Hemlock 03: Willowgrove (6 page)

I turned toward the sound. Jason stood in the doorway, a tense, wary look in his eyes. “Did you tell them?” he asked Trey.

“Not yet.”

“Tell us what?” I glanced from one boy to the other.

“There was an explosion at a transition house in D.C.,” said Trey. “Fire gutted the parts of the building that were still standing—including the cells. They’re estimating at least fifty people were killed.” He shook his head. “Those
places are locked down almost as tightly as the camps. If no one let the inmates out . . .”

“Jesus.” The word was a whisper. I thought of all of those people—trapped inside, unable to breathe as the flames closed in—and shuddered. None of them would have been past the LS incubation period. None of them would have had the strength or healing abilities that came with being a full-fledged werewolf.

“That’s not all.” Jason pulled in a deep breath as his eyes locked on Serena. “So far, it’s just rumors, but they’re saying it was the transition house where they were holding Sinclair. They’re saying the warden’s dead.”

T
REY LOOKED UP AS I WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN. “ANYTHING?”

“Kyle’s at the garage with his car. He’ll be over soon.” I sank into the chair next to Serena. “I couldn’t reach anyone in Colorado, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything with the reception problems they have.”

There was no reason to think Sinclair’s death had anything to do with the pack or my father. Early reports were speculating that a gas leak had caused the explosion. Maybe, as unlikely as it seemed, it had just been a tragic accident.

The fact that Hank had called me twice on the same day the warden died was probably a coincidence. According to one of Jason’s Tracker sources, Sinclair’s death hadn’t even been confirmed yet.

So why did the fact that I couldn’t reach my father make me nervous?

Trey pushed a cardboard container of pad thai across the table. “Thanks,” I mumbled, picking up a fork even though I wasn’t hungry. “Jason’s not back?”

Trey snorted. “He and his Tracker buddies are probably busy high-fiving one another over taking out a transition house.”

I wanted to defend Jason, to tell Trey that he had changed, but the history the two of them shared was stronger than anything I could say.

“It wasn’t the Trackers,” I said instead, spearing a piece of shrimp on my fork as I glanced out the window. It had snowed in earnest an hour ago—a brief storm that had whited out everything for twenty minutes before suddenly stopping—and small mounds of flakes had gathered on the sill.

“Who else could have done it?” snapped Trey, pulling my gaze back. I guess none of us were buying the gas leak theory. “The Trackers have whole chapters that train guys to clear out packs and dens.”

“There’s a big difference between a den and a transition house,” I pointed out, setting down my fork. “Trackers want wolves to be locked up. They aren’t going to hit anyplace where that’s happening. And they wouldn’t risk pissing off the LSRB.”

No. Assuming the destruction of the transition house hadn’t been an accident, someone other than the Trackers had to have been behind it.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair as the scar on my shoulder blazed with a flash of phantom pain. I remembered the way Sinclair had looked at me—like I had taken everything from her and would suffer for it—as she raised her gun the night of the breakout.

With her dead, I didn’t have to worry about her ever hurting me or the people I cared about again.

I should have been relieved.

It was just . . . of the hundreds of transition houses in the country, what were the odds of something happening to the one house where Sinclair was being held?

Only fools welcome coincidence
—that was something Hank had always said.

With both the warden and the detention block gone, it seemed unlikely the truth about Thornhill would ever come out. And that, I couldn’t help thinking, might be the reason that particular transition house was no longer standing.

There was a pen on the table. I picked it up and absently began doodling on a paper napkin, turning the edge of a grease stain into the symbol from my dream.

Sinclair hadn’t been working alone at the camp. What if whoever she had been working with had wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about their involvement?

I glanced up as a prickly sensation crept down my spine. Serena was staring at the ink swirls I had made. There was a tightness around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes, an echo of the fear she’d shown upstairs.

She took both the pen and napkin from my hands.

“Serena?”

Without answering, she expanded the sketch I had made, pressing the pen down so hard the paper tore.

“Ree?” Trey stood and walked around the table.

