Bloodborn (6 page)

Two moons down, forever to go.

In the morning, I ache like I got tackled by every player on the football team, but I feel fucking awesome. Of course, that doesn't mean it won't happen again. I'm a walking time bomb, and there's no way to defuse this disease.

I'm in my bed, reading the book on werewolves, when someone knocks on my door. I clap the book shut and dump it into the crack between my bed and the wall, like I was caught reading some really bad porn.

“Yeah?” I call.

Dad opens the door, his head bowed. “Brock.”

Shit. My gut tightens. What did I do now? Dad's got that granite look to his face and a dangerous softness to his voice.

“Dad?” I keep my face blank.

He grabs my bedpost and leans forward. “Last night was the full moon.”

What did he see? I didn't lose it. I stayed human.

“Well, last night … your … ” Dad clenches his jaw, the muscles in his temples moving. “Your brother didn't make it.”

“What?” I feel like I've jumped into a cold pond, only I'm not sure whether it's relief or fear. “You mean the Lycanthrox didn't work?”

Dad nods.

“And he turned into a wolf? Holy shit, that must have scared the nurses and—”

“Chris didn't make it.”

“You already said that.”

Dad just stares down, his gaze moving over the pattern of the floorboards.

Chris. Didn't make it.

“I don't get it,” I whisper.

Dad swallows hard. “Chris passed away last night. His body couldn't take it anymore.”

Chris, convulsing on the bed. Fur bristling from his skin. A tail wriggling from his spine, claws curving from his fingertips, teeth erupting into fangs, yellow eyes rolling back. His body tearing apart from the inside out. Blood. Silence.

“Brock?” Dad's kneeling in front of me, his eyes on mine.

“How did it happen?” I hear myself asking, sounding normal.

“He didn't turn into a wolf. Not all the way. His heart just gave out.”

“Just gave out.”

“Yes.”

Chris's heart, beating fast, faster, then stuttering to a halt.

I realize I'm clutching my shirt over my own heart, my nails digging into my skin. I pry my hand away and flex my fingers.

“So he's gone.”

“Yes.” Dad's voice sounds croaky. “He's gone.”

He leaves. I'm staring at my fingers, wondering what just happened, wondering what I should be feeling right now.

Chris is gone. He passed away. He. Is. Dead.

I run the words through my head, testing the newness of them. I'm never going to see him open his eyes again. Never going to talk to him. Never going to have a brother. My family is almost gone. It's just me and Dad now.

I want to quit and start over, but yeah, life doesn't have a reset button.

I slam the door so hard it rattles on the hinges, then claw at the wall, my nails shredding curls of wallpaper. A high, keening whine escapes between my clenched teeth. I'm going to kill Randall. I'm going to fucking tear his throat out.

The werewolves howl that night, taunting me in a triumphant chorus. Dad doesn't hear them—he's passed out drunk on the couch after a day talking to the hospital and the funeral home. I'm not going to any funeral, period.

I go downstairs like a walking statue, unfeeling, unthinking. In the garage, the musty, mousy smell twinges my supersensitive nose. I can hear a rodent scratching in the wall, even the high squeaks it makes to its mate. I grab my coat, two boxes of rounds, and Dad's favorite shotgun. I'm more than a match for the werewolves.

I slip outside, shadow-quiet, and lock the door behind me. Darkness shaved a sliver from the moon, but she still has power over me. I grit my teeth and stride straight through her light. My skeleton creaks and stays human.

The silver glow erases all of the deadness from Mom's garden. Grounded leaves shine like a windfall of faerie coins. The single bud of the miniature rose blossomed into a tiny, perfect, blood-red flower. I twist its stem from the branch and bring the flower to my nose, the perfume tied to memories of Mom. I'm glad she never had to know what happened to her sons. I tuck the rose into my breast pocket, trying not to bruise its petals.

I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment, Mom. I'm going to fix things now.

The werewolves are howling again, their ghostly voices drifting over the sea of trees. I stop at the edge of the lawn, my head tilted in their direction. They can't be more than a mile or two away. I enter the forest, passing through puddles of moonlight and a shimmering rustling of ferns, all shadow and glow.

I'm coming for you. No one will have to hear your howls again.

The farther into the wilderness I go, the faster I walk, until I'm running, my arms swinging, boots pounding the dirt. I clutch the shotgun so it won't slip out of my sweaty hands. I can't hear the werewolves anymore, but I'm going to find them. My calf muscles burn from the effort of sprinting. My breath comes in quick gasps.

