Bloodborn (15 page)

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 hum
mingbird feeders on the porch. The
scent of soup tri
ckles 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 blu
rs.

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.

fifteen

D
eputy Collins and Sheriff Royle stroll along the edge of a gravel road downwind from me, their cruiser parked and silent. Shit, how did I blunder right into them? So much for super-sharp wolfish senses. I flatten myself against the ground and creep behind a sagebrush bush. What are they going to do if they see me like this?

“They're pups, sir,” Collins says. “It's easy to see how someone might call them cute.”

“Cute?” Royle spits on the dirt. “The littlest ones are the most infectious ones. Just like baby rattlesnakes have the most venom.”

They must be talking about werepuppies. No idea if that's a bullshit theory or not.

“Yes, sir,” Collins says, not looking his boss in the eye.

“If you see a little one, don't be fooled. Shoot it on sight.”

A shudder of disgust bristles the fur along my spine. I can just imagine a dumb little werepuppy skipping up to Royle and trying to lick his hand, only to get a bullet right between its eyes. What kind of asshole kills an innocent pup?

Collins's radio crackles, and he holds it to his ear.

Royle keeps walking and talking. “Don't let that tiny cur anywhere near—”

“Sir?” Collins says. “We're getting a call I think you should hear.”

“Is that right?” Royle stops and looks back. “What did they say?”

“Some lady just called the 911 dispatch from Pray, Montana.” The deputy's eyes light up. “She saw a huge wild animal, like a dog.”

“Like a wolf,” Royle murmurs. “I knew the pack was here.”

No, you idiot. They're way far ahead, and you're after the wrong wolf.

“Looks like we know who to question first, Deputy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Royle strides on ahead, his legs kind of bowed like he just rode up on a Wild West stallion instead of sitting on his ass in his cruiser.

Why do the police have to be so useless?

I'm going to have to change back, and explain everything. As soon as they're far enough away, I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate.
Human
. I wait for the shivers, the feverish skin, but all I feel is stupid. Why isn't this working? I grit my teeth and strain all of my muscles, trying to shove them back into human shape. Nothing.

Oh, fuck almighty. I'm stuck, aren't I?

Ahead, Royle and Collins near the little white ranch house. I creep after them, keeping low to the ground. I can still hear the rat-dogs yapping. When I'm as close as I dare, I lie in the shadows and swivel my ears toward the house.

Royle rings the doorbell. That woman—Sadie—answers the door, rifle in hand.

“Oh!” she says, lowering her weapon. “I'm so sorry, I thought you were something else.”

Yeah, like wolves can ring doorbells.

I try one more time to squeeze myself back into my human body, but only a whine escapes me from the strain of it. The peanut-colored dog appears at Sadie's ankles, its head cocked, followed by the black dog.

“Ma'am.” Royle flashes his badge. “We just happened to be in the area when you called.”

Sadie frowns. “911? That wasn't more than two minutes ago.”

“A fortuitous coincidence,” Collins says.

Man, somebody's been studying really hard for the SAT.

Royle lowers his voice. “Ma'am, we've been on a special assignment for quite some time now, tracking the whereabouts of a pack from Washington.”

“What sort of pack?” Sadie says.

Collins steps forward, his hat in his hands. “A werewolf pack.”

Sadie gasps. “Barnes?” she hollers back into the house. “Come here a minute!”

Her husband shuffles up in ratty old slippers. “Police here already?”

“That's what I said,” Sadie says, “and then they said they've been tracking a pack of
werewolves
all the way from Washington.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Royle says. “That is the unfortunate truth of the
matter.”

All this time, the two rat-dogs are sneaking closer to the door. The black one thrusts its muzzle into the wind, then barks and sprints outside. The peanut-colored dog races after the other one, yapping like Armageddon is upon us.

“Daffy, Trixie, no!” screams Sadie.

Before I can really think about what retarded names those are, both rat-dogs discover me hiding in the shrubbery. The peanut one snarls like an angry bee, but the black one wags its tail frantically and sticks its nose in my face.

“
Daffy!
” Sadie claps her hands, and the black dog flinches. “Don't touch that cur!”

I'm a wolf. And I'm being attacked by fluffy, kind-of-cute dogs. Shit? What's definitely shit, though, is Royle marching up with his gun out.

“Come out, werewolf,” he says. “You can run, but you can't hide.”

Seriously? This guy wins the award for dumbest sheriff ever.

I sigh, and Daffy licks my muzzle. When I lumber to my feet, she flattens herself against the ground in submission, her tail wagging hard. Trixie keeps growling and yipping at me, never mind that I'm a hundred times her size.

“No sudden moves,” Collins says, his gun also pointed at me.

Okay. I'm screwed. There's no way I can explain myself, because there's no way I can get myself back into human form.

When I walk into the light, Sadie gasps. The barrel of her rifle swings up. “It
is
a wolf!”

Barnes whistles low under his breath.

“I said so,” Sadie says to her husband. “Didn't I say so? And you said it was imaginary.”

Royle shushes her. “Ma'am, step back and let us do our job.” He points his pistol right between my eyes. “Change back to human form. Then we talk.”

I shake my head and woof to say that I can't.

Royle's forehead wrinkles. “Change back, now.”

That's not happening any time soon. I lie down and lower my head to my paws.

“Sir,” Collins says, “do you think it might be a real wolf?”

Royle snorts. “Of course not. A real wolf wouldn't understand us.”

I nod, then wag my tail like a dog to prove that I'm not dangerous. Daffy dives into a playful bow, wriggling with excitement.

“Oh, Lord.” Sadie marches up to us and scoops her dogs into her arms.

“Stand back, ma'am,” Royle says. “This werewolf is dangerous.”