Serena didn’t acknowledge his presence—not even when
he stepped between us and put his hand on her shoulder.

He gave her a small shake. “Ree?” he repeated, voice more insistent.

I peered around him. The sketch was now twice as large as the one I had made—it swallowed my original lines whole—but before I could get a decent look, Trey reached for the pen in Serena’s hand, blocking my view.

All at once, Serena seemed to snap back to her surroundings. “Sorry,” she said, voice small and shaking, as Trey shot me a worried look over his shoulder. “I was just—”

Whatever she was going to say was cut off by a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” I murmured, letting out a deep breath and pushing my chair away from the table. “It’s probably Kyle or Jason.” I left Trey to watch over Serena. Their voices followed me down the hall. Guilt settled over me as I heard the fear and confusion in Serena’s voice as she struggled to explain to her brother what had just happened.

I should never have shown her that picture.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

“Coming,” I muttered, knowing that if Kyle were outside, he’d hear me even through the door.

The knocking stopped. Definitely Kyle. Something in my chest unclenched just a little bit.

“I haven’t been able to . . .” My voice trailed off as I pulled open the door and stared at the man on the porch—a tall, raven-haired man who was definitely neither Kyle nor Jason.

“Can I help you?” I asked, tightening my grip on the doorknob as my gaze darted to the unmarked skin at the
man’s neck. Despite the cold and snow, he wasn’t wearing a jacket.

He flashed me a smile that probably would have been disarming if I had been a less paranoid person. His teeth were toothpaste-commercial bright, but crooked on the bottom. A swoop of dark hair fell over his pale forehead while stubble softened the harsh angles of his jaw. He was clad head to toe in black and held a manila envelope in his hand.

“I’m sorry—you were expecting someone else.” His voice held the faint trace of an accent—Irish or Scottish, maybe—that had been worn down by time. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

Before I could reply, he reached into the envelope and slipped out a sheet of paper. “I’m looking for this girl.”

I fought to keep my expression blank as he passed me a glossy 8×10 of Serena. The photo had been cropped, but I knew it had been taken at Thornhill. I recognized the metal table with the built-in restraints and the large digital clock on the wall behind Serena’s left shoulder. It was the room where they had tortured her.

Every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice water.

How had anyone found her? We had all given fake names, but Serena had been even more of a ghost. In order to hide her work from the LSRB, the warden had kept the wolves from the detention block from being registered in the system—something Jason had discovered while working in the camp. As far as the LSRB was concerned—as far as the official records for Thornhill were concerned—Serena had never existed.

My pulse pounded in the back of my throat until it felt like I was choking on each heartbeat, but somehow when I spoke, my voice sounded normal. “I’ve never seen her.” As inconspicuously as I could, I took a small step to the side and closed the door halfway as I handed the photo back, trying to block as much of the view into the house as possible. “Who is she?”

The man’s gaze dropped to my arm. Too late, I realized my sleeves were pushed up. The scar on my forearm—a permanent reminder of the men behind Amy’s murder—was fully visible. It was long and jagged and could easily have been caused by any number of things. Including a werewolf.

These days, any scar was suspicious.

A trickle of sweat ran down my spine as a floorboard creaked behind me. I didn’t have to look back to know it was Trey. He was careful to stay out of sight, but he brushed past me as he took up a position behind the partially closed door.

The man on the porch pulled his eyes away from my scar and slipped the photo back into the envelope. “She’s one of the wolves who escaped from Thornhill.”

“Here? In Hemlock?” This time when I spoke, my voice cracked slightly over the words. I prayed it would be written off as a normal reaction to the thought of escaped werewolves hiding nearby.

The man handed me a plain white business card bearing only a phone number. “Wolves are found all over and trouble usually follows.” The words were bland, but it was impossible to miss the threat behind them.

I frowned at the card before tucking it in my pocket. The
area code was 713. Houston. Hank and I had lived there for almost an entire year, once—long enough for him to break down and get a landline.

