Bloodborn (7 page)

“Brock,” Cyn says, right behind me. “Stop.”

I straighten quickly, the rose in my hand. Her eyes snap onto the brilliant red, and her fingers drift to it as if she can't help herself.

“What's this?” she says.

“A rose,” I say, “from my mom's garden.” I hold it out to her.

She lifts it from my fingers, twirling it between her own. A few petals have opened since I plucked it. “Why is it here?”

“Doesn't matter. You can have it; I won't need it where I'm going.”

If I stay any longer, I might change my mind.

I jog downstairs and open the kitchen door. I stride outside, letting the door swing shut behind me, but Cyn still slips through.

“I'm going to call the cops,” she says.

“On me? You
are
crazy.”

She jogs alongside me. “I think you've got things backwards.”

“Cyn!” I growl. “If you're going to follow me, at least be quiet.”

She makes an impatient noise.

I break
into a run, half-hoping she won't keep up, half-wishing I could just turn back and work things out with her, but it's far too late for that now. That, more than anything, really twists the knife of re
gret deeper into my heart.

Of course I can't stay. Of course I wish I could.

I shake my head to fling these thoughts away and concentrate on following my own blood back through the forest. Where could the werewolves be now? Surely, when Cyn sees them, she'll run away. She should be running from me.

Behind me, I can hear her quick footsteps. At least she stopped shouting at me.

“Brock!” Cyn hisses, surprisingly close. “Get down!”

Startled, I duck behind a tree. She crouches beside me.

“Look,” she whispers, pointing.

Ahead, squatting in the leaves, I see the unmistakable figure of Sheriff Royle.

seven

R
oyle c
rouches beside a streak of blood in the leaves. Next to him stands a ginger-haired guy with a pinched, hungry lo
ok on his face. He looks young, not much older than Chris was, with a uniform too big for his skinny frame.

The sheriff snaps his fingers. “Deputy Collins.”

The young guy's head snaps up like a bird dog's. “Yes sir?”

“Have a look at this blood.”

Collins bends over Royle's shoulder. “What do you think it is, sir?”

Mine, probably. I hope they don't do any forensics.

Royle dips his pinkie into the blood and sniffs it. “Werewolf.” He squints into the trees. “There must have been a
fight.”

“This is good,” Cyn whispers. “Let the police handle the pack.”

“Shhh!”

Royle straightens. “Collins. Follow me.”

Together, the two of them saunter through the trees as if they aren't afraid of anything, though their hands stay close to their holsters.

“Can you smell anything?” Cyn whispers.

I shiver at her hot breath in my ear. “No. I already told you. I'm not a werewolf yet.”

“Oh, they're getting away.” She scrambles to her feet. “Come on!”

“Hey,” I mutter, “whatever happened to not doing anything stupid?”

She either doesn't hear or doesn't want to, which is more likely, and tiptoes after them. Typical reckless Cyn. I follow her, though not nearly as gracefully. It must be nice to be so tiny that your feet glide over the leaves in silence—

“Brock!” she hisses.

“Sorry.”

Luckily, Royle and his deputy don't seem to be paying too much attention to our whispers.

“Collins,” the sheriff says, “are you aware that I have made this my personal mission?”

“Your mission, sir?”

“To rid Klikamuks—and the whole of Washington State—of this menace. It was a grievous oversight on our part, allowing that werewolf and his pack to escape prosecution. I intend to rectify that mistake.”

Collins sounds puzzled. “You mean the Arrington case? The Other murders?”

“What else?”

“But we didn't have any evidence that the werewolves actually—”

“Evidence? We have overwhelming evidence that the werewolves have committed an obscene number of crimes in the US and Canada.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eyewitness testimonies, for Christ's sake.”

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”

Royle claps his deputy on the back. “Keep your eye on the big picture, Collins.”

Cyn drags me into a crouch behind a fern. Ahead, p
eeking through a blackberry bramble, shine two green-gold eyes. Holy shit, it's that wolf who tore up my leg. Sheriff Royle and Deputy Collins don't seem to have a clue.

A growl builds in my throat, and I realize I'm baring my teeth.

Cyn glances at me, her eyes wide, and shakes her head. “Don't.”

“Sir,” Collins says. “What—”

Royle shushes him. Then, speaking louder, he says, “We know you're watching us. Come out slowly, and don't try anything funny.”

