as she used to be, and oftentimes I would arrive to find her in her second-floor sitting room, watching the forest out the back.

That was where I expected to find her now.

Ascending the stairs that led to the wraparound porch, I listened to it creak and groan, making sure I didn’t step on the loose board to the right.

I really needed to get that fixed for her.

She’d mentioned it on my last visit, but that was during winter a few months ago.

Now that spring was transitioning to summer already, it was past time.

Knocking heavily on the door, I didn’t wait for an answer but instead twisted the handle.

The door was always unlocked. My grandmother didn’t believe in the need to lock one’s doors.

“Not in New Lockwood, my dear, oh no. Not necessary here,” she would always say whenever I tried to convince her otherwise.

Which is why I nearly walked nose-first into the door when it refused to open.

“What the?” I tried the handle again. Still locked.

My key made short work of the obstacle, but I was on full alert now, listening intently to my gut instinct. There would be no more sneaking up on me today. If something was wrong, I was going to be ready.

But the only thing I was greeted with as I opened the door was silence, inside and out.

“Hello? Grandma?” I called, stepping into the front foyer and closing the door behind me. “It’s me, Vi-vi!”

The pendulum of the huge grandfather clock at the base of the stairs straight ahead swung ponderously back and forth, ticking away the seconds until the next gong. Otherwise, there was nothing. Not a peep.

On the table next to it, a notebook with a piece of paper on top caught my eye. Moving closer, I saw my name scrawled onto it. “To Vi-vi.” That was all, no signature, though it again was my grandmother’s very recognizable handwriting.

“A journal? Thanks,” I said to nobody in particular, not touching the small book. I didn’t know if I was supposed to see it, or if she had left that note for herself as a reminder.

A quick search of the rest of the house, upstairs and down, revealed no sign of my grandma. The place held an odd quiet that I didn’t like. My stomach was uneasy, but that was worry gnawing at me, not a warning of imminent danger. It took me some time to place what the problem was.

The silence. The house was never this quiet. There was always music, the TV, or even my grandmother’s voice or that of her friends, who were always over. The big airy house always felt alive to me.

“What’s going on, Grandma?” I asked the old wallpapered walls. “Why did you send me that letter? Where did you go?”

My wandering through the house brought me back to the front hall and the note on top of the journal book. Looking a little closer, I saw the creases in the spine. This wasn’t a new book for me. It was used. Was it one of hers?

I slowly reached out for it.

Knock! Knock!

Jumping, I yelped loudly.

“Hello?” a voice called through the door. “Is everyone okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Moving to the door, I opened it to see my grandmother’s church pastor.

“Mr. Nevis,” I said warmly, my heart starting to calm. “It’s good to see you.”

“You as well, Sylvie,” Richard Nevis said, a small smile creasing his face.

It was tighter and less warm than usual for the cheery man, though.

“If you’re looking for my grandma, she’s not home. I’m sorry,” I told him.

Mr. Nevis frowned. “I know, my dear.”

“You do?”

“Of course.”

I stared at him blankly, and he stared back at me, both bushy eyebrows slowly knitting together in confusion. Then dawning overcame him.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, letting himself into the house. “Come, come. Sit down.”

Everything in my stomach was slowly congealing, and it wasn’t because of the fast food I’d gotten on the drive over. This wasn’t good.

“What’s going on, Mr. Nevis?” I asked, wringing my hands together in worry.

In a situation like this, it’s clear what he was working himself up to say, the news he was going to give me. But I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to acknowledge it. Not until the last inevitable second before it became a reality I had to face.

“I don’t understand how nobody has told you yet,” Mr. Nevis said as we moved into the sitting room next to the foyer, taking seats on opposing couches.

“Told me what?” I asked, the dread inside me rising.

“Oh, my dear Sylvie,” he said gently, reaching across to take my hand.

“I am so sorry you have to find out this way and that I must be the one to tell you this, but your grandmother left this mortal plane three days ago to find her place in the heavens above. That’s how I knew she wasn’t at home.

I was just coming by to gather a few pictures. For the funeral this afternoon.”