Hot Blooded (Wolf Springs Chronicles #2) (32 page)

Howls filled the air, like screaming, and disbelief, and cheers. Blood sprayed in all directions. It splattered Katelyn’s face, hot and thick, and she clapped her hand over it and staggered backwards, falling to the ground.

Now she could hear a horrible, gurgling sound. The white werewolf alpha tossed his head, jaws dripping blood. And slowly he changed back until he was Mr. Fenner again, half naked in tattered, bloody rags.

Quentin Lloyd lay on the ground, eyes wide, mouth open. Blood pooled around his head and streamed along the ground, steaming in the cold.

Katelyn let loose with a scream that echoed off the mountains. She kept on screaming.

Everyone else went silent.

“Shut up,” Mr. Fenner ordered her.

She pressed both hands across her mouth, forcing herself to stop. Then she vomited all over herself.

In a mirror action, Mr. Fenner wiped his hand across his lips. Then he leaned over the corpse and spat on it.

“Anybody else got anything to say?” he yelled. “Well?”

The pack shrank backwards. Shoulders hunched. Somewhere in the part of her that still functioned, Katelyn heard whining, groveling. She clutched her sides with her hands and cried silently, rocking herself.

Lee Fenner walked imperiously away. A moment later, Justin crouched down next to her and grabbed her hand. He squeezed it.

“Kat, you have to calm down,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Now.”

“I knew,” she wept. “I knew he would take it out on him, but I said it anyway. I — I just . . . he
killed
him.”

“You had to. Or it’d be you lying there.” Justin was whispering, but his words sounded so terribly loud to her ears. “It was rage,” he said. “It’s what we feel.”

“It was him or me, and I knew it. I’m a monster.”

“No, darlin’, you’re not. You’re a werewolf.”

And the fact that Justin made a distinction between the two made her want to laugh hysterically. Instead she just cried harder.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Justin said, firmly hoisting her to her feet. She dangled in his grasp, and he peered into her face. “You’ve got to stop. Right now.”

He practically dragged her out of the clearing and into the forest. Her feet felt like lead weights and she was freezing. The images played over and over. Mr. Fenner. The spray of blood. The blood that was on her now. The screams.

How much she had hated Quentin Lloyd. The fury inside her, barely banked even now, like a separate, wild creature. Her terrible, terrible remorse.

And finally, a realization, and she stopped short.

“Kat, what?” Justin asked, tugging on her.

“It wasn’t Mr. Fenner.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The wolf who bit me. It wasn’t Mr. Fenner.”

Justin cupped her chin and bent his knees so that he was at her eye level. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, feeling the wetness of the blood on her cheek and wiping it off with the back of her hand. Quentin Lloyd’s blood. The blood of a dead man. Her stomach protested, but she forced down the bile in her mouth.

“He’s the wrong color. His fur is white. My wolf was gray.”

Justin’s knees actually buckled, and he grabbed onto her shoulders to keep from sinking to the earth. As he pulled himself back together, she stared at him.

“I was so worried it was him,” Justin said. “Any werewolf doing those things would have to be beyond reason.” His meaning was clear: he believed that his alpha was insane. Not just delusional, but mad. “This means somewhere out there, there’s another insane werewolf,” he murmured. “And we still don’t know who it is.”

Katelyn couldn’t remember most of the walk back to the Fenner house. At Justin’s insistence, she took a shower, watching the water run red as blood swirled down into the drain. Moving like a zombie, she changed clothes again. Someone had gotten rid of the bloody shirt.

“You need to get out of here,” Justin murmured, as she stood before him with her wet hair hanging over her shoulders. “Before he thinks about blaming this on you.”

She started to cry again, and Justin shook his head. He walked her to her car and made her get behind the wheel.

“No,” he said, “don’t do that, Kat. Stay strong, and go.” As if he could read her mind, he added, “I can’t go with you.”

As if she were watching a movie, she saw herself starting up the car and pulling out of the driveway. The morning sun rose in the sky, but the woods quickly smothered all trace of daylight. Alone with her thoughts, she struggled against breaking down again. All the talk of killing. The actual killing. Killings. Haley, Becky, the man from the Inner Wolf Center, and now Quentin Lloyd.