Sadie purses her lips. “To be honest, sir, I don't think this one is. It acts kind of tame.”

“Collins,” Royle says, “get the catchpole.”

“Yes, sir.” Collins jogs in the direction of the cruiser.

Jesus, I wish I could tell them what's going on. Every minute we waste here, the Bitterroot Pack is taking Cyn farther away from safety.

Wait a second … maybe I can tell them.

I climb to my feet and start to scratch in the gravel driveway with my paw. Clumsy, but not impossible.
H … E …

Collins returns with one of those snares on a pole for catching feral dogs.

You've got to be kidding me.

L
… Now Sadie is squinting at what I'm writing. The last letter is the hardest, because it's not all straight lines, but I manage.
P.

“Give it here, son,” Royle says.

Collins tosses Royle the catchpole, and the sheriff advances on me, his boots scuffing my word.
HELP
disappears. I growl in frustration and the sheriff lunges at me, the snare of the catchpole aimed for my neck. I snap at the thick wire, but miss.

“Wait!” Sadie says. “That wolf … help … ”

“I could use a little help,” Royle shouts.

Collins draws his gun and levels it between my eyes. I bare my teeth at the idiot and let a terrifying snarl ripple my muzzle. He knows I mean business, because he takes a step back, his eyes huge, and—Royle swoops with the catchpole. Wire loops around my neck, digging past my thick pelt and biting into my skin.

I scrabble back, yanking Royle with me. He topples to his knees.

“Don't move!” Collins says. “Or I'll shoot!”

I crouch, my ears flat against my skull, my tail between my legs, and cough at the tightness around my windpipe. If they're going to kill me, why don't they just put a bullet in my brain? Why choke me to death?

Royle struggles to his feet, both hands on the catchpole, and turns toward my flank. The wire twists tighter still, and my growl comes out as a whining wheeze. He swings one leg over my back, like he's going to ride me, and my legs buckle under the weight of him and the fact that I'm just whistling for a bit of air …

Sadie stands watching, clutching her two silent dogs. “What are you going to do?”

“Shut him down,” Royle says.

Panic surges through me, and I lunge to my feet, trying to buck Royle, but he grips fistfuls of my fur. Blood drains from my head and I black out for a second. Then, a needle-sharp pain stabs me in the scruff of my neck.

I yelp and shake hard like I can fling away the hurt, the needle, the poison.

Both Daffy and Trixie stare at me from Sadie's arms, their bug-eyes huge. Fucking ridiculous. My vision swirls like ink going down a drain. I slump onto the gravel. Royle climbs off me and kicks my muzzle with his boot.

His voice sounds echoing and faraway, like we're all underwater. “We're finished here, ma'am.”

I'm finished, too, because … everything … is … black.

Rumbling. Dirty old smell in my nose. I snort, then blink. A car, a man at the wheel.

I fade out again.

When I fade back, it's cold. My legs feel numb. I shudder, and sharpness bites into my skin. With a groan, I pry open my eyelids and discover I've been trussed up with barbed wire, my legs tied together in one big knot.

Still a wolf.

Sheriff Royle stands watching me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Collins!” he yells.

“Yes, sir?” Collins jogs up with a flashlight.

“This cur's ready for questioning.” Royle pulls on thick leather gloves. “Shine the light.”

And then I see he's carrying a cattle prod.

A whine escapes my muzzled mouth. Oh, God, they don't know who I am. They don't know that I'm one of the people they're supposed to be saving. And how the fuck do they plan on questioning me when I can't talk?

Royle stares down at me. “You run with the Bitterroot Pack.” It isn't a question.

I shake my head, ignoring how the barbed wire cuts into me.

Royle's eyes narrow. “That's a lie.” He touches the cattle prod to my ribs.

Electricity jolts through me, stiffening all my muscles, singing my fur. I'm growling, but no sound comes out. Royle removes the cattle prod, and I collapse against the barbed wire. Pain blooms inside me like a widening stain.

“Where is the rest of your pack?” Royle says.

I clench my teeth and struggle not to whimper like a kicked puppy. Please, God, let the next electric shock change me back into a human so I can explain all of this to them—the cattle prod touches my nose. My muscles strain, blazing with pain, then go limp. A high whine leaves my throat. I smell burning flesh.

“Change back now,” Royle says, “and tell us what we want to know.”

I stare at him, trying to plead with my eyes, to show him that I'm human inside.

“I'm about to tell you som
ething important.” Royle's voice drops to a low murmur, like water rising in a river about to overflow its banks. “I don't give a shit what a
nybody else thinks about you. There might be some high-and-mighty lawyers out there who think we should treat gicks nice, but they wouldn't know a gick if it bit them.” He doesn't even laugh at his own joke. “That's a terrible, dangerous kind of ignorance. Those people have never seen a little boy watch his blue-ribbon calf get eaten before his eyes, never seen a dead man with his face gnawed off, all in the name of
gick rights.
” He hisses the words.

My stomach twists at how awfully familiar his words sound.

“This”—Royle raises the cattle prod—“is my kind of gick rights.”

I shut my eyes.

“Sir,” Collins says. “I—” A muffled thud.

My eyes spring open in time to see Randall standing over Collins's crumpled body with my dad's shotgun in his hands. The flashlight that Collins dropped lies on the ground, shining crazy, crooked light on the scene.

“Get your hands off my bloodborn.”

Royle springs to his feet, the cattle prod held aloft. “Don't move!”

Randall shoulders the shotgun. “I don't think you're in a position to give orders, you fucked-up piece of worthless shit.”

“Collins?” Royle calls to his deputy, who doesn't move. He reaches for his radio.

“Drop it,” Randall says, his eyes smoldering. “Or you'll get a pretty obvious obituary.”

The radio falls from Royle's hand and clunks on the ground.