The wolf stalks out from behind the blackberries. Collins draws his gun.

“Steady,” Royle mutters. To the wolf, he says, “Turn into a human.”

The wolf lifts its lip. It could be snarling, or grinning.

Then, behind the sheriff and his deputy, a silver wolf creeps closer. And a gray wolf, and another silver wolf. I clench my fists, ready for Randall to leap out and tear into Royle's neck—or maybe mine.

Collins whirls around, fear plain on his face. Royle, however, surveys the situation with a thin smile, his fingers on his holster.

“Brock,” Cyn whispers. “They're behind us, too.”

Great.

Surrounded by bristling fur and bared fangs, Royle remains amazingly calm. “Collins,” he says, “would you like to call for backup?”

The deputy fumbles for his radio while still pointing his gun at the wolves.

“That won't do you any good.” Winema strides from the trees with wolves at her heels.

Royle doesn't even try to hide his sneer. “This one's their Alpha,” he says to Collins. “The ringleader of this particular pack.”

“I know, sir,” Collins mumbles.

Cyn has a look I've seen before: too much curiosity and too little fear. “Wow,” she whispers. “I didn't know they had a female Alpha.”

“Shhh,” I say.

Winema looks at Royle as if he's a pile of dog shit she just stepped in. “By the time your backup arrives, Sheriff, it will be too late.”

“I'm well aware of your tendency to scurry deeper into the forest at the threat of danger.”

“You don't seem to know what I'm talking about,” Winema says, her eyes burning. “You're familiar with our long criminal records. The death of one more backwoods county sheriff wouldn't be much more than a footnote.”

Collins looks about as pale as a sheet of paper, the radio halfway to his mouth.

“What are they going to do?” Cyn whispers, so quiet I can barely hear her. “What—” Her words turn into a gasp.

I lunge up just as Randall's fingers close around her arm. He yanks her to her feet.

“Cyn!” I shout.

Randall clutches her to his chest. She lifts her feet off the ground and kicks backward, then bites his arm. It doesn't do any good through his thick jacket, but he does seem amused to be bitten by a human.

Spurred into action, Collins radios in. “This is Collins and Royle. We have a hostage situation here. The werewolves are—”

“That's enough!” Winema silences him with a slice of her hand. “Turn that off.”

Collins does as she says.

The Alpha stares Royle down. “Unless you want this girl's blood on your hands, I would advise leaving immediately.”

My heartbeat pounding in my ears, I step between them. “Let her go.”

Winema bares her teeth at me. “Bloodborn. You really are an idiot. You've brought this upon your own girlfriend, leading the police to us.”

“No.” I can't make myself meet her fiery eyes. “That's not what—”

“Brock,” Cyn says, “why don't you just shut up and let me do the talking?”

“You're hardly in a position to,” Randall says, smirking.

Cyn kicks him again. “First, Brock is not my boyfriend. Second, I was trying to stop him from coming out here at all. Do you think we don't already know that this is your pack's territory? We don't want to—”

Winema listens with an expression of mild interest, then shakes her head. Randall jams a rag between Cyn's teeth, muffling her outraged yelp. Royle clenches and unclenches his jaw as he watches, his fingers hovering over his gun.

“All it takes is one bite,” Winema says, “and then this girl—or maybe that squirrely deputy of yours—is infected forever.”

Collins swallows. Cyn looks furious, so I know she must be terrified.

“Deputy Collins.” The sheriff snaps his fingers. “Let's go.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

Together, they back away from the pack, their guns still drawn. The werewolves drive them onward with ferocious snarls. At the last minute, Collins turns and breaks into a run. Royle swears and sprints after him.

“Deputy Collins!” he bellows. “You run, you're prey!”

But the werewolves let them go. When I glance back, another man is holding Cyn: an old guy with a tangled gray beard and long ratty hair beneath a trucker's cap. He looks like he should be sleeping in a cardboard box. No, he looks like Gandalf after Vietnam. The sight of his disgusting hands on her makes me snarl.

“Bloodborn.” Randall advances on me. “What in Christ's name were you trying to pull?”

“Let Cyn go,” I say, my voice hoarse. “You don't need her.”

“Actually,” he says, “she's a lot more useful to us than you.”

I bare my teeth. “You're fucking dead, you piece of gick shit.”