Death.

It was the dark specter that hung over all the lives in Wolf Springs.

And over mine
, she thought with a shudder.

She pulled over to the side of the road and buried her face in her arms, clinging to the wheel. It was wrong to stop in the forest, but she was afraid she’d drive herself off the road.

It was him or me
, she thought, but was she so sure of that?

She shook. Cried. Tried to stop, but the tears kept coming. And she couldn’t stay in the forest. She had to get as far away from Mr. Fenner as she could — and any of Quentin Lloyd’s loved ones, who might be looking for payback.

The images of Quentin Lloyd were replaced with those of her father, at his funeral. Open casket, with everyone staring at his body. His face coated with makeup. The police officers, the other attorneys, her mother on tranquilizers. Her grandfather had flown in, but at the last moment, he had decided not to attend the service, and stayed at their house.

The house that had shaken apart and burned to the ground five years later.

“The death of one’s child is a parent’s worst nightmare,” he had said at the reception, weeping as he accepted a shot of whiskey from Detective Cranston, who had been in charge of the case. “Whoever did this, I hope to God he suffers in hell.”

“We’ll get him,” the detective promised. But they never had.

On impulse, Katelyn pulled out her phone. Cell coverage in the forest was always dicey, but she saw that she had three bars. With trembling fingers, she dialed L.A. information and got the number for the Harbor substation of the Santa Monica P.D. She gave her name and asked for Detective Cranston.

And miraculously, he picked up.

“Katelyn, how are you?” he asked kindly.

“Um,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I — I’m okay.”

“I was sorry to hear about your mom,” he said, genuine regret tinting his voice.

Katelyn stared into the darkness through the windshield, clutching the phone in both hands.
Hold it together, Katelyn
, she coached herself as fresh tears stung her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“What can I do for you?”

She plunged on before she lost her nerve. “I — I was going through Mom’s things,” she said, which was a stupid thing to say because there were no things of her mother’s left. “Was there anything unusual about the — the bullet that killed my dad?”

There was a moment of silence. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”

Not now, please don’t go into cautious cop mode now
, she begged silently.

“Well, ah, I remembered overhearing something she said . . .” She drifted off, hoping it was enough. “Maybe to you. I don’t know . . .”

There was a long pause on the other end and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, hoping she hadn’t just overplayed her hand.

“I didn’t realize anyone had told her,” he said, his voice soft. “But, yeah. The bullet was really odd. Non-standard. There was silver in it.”

Oh, God
.

Katelyn’s hands tightened so hard around the phone she thought she might break it. “Thanks,” she managed to whisper. “That’s what I thought I heard.”

“We kept it out of the news,” he said, “to see if anyone would come forward. You know how these things work.”

She nodded without speaking. Her father had been killed with a silver bullet after he’d been bitten by a wolf. Time seemed to stand still. Because it was too awful to think about. Her father must have been a werewolf! Must have gone through what she was facing right now. And her mom must have known or suspected. Why else would she have sent that article to her grandfather?

See, told you so.

That he was a werewolf. Or at least someone thought he was.

Katelyn didn’t want to know anything more. She couldn’t deal with it. If she thought about it for another second, she would go insane.

“Katelyn?” Detective Cranston queried. “Are you still there?”

“Mmm,” she managed to answer.

“Listen, if something breaks, I will let you know. I promise. I’m sorry nobody told you about the . . . unusual evidence we collected. But you’re older now, and if I hear
anything
, I’ll give you a call. Is this your number?”

She covered her mouth and nodded silently again. “Hmm-mmm,” she said.

“Okay, Katelyn. You take it easy. I’ll check in on you soon.”

“Yeah,” she rasped.

Then she hung up.

Almost immediately, her phone rang again.

“Katie,” said her grandfather, “are you and Paulette—”

“I’m on my way home,” she interrupted.

“Okay, see you soon.”

She hung up and focused on driving, and when she finally parked in front of the cabin she climbed slowly out of the Subaru. Somewhere off in the woods she heard a branch crack and she turned her head toward the sound.

