Page 41

Seth Mays

Will you meet me at the house later?

Elliot Crane

Of course!

When?

A couple hours?

I’ll be there.

I was running very late, having gone to see Humbolt to update him on the note and to check in to see whether or not there had been any progress on Noah’s case.

The answer had been not exactly—Gwen Walsh was optimistic about Noah’s chances, particularly in the aftermath of Mosby’s arrest. She had recruited Humbolt, whose mildly alarmed expression suggested he was less comfortable with his new role as civil litigant on top of being an assistant defense attorney for a murder case than she was.

Walsh, on the other hand, was almost gleeful about the civil suit she intended to file against Augusta County as soon as she got a judge to dismiss the murder case.

Humbolt hadn’t had anything helpful to offer about Momma’s letter any more than he’d had about her will, but he’d made a copy of it for her file.

I wanted to go up there to see if I could figure out anything more.

What Momma’s message meant, if anything.

The mention of the loose floorboard upstairs in Noah’s room—then Rachael’s room—had me wondering if there was something there.

When Noah and I had been little, he’d hidden things in there.

Shiny stones, a squirrel skull, a small plastic toy blue dog we’d once found on the street during a trip to Staunton, scraped and stained by having been cast aside, intentionally or otherwise.

I couldn’t think of any other reason why Momma would specifically call my attention to it.

When had she written the note? Days before she died? Weeks? Months? It couldn’t have been longer than that, given the lack of weathering and smudging of the note.

Did she know my father would kill her?

I rounded the corner of the gravel drive, hoping Elliot wasn’t too annoyed that I was a good two hours later than I said I’d be.

I pulled up, parked, and stepped out of the driver’s side door, then immediately froze.

I hadn’t seen him in sixteen years, hadn’t ever smelled him in wolf form, and yet I knew .

And then I smelled the blood.

Elliot’s blood.

Rage and fear spiked through me, igniting my blood with energy. Elliot is mine.

I stripped off my t-shirt, undid the knee brace, and dropped both shorts and underwear. I needed to shift, and I needed to do it fast . Getting caught up in my own clothes wasn’t an option—so I pushed myself into the electric current running through veins and bones and muscle.

Pain was nothing. A faint buzzing shadow on the edge of my consciousness as I pushed fur and fangs and claws through weak flesh and pink skin.

It was the fastest I’d ever shifted, and I was free, running despite the twinge in my leg, knowing it was bad. Not caring.

Because I could smell Elliot’s blood, even stronger in my wolf’s nose, cut with the tang of fear, the burnt bitterness of anger, and the thick, sickly sourness of my father’s hatred.

My feet slipped on the wooden stairs, claws scrabbling before finding purchase and sending me up onto the bloodstained porch, ignoring the stain of my mother’s blood. I hit the front door at full tilt, slamming my shoulder into it and snarling when it refused to move.

I was dimly aware of an ache in my shoulder, but it was distant and fuzzy, like it was happening to a disconnected part of me.

I threw myself at the door again, hearing something—the door, the frame, I didn’t stop to think about what—starting to splinter. But it didn’t break.

So I did it again.

This time, I felt it give, yielding under the impact of my weight. But it still held.

On the other side, I could hear growling and snarling—Elliot’s low, deep rumble and a second, gravelly rasp that I assumed belonged to my father.

I could smell more blood now—Elliot’s and what had to have been my father’s, since the three of us were the only ones I could smell here.

I hit the door again, and this time the frame splintered, the door bursting open, causing me to tumble through, my paws scrambling to stay under me.

Elliot was huddled on the far side of the room, his body set in a defensive stance, teeth bared, claws—smeared with blood—in front of him.

Between us was a tan-and-grey wolf, his body lean and wiry, fur a little ragged, eyes hollow and too-bright, whether from fever, hunger, or religious fervor, I wasn’t sure.

I didn’t particularly care.

The wolf—my father—backed away from me, moving so that he could keep both Elliot and me in his line of sight.

I wanted to ask him why. Why he’d killed Momma. Why Rachael had died. Why he thought he was any more righteous or holy than anyone else.

Why he hated Noah and me so much.

But I couldn’t. A wolf’s mouth isn’t made to ask questions. It was made to bite and tear. Who was I to argue with nature?