The moon sweeps across the sky, dressed in a ragged ball gown of clouds. Electric-shock excitement worms its way deeper into my chest. I charge up a hill and sprint down, feet skimming the ground. I feel fast enough to outrun any werewolves, tough enough to fight the whole pack, even if I have to take them down with me. A log juts from the ferns and sends me flying. I tumble into a ravine, the shotgun spinning from my hands.

I spit the dirt and leaves from my mouth. “Fuck.”

Lightning crashes in the mountains, followed by the pattering of rain. Rounds flew from my pockets and now lie, glinting in the moonlight, scattered all over the forest floor. I scramble to pick them up and return them to their boxes.

A growl rumbles from the darkness.

My breath sticks in my throat. I ditch the rounds and grab—no wait, where is it? What happened to the shotgun?

Ferns rustle. Two eyes flash yellow. Randall. I know it's him.

“Hey, gick,” I say, bravado steeling my voice, even though my knees feel like water. “Stop cowering in the shadows.”

A black nose pokes through the ferns, followed by the massively muscled head and body of the silver wolf. He's got to weigh between a hundred-fifty and two hundred pounds. Real wolves don't get that big. He bares wicked fangs.

Where the hell is the shotgun?

“I was looking for you,” I say, stalling for time. “You following me?”

The silver wolf cocks his head.

“Can't talk, huh?” I sweep the leaves with my gaze. Every stick and log looks like the barrel of the shotgun. “Guess it's just barking.”

A louder growl rumbles from the wolf's throat. He stalks toward me, bristling. Then I see it, wedged between a fern and a boulder. The shotgun. I dive for it just as the wolf lunges, quicker than me but farther away, and I—

Jesus fucking Christ.

I'm staring right into the green-gold eyes of a soot black wolf. It lifts its lip and snarls. I freeze in a crouch, my hand halfway toward the shotgun, but also very close to the black wolf's jaws. Behind me, I hear the silver wolf pad closer. Movement flickers in the corner of my eye, and I glimpse yet another wolf circling me.

I withdraw from the black wolf guarding the shotgun. I stand.

I am surrounded by wolves.

six

T
wining between the trees and shadows, the wolves circle me like a tightening knot. Suddenly there's no air in my lungs and no spit in my mouth. I've walked right into the middle of the werewolf pack.

Well, this was what I was going for. Right? But I can't say I'm not scared shitless.

The silver wolf, Randall, breaks free from the swirling pack and stands before me. He bares his teeth in what may be a snarl, or a smile.

You killed my brother. You took my life away from me.

I lunge at the silver wolf. Surprise in his eyes, he leaps as
ide, but my boot connects with his ribs. He yelps. I laugh. Randall flattens his ears and snaps at me, his teeth clicking. I grab a stout stick off the ground and raise it high.

A woman's voice cuts through the night. “Enough!”

Randall lowers his head and retreats from me. The swirling wolves halt, their ears pricked, paws raised questioningly. A tawny-skinned woman with a long mane of black hair strides into the circle of wolves. She's wearing ragged jeans and a loose shirt that doesn't conceal that she's pregnant. Silver bracelets glint on her arms.

“You found the bloodborn,” says the black-haired woman. It isn't a question.

Randall dips his shaggy head in a nod.

“I want to talk with you,” says the woman, her gaze still on Randall.

He closes his eyes for a moment, with the slightest of sighs. Then the fur melts from him like candle wax, baring naked skin. His skeleton grinds and clicks as it reshuffles into the shape of a man. The yellow fire in his eyes dies to dark coals. Randall shudders with the final stages of transformation, then stands.

“Winema,” he says, avoiding her stare. “Forgive me. I didn't plan to—”

“I can see this wasn't your plan,” says the woman, Winema. She eyes the shotgun rounds scattered at my feet. “What was the bloodborn doing?”

“Me?” My voice sounds hoarse, and I cough. “You gicks killed my brother.”

“You will not use that word here,” Winema says.

Under the force of her stare, my eyes start to sting until I blink and look away.
Bitch.
Only I can't bring myself to say it out loud.

Randall glances at me. “He didn't survive the full moon?”

“Of course not, you goddamn cur,” I say.

Winema snaps her fingers, and the soot-black wolf soars and knocks me to the ground. Air swooshes from my lungs. Huge paws pin my shoulders. I smell blood and meat on the wolf's breath, and see its teeth glinting very close.

Winema looks down at me. “Show some respect, bloodborn, or you will be punished.”

“My—name—is—Brock.”

She stares at me until I flinch away. The black wolf pants in my face.