Winema gives me a weary look, her eyes like embers. “We don't have time for this. Randall, secure the bloodborn. He's obviously more dangerous as a lone wolf than he is with us. We can't afford any more mistakes like him.”

I'm a mistake? Yeah, I'm the biggest one these gicks will ever make. And the last.

Randall advances on me, his face unreadable, his stare fixed on my face. A snarl rumbles from my throat, but he remains silent. Behind him, I can see the disgusting homeless-guy werewolf dragging Cyn farther away. She isn't struggling now, her face small and ashy, her body limp like a doll. What did they do to her?

“You're all dead,” I say. “The police will hunt you down and rip yo
u to pieces.”

Winema, walking away with wolves at her heels, glances back at me. “Including you.”

“Fuck no. I'm not a gick like you.”

Winema laughs.

You think this is funny, bitch? I lunge at her. Randall tackles me and I hit the ground hard. Before I can throw him off, he's twisting my arms behind my back. Cold metal slides over my wrists with a raspy clink. Handcuffs. I growl, my muscles straining in sheer frustration. Randall pins me to the ground with his knees, even while I twist and fight and brace myself against the dirt. Holy shit, he's strong.

“Get off of me, gick.” My words sound less human, more growl.

“Gick, gick, gick.” Randall growls. “You're going to be difficult, aren't you.”

“I'll—show—you—difficult.”

I'm having trouble breathing now because of his weight on my back, and because he's tightening a leather dog collar around my neck. He's going to strangle me. Panic electrocutes me with new energy. With a roar, I surge to my feet, sending Randall sprawling. I teeter, unbalanced with my hands behind my back, then fall.

“Fuck!”

“Shut up or I'll gag you.” Randall nudges me with his boot, a grimace twisting his face. “Move your ass. You're coming with me.”

“No.”

He sighs, then plants his foot between my shoulders and clasps a leash to my collar.

My chin in the dirt, I lift my head. The rest of the pack—and Cyn—are already gone. I have to get her out of here. Images flicker through my head: the homeless-guy werewolf strikes her down with a clawed hand, his sleazy smile warping into fangs, as he tears her clothes off and pins her down and—I squeeze my eyes shut.

I told you not to come, Cyn. I told you to leave me
alone.

“Up.” Randall yanks on my leash. “Come.” As if I'm a dog.

But I know that fighting all the way isn't going to get me any closer to Cyn right now, not with these fucking handcuffs and collar.

I'll have to kill him, then get the key.

Randall and I sit on the bench seat of a baby-blue pickup truck. He's driving. I'm staring out the window, gnawing on the inside of my cheek, being rattled to bits by the washboard road. Pine trees crowd the way, their needles brushing the windows. Rain hisses from the sky, speckling the windshield, and Randall turns on the wipers.

On the radio, buzzing with static, we listen to the local news station.

“ … breaking news. Earlier this afternoon, Snohomish County police reported the alleged kidnapping of a Klikamuks resident by the pack of werewolves currently residing in the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. A teenaged male, also a resident of Klikamuks, allegedly aided the werewolves in the kidnapping.”

“What the—” I sputter.

“Quiet.” Randall turns up the radio.

“These werewolves are convicted fugitives, and police consider them armed and dangerous. Do not approach or attempt to confront them. The alleged kidnapping victim is described as a girl in her late teens, about 5'1”, petite, brunette, with a streak of pink dyed in her hair. If you have any information about this case, or know of the pack's whereabouts, please call the Snohomish County Sheriff's Office at … ”

“Bullshit!” I say. “I haven't allegedly aided anyone.”

Randall glances at me. “Guilty until proven innocent. Get used to it.”

“Believe me,” I mutter, “I'm going to let the cops know who's really guilty.”

He just rolls his eyes.

I haven't seen Cyn since the rest of the pack left us behind. All of them must be far ahead by now, fleeing the police. How the hell did I end up in this situation? I mean, first I'm hunting the werewolves, ready to kill them, and then they're kicking my ass, and then they're being all calculating and shit. It's fucking disorienting.

“What's her name?” Randall says.

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend. Cyn.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Why am I even talking to him?

He arches an eyebrow. “As in, sinful?”

“No,” I mutter. “Short for Cynthia.”

Silence for another few swishes of the windshield wipers.