My father wouldn’t expect it, not from me.

I’d never once fought back, never resisted anything he’d ever demanded or inflicted on me.

I hadn’t been a rebellious kid—rebellion hadn’t felt like an option in my life.

Death had seemed like the only way out, and, even then, I’d prayed for years before taking any direct action.

I was done allowing others to enforce their will on me.

Anger roiled through me, and I felt my lips skin back from my teeth, baring fangs that I knew were long and sharp from the chew-marks I’d left on various objects—the corner of one of the railroad-tie raised beds, a spare two-by-four, a pair of boots that Elliot insisted he needed to replace anyway, although I wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t exaggerated to make me feel better.

My father’s ears went back, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as he bared his teeth in response. The expression was ugly and hate-filled.

Mine was no different.

I jumped first.

I had forgotten something very important—that I wasn’t a fighter, but my father most definitely was.

Somehow, I hadn’t put together the fact that a man who’d killed before might be skilled in combat.

I’d factored in my own weight advantage—we might be built on the same frame, but I had easily fifty to seventy-five pounds on him.

But I wasn’t a fighter and never had been, and my righteous anger was no match for his sanctimonious zeal when you added in his familiarity with violence.

He met my attack with an open mouth, legs planted in a wide stance so that a toss of his head could overbalance me and send me sprawling. At least my fur kept my head from bouncing off the floor quite as hard as it would have in human form.

I scrambled back to my feet, trying to reorient myself, to keep my father’s attention on me and away from Elliot. Yeah, I knew Elliot had gotten into his share of fights over the years—or he’d said as much, anyway—and I hadn’t, but he was smaller and had a lot less reach.

And the thought of losing him— again —was something I wasn’t willing to consider.

But Elliot had been the one to move forward while I was down, and he took a swipe at my father’s forelegs, landing gashes—not the first, it looked like, from the blood matting that lower leg and paw—and sending red droplets spattering across the wood floor.

A badger might be able to defend its den in a defensive posture, its rear end stuffed in the ground, but they aren’t fast, and as quick as I knew Elliot’s reflexes were, he was no match for a wolf’s speed and reach.

My father lunged, teeth snapping, flipping Elliot on his back and going for the soft fur of his underbelly.

Piece of advice—don’t flip a badger.

They do not like it.

Elliot snarled, claws and teeth going for and making contact with my father’s now-exposed face.

Even a wolf wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way before those claws drew a set of ragged lines across his canid features.

Good .

While he was distracted, I came in from the other side, barreling into him, my head ducked to hit his ribcage, teeth going for his shoulder. I missed, but I did knock him off balance, giving Elliot a chance to right himself and scrabble back, seeking shelter under one of the kitchen chairs.

I didn’t hear the others come in behind me.

Between us, Elliot and I might have stood a chance of taking down my father. We didn’t stand a chance against another five Community wolves.

The last time I’d gotten into a fight as a wolf—with Noah—I hadn’t been conscious enough of myself as a wolf to feel the pain of what was happening to me. I’d ended up with scratches, bruises, and one bite mark, but I hadn’t been aware of them as it was happening.

I was very aware of what was happening to me now.

Claws cutting into my side. Teeth snapping at my tail, my achilles, my ears.

I knew enough to protect my throat and belly, to keep twisting away to get my feet back under me, to bare my teeth and snap back when nips and bites hit my flanks and shoulders.

I tried to see Elliot, to make sure he was still okay, but I couldn’t find him through the fangs and fur and gleaming eyes.

I could still hear him, though, his rough, low badger-growl clear even among the snarls and barks of the wolves.

Someone bit my thigh, and I kicked back. So they bit the bottom of my leg and shook .

I felt something in my knee snap, a feeling of wrongness as something else twisted in a direction it shouldn’t go, and then a strange sort of Jello-like feeling…

immediately followed by crippling pain. I know pain.

Pain and I are, not buddies, exactly, but longstanding rivals. Frenemies, if you like.

This was completely different. Hot and acid and cold and sickening. Far, far worse than what I’d done to it slipping on wet roots.

Nausea surged, and I fought to not throw up.

I couldn’t afford to throw up.

I had to keep fighting, even though my leg didn’t work and I could barely breathe through the pain.

I had to keep fighting.