“He's rather … aggressive,” Randall says, his voice soft and level, “though I don't think he's made his first transformation yet.”

The black wolf inhales my breath, then snorts. Wolf-snot speckles my face. I wonder if it can smell the fear in my sweat.

“Interesting.” Winema crosses her arms. “It must be that experimental drug.”

The black wolf shifts its weight, squeezing my lungs, and I try to breathe shallowly. I twist my head to the side. A rank of wolves stands silhouetted against the trees, watching me. Same on the other side. A caged jittering builds inside my chest.

“How are we going to take care of him?” Randall asks.

They're going to kill me. Maybe torture me first.

Winema tilts her head, her face stony. “I haven't decided yet.”

I'd rather die running.

A bellow roars from my throat, and I fling the wolf off of me. Caught off guard, it twists in midair and thuds on the ground. I lunge to my feet and barrel through the line of wolves as they leap aside and rough fur brushes my ankle but I'm still running I'm going to make it maybe I can outrun them and maybe—

A shotgun blast deafens me. I'm too pumped full of adrenaline to know whether I've been hit, and I'm still running, my feet weightless. Paws thunder behind me, thumping closer and closer. An image of Blackjack furiously pursuing a school bus pops into my mind, and I want to laugh a crazy laugh. Wolves like to chase things.

Something slams into me from behind. I'm tumbling, rolling, sprawling on the ground. Teeth sink deep into my calf. I'm shaken, a growl vibrating through my leg bones. I'm still not feeling pain, but I am feeling hot blood soak my socks.

I'm going to be eaten alive. They're going to rip open my belly and drape my glistening guts across the dirt, chew my bones and crunch my skull and eat my eyes like grapes … oh, man, oh, God, I don't want to die like this.

I scream, no words, just terror as sound. The black wolf is gnawing my left leg. I claw at its pale eyes with my weak human fingernails, but it squints and squeezes its jaws tighter, its fangs scraping grooves in my bone. I grope frantically and grab a stone and smash it on the wolf's muzzle. It whines but won't let go.

If you're going to kill me, I'm going to take you down with me.

I gouge my thumbs past the black wolf's eyelids. It yelps and releases my leg. I stand, crumple to one knee. Blood puddles in my shoe, slick between my toes. I tackle the wolf and wrap my arms around its neck, choking it as hard as I can. The wolf whines and scrabbles beneath me, trying to shake me loose, but I'm not going to let go.

“Bloodborn!” Winema's voice snags my attention.

She's standing right in front of me, the shotgun in her hands. I bare my teeth at her.

She growls, then raises the shotgun and smashes the butt on the back of my head. My vision flickers—and then I plummet into blackness.

Pain throbs in my head with every heartbeat. I pry open my eyelids and squint at white overcast sky, then haul myself upright. The movement sends fresh, sickening pain rippling out from the back of my head. When I can see again, I climb to my feet. My left leg aches. I glance down at it, at my shredded jeans, stiff with blood.

Where did the werewolves go?

I limp in a slow circle, swinging my head from side to side. What the fuck?
You know you don't belong here
, Randall said.
It's almost time for you to go
. I thought he was going to take me out. But the pack left me here to bleed.

My leg, and my head, are killing me. Dad must be awake now. He's definitely going to kill me. Or maybe he thinks I'm already dead. Gritting my teeth, I limp along the trail of scuffed leaves and dried blood—my blood—from the night before. I can't find Dad's shotgun. They must have taken it.

Armed with nothing, bearing no excuses, I stagger toward home.

Of all people, guess who I see on the doorstep, small and bright in her red hoodie.

“Brock!” Cyn's fists ball by her sides. “What
happened
to you?”

“I don't even know why you're here,” I say, not looking at her, walking straight past. When I try the door, it's locked. “Nobody's home?”

She gapes at me. “No. When I called, your dad sounded …
really weird.”

Dad must have been drunk, or crying, or both.

“I thought something happened,” she says, “so I drove here.”

I rummage behind a rock, find the spare key, and let myself in. I need to find some painkillers and get this blood o
ff of me, fast.

“You need to go,” I say. “Now.”

Cyn gives me a look. “Brock. You need help. You're covered in blood and you're limping … did something bite you?”

I give her a look right back.

“Oh. God! Was it the werewolves?”

“What do you think?” I say.

When I hobble upstairs, Cyn follows me. It's dark and quiet in the house. Where did Dad go? Shit. I'm getting blood on Mom's carpet. I hurry to the bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. My hands shake as I screw open a bottle of aspirin. I pour five into my palm, but Cyn grabs my wrist and shakes her head.