And a low growl met her ears.

Someone was out there. Maybe it was one of Quentin Lloyd’s relatives, already coming for revenge. She ran up onto the porch. She threw open the door and was startled to find her grandfather waiting just inside, face strained. As soon as she stepped inside he closed the door behind her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Did you know Mike Wright?” he asked, voice tense.

Panic flared through her. Mike had told on her. She could get into trouble for having hurt him.

“Yes, he’s a big bully, why?” she blurted out.

“Well, honey, he’s dead.”

She stared at him incredulously. It was impossible.

When I left him he was alive and conscious. There’s no way I hurt him bad enough for him to be dead. What if it was the pack, hunting? What if — oh, God, what if I helped kill him?

What if I did it on my own?

He wrapped an arm around her. “Oh, Katelyn, I’m sorry.”

“What happened to him?” she asked in a strained, anxious voice. She couldn’t take any more. She just couldn’t.

He took a deep breath. “From what Pat said, same thing that happened to those girls and that Inner Wolf guy.”

She blinked, not sure she had heard him correctly. “You mean he was mauled by an animal?”

His face was hard to read. “Something like that, it appears.”

“That’s — oh, that’s terrible.” She felt dizzy. “Where was — where did they find him?”

“In the forest, on the road here.”

She slumped with relief. That was far away from the pack’s established hunting grounds — too far to hunt him down and then return to the meadow before sunrise, even accounting for superior werewolf speed.

A beat. He looked toward the front door. “Look, I’ve got to go into town for a little while.”

“Can I come with you?”

He shook his head, then looked at the rifle on the wall.

“Not this time.”

“Why, what aren’t you telling me?” Her voice was shrill.

He sighed, low and long and sadly. “Well, the sergeant’s got to do some investigating, ask questions.” He paused. “Everyone knows there was bad blood between Mike and Trick.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “He can’t think Trick had anything to do with this!”

He half raised his hand. “No, he just needs to ask him some questions. And since Trick is a minor and his folks are out of town again, I have to go down there.”

She tried to make sense of what he was saying. She wouldn’t have dreamed that a godparent would count as a legal guardian. Perhaps in this part of the world it did. Maybe it was just the relationship her grandfather seemed to have with Trick and his family.

“You know Trick couldn’t have had anything to do with this.” She was having trouble staying in control.

“I know, Katie,” her grandfather said.

He still wouldn’t look her in the eyes. She was stunned. “You think he did!”

“I never said that. Look, it’s just bad business all around.” He pushed out a deep, heavy breath. “Pat’s talking about forming some kind of hunting party to try and find whatever’s doing this.”

Fear knifed through her. “And you’re going to join it?”

He shook his head. “Try to stop it. Everyone’s so on edge they’re more likely to shoot each other than any animal.”

Was that what happened a few weeks ago? Did someone take a shot at me by accident?

He grabbed his keys. “Now I have to go.”

She nodded.

He paused. She could see the wheels turning in his mind. “I think you need to be indoors. With the doors locked. Don’t go out.”

“I won’t.”

“Rifle’s loaded,” he said, “and you know how to shoot it.” He looked uncertainly at the door, as if trying to decide if someone could knock it down.

“Just a minute,” he added. He went outside and she could hear him going into the garage. She checked the windows in the living room to make sure they were locked. Then she went into the kitchen and tested the back door.

Two minutes later, he was back. He held out an old-fashioned revolver, and she didn’t take it, instead crossing her arms over her chest.

“We haven’t practiced with it,” she murmured.

“It’s easy. Point and shoot.” He held it out, and she finally took it.

And her world blew apart.

“Use it. In case anything gets in the house. Or if you see anything . . . odd.”

“Odd, how?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He wiped his face and exhaled slowly. She could see his agony. Feel his tension, smell his fear.

“Just . . . odd. Keep it close. Promise me.”

“I will.”

He kissed the crown of her head and then walked out the door. And her world crashed down. It shook and it burned and she was inside it, writhing in mental anguish.