The man on the porch was watching me in a way that made the hairs on the back of my arms stand at attention. “Give us a call if you change your mind about seeing her.”

“Sure,” I lied, forcing a tight smile as I began closing the door.

“The thing is,” he said, stepping forward and wedging his foot against the doorframe to keep me from shutting him out, “the gentleman two doors down swore he’s seen her here.” Something sharp and predatory slid behind his eyes, a glimpse of the real man underneath the polite veneer.

“The guy two doors down is a crackhead,” I said. “Give him twenty bucks and he’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that the Easter Bunny lives next door.”

I felt Trey’s breath on the back of my neck. His arm skimmed mine as he placed his palm flat on the door, ready to shove even if he pulverized the man’s foot in the process.

Time seemed to stretch out. Finally, the man on the porch moved back. “In that case, my apologies for the intrusion. And I hope you’ll give us a call if you do see her.” He turned and headed down the walkway, pausing and glancing back when he was halfway to the street. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” he called, lifting his hand in a funny little backward wave.

Trembling, I closed the door and flipped the dead bolt.

“He’ll be back,” I said, pressing my forehead to the wood. “He knows I was lying about Serena and he saw my scar.
He’s not sure whether or not I’m infected.”

“We have to leave. Now.” Trey headed for the kitchen.

I had to call Kyle and Jason; I had to warn them not to come to the house. I reached into my pocket and came up empty: I had left my phone in Serena’s room.

As I headed for the stairs, I heard Trey promise Serena he’d die before letting anyone touch her.

Praying it wouldn’t come to that, I took the stairs two at a time. How long until the man returned with reinforcements? Five minutes? Ten? A flash of movement caught my eye through an upstairs window as I reached the second-floor landing. A car with tinted windows—the same car I had seen earlier—had rolled to a stop in front of the house and a second car was pulling up behind it.

“Trey!” I bolted back down the stairs.

The sound of shattering glass came from the rear of the house followed by a ragged, male shout.

I tripped on the last step and collided with Trey and Serena in the hallway.

Blood welled from a gash in Trey’s arm and Serena’s eyes were so wide that she looked like one of the girls in the manga Tess sometimes read.

There was a thud at the other end of the hall. I turned toward the noise just as something slammed into the front door with enough force to splinter the wood around the dead bolt.

More shouts echoed in the kitchen. They were in the house.

“Go!” Trey shoved Serena and me into the small half
bath underneath the stairs and followed us inside.

The space was little bigger than a closet. Serena and I wedged ourselves into the gap between the toilet and the wall as Trey slammed and locked the door.

“Please tell me your plan has a part two,” I said. Next to me, Serena’s breath came in ragged, pained gasps; it was like she was on the verge of a panic attack.

Trey swore and tilted his head to the side, listening to the growing amount of noise in the house. “There are too many of them.”

He moved to the small window above the toilet. It groaned in protest as he forced it open. He waited for a moment, listening, and then stepped back. His gaze locked on Serena. “Up!” The word was a low, desperate growl.

The window didn’t look wide enough for my hips, let alone Trey’s, but I didn’t argue as Serena scrambled up onto the toilet seat.

She tried to hoist herself up, but whatever they had done to her at Thornhill had left her little stronger than a reg. Trey gave her a boost and supported her weight as she struggled to wriggle through the narrow opening.

I held my breath, almost as though I could make Serena’s slight frame even smaller by constricting my own lungs. I let all of the air out in a whoosh as she made it through.

“You too, Dobs,” muttered Trey, helping me up as something collided with the bathroom door.

I was so scared that I didn’t crack a single joke about him trying to cop a feel.

Serena had barely made it through and I was two sizes
bigger. I twisted and squirmed as Trey shoved me from behind. Like a cork from a bottle, I finally popped free and only Serena kept me from falling on my neck.

We were on the small patch of lawn between her house and the next.

Serena stared up at the window and spoke through clenched teeth. “C’mon, Trey.”

A horrendous crash came from inside followed by a wolflike snarl. Someone screamed.