“Too many. You'll overdose.”

“It really hurts,” I say through clenched teeth.

“You should call 911.”

“Yeah. Right.” I pop two aspirins into my mouth and swallow them with water. “Cynthia. Why are you still here?”

She folds her arms. “Because I'm not going to let you do something stupid.”

“I need to take a shower.” I peel off my shirt and turn on the water. “Go.”

“It's not like I haven't seen you naked already,” Cyn mutters, but she leaves the room.

I shut the door and gingerly strip off my jeans, hissing at the pain. The bloody, ragged denim clings to the gashes in my skin.

“Where's your dad?” Cyn calls from behind the door.

I step into the shower and yank the curtain shut. “I don't know,” I shout back.

With the water near-scalding, I scrub myself hard, as if I can wash away all traces of the werewolves. The pounding in my head slowly numbs. When I crouch and inspect my leg, the torn flesh looks less ragged than it did an hour ago.

Clean, I shut off the water and yank open the curtain. I breathe in the steam.

“Brock? Are you—” Cyn opens the door.

I grab a towel, but she's still staring. I bend my leg gingerly, even though the pain feels older and more distant now.

“Your leg,” she says. “Is it … already healing?”

“Yeah. One of the perks.” I wrap the towel around my waist and sidestep past her, to my bedroom. “I'll see you later, Cyn. Goodbye.”

“I'm not going.”

I shut the door of my bedroom, but she opens it again right as I'm pulling on a new pair of jeans. Is she
asking
for trouble?

“What do you want?” I say. It sounds harsher than I intended.

She crosses the gap between us and stares up at me. Frowning, her fingers shaking a little, she takes my face in her hands, then slides her fingers into my hair. I wince when she touches the wound on the back of my head. Deeper than that, her touch feels like a key in a rusty lock, twisting my insides with a sweet ache.

“Brock,” she says. “You're hurt. What happened?”

“Chris,” I say. “He … ”

Her eyes glimmer as she stares at me, waiting.

“Chris is dead.”

Her face tightens with lovely sadness. “I'm sorry.”

I try to pull her closer, but she flinches away. I let my hands fall to my sides. She withdraws from me, her face blank.

“I heard the werewolves howling last night,” I say, “so I went out to meet them. I found the whole pack. One of them bit my leg, and then this woman cracked me over the head with a shotgun. When I woke up, they were gone.”

“And Chris … ?”

“The full moon.” I force out the words. “His body couldn't take it anymore.”

“I'm sorry,” Cyn says again.

“You don't have to keep saying that. It's not going to make any difference. I'm the one who has to fix things. He was my brother.”

“What do you mean, fix things?”

“Kill the werewolf who bit us both.” I clench my jaw and grab a shirt, a jacket, my shoes. “He can't keep hiding in the forest forever.”

“Brock. You can't go out there now—”

“I have to.”

“Are you crazy? They kicked your ass last night. You got knocked out by a shotgun. You're not thinking straigh
t.”

“I'm thinking straighter than I ever was before.” I head for the door.

“Brock!” She laughs an I-can't-believe-this laugh. “You're not even dressed.”

I sit on the floor and start pulling on my shoes.

Cyn stands in the doorway, blocking my path out. “I can't let you go.”

Finished dressing, I advance on her. “Move. Please.”

“No.” She braces herself in the doorway, her arms on the frame. “I don't want to be the one who could have stopped you and didn't. I wasn't there when you were bitten, and I can't stop thinking about it.”

We stare at each other, only a hairsbreadth away. I'm holding my breath, and I think she is, too. Neither of us blinks. Her eyes glitter with fire. She slides her foot toward me and closes the last fraction of distance between us.

I'm distracted by the warmth of her body so close to mine. “You can't do this.”

“Why not? We can work this out together.”

“There is no
we
.” I bare my teeth, since it's easiest to feel angry. “You dumped me. You don't get to come back whenever you feel like it and pick up your discarded boyfriend.”

Cyn sucks in her breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to break up with you? How hard it's been to stay away from you? I'm trying to help you. I can't believe you're throwing this back in my face.”

She's saying what I've wanted to hear for so long, but she's saying it too late.

I look away. “You can't help me.” I sidestep past her and stride into the hallway.

Smack in the middle of Mom's carpet, I see a small bloodstain. Frowning, I crouch over the spot. No, it's the miniature rose I picked from the garden, before I went after the werewolves. I can't believe it survived the night, and fell here.