Nightfall (27 page)

Trees offered no obstacle; she wove through them with speed and expertise. On the wind, she recognized the man's scent. He was important. She couldn't remember being touched by human hands, but she wanted his. He would rub between her ears and run strong palms down her belly. He would admire her bright fur and praise her skill. Warmth surged through her quick muscles.

She found him ringed by a pack of wrong-dogs. They wore their blood on matted fur and reeked of dead things.

The human made noise. He needed to keep still. They would see him as the greater threat. But they needed to know this bitch owned these woods. She let out a growl to warn the wrong ones they had crossed into her territory.

They paused in their attack and swiveled slimy muzzles in her direction. One of them let out an uncertain whine. Despite their stink, she would let them go if they ran. She would not leave.
Guard.
She raised her hackles and bared her teeth, showing gums.
Stay, and you become prey.

But they were too hungry. The wrong-dogs offered submission, yellow eyes sliding away with little whimpers, but they returned to their cornered food.

When the first one lunged for the human, she curled herself low and sprang.

Mason rolled, the sky trading places with the ground, until he found his rifle. He wrapped his hands around the butt and came upright in a crouch, the barrel leveled. He pegged one demon dog between the eyes. Its brain casing exploded into the wind. He fired again, imploding the sternum of another.

Then he did something he never thought he'd do in the midst of an attack: he lowered his weapon.

His chest aching from cold, quick breaths, he stared at the animals brawling in the snow. The monstrous ones he knew well enough. Three more of them. A fourth lay dead to one side of the scuffle, its esophagus bared to the waning daylight. Hellishly unclean, they stank of humid, rotting meat. Blood and leaves tangled in their fur. These were dirty souls, the remnants of a violent world that no longer existed, one that had become even more deadly.

And they were fighting a wolf.

A she-wolf, he thought, by her lean, compact frame and slender muscles. Her fur bright white with silver tips glistening along her back, the wolf flashed sharper, gleaming teeth at her opponents. Fresh blood painted her muzzle. She sank those fangs into the nape of the nearest monster, then shook her head until a mouthful of fur and skin tore loose. Her victim yelped and whined, cowering. She readjusted the angle of her neck and pressed a killing bite.

This was no mindless beast, but an honest-to-God animal. A
thinking
animal.

Spinning, she caught the full brunt of a leaping assault. She pitched backward and rolled, jumping free. He could see strategy forming in her bright green eyes as she watched the two remaining dogs with a dark intensity. Her shoulders and haunches relaxed, going limber and loose, as if the demon dogs were nothing more than a nuisance.

He stood. The wolf never looked away, but her posture shifted. She eased around with her back to Mason. The two monsters circled until the wolf growled and held her ground.

He'd never seen a wild animal turn its back to a human being, but she stood deliberately between him and the monsters. Mason took the opportunity to raise the barrel of his rifle and aim. He slid his body until more weight rested on the ball of his right foot. The wolf leaned back into a fierce, powerful coil of muscle and sinew. She sprang left. Mason fired, taking the one on the right with a single shot to the skull.

By the time the smoke cleared and the whimpers ceased, the wolf stood with a dead beast clamped between her jaws. She dropped it, sat back, and lifted her muzzle to the clouds. Her fierce howl split the calm forest air—not the mournful sound the starving pack made, nor the eerie, warning howl of those monsters on the hunt.

No, this was triumph.

Mason slid to the ground. He wound up resting beside the two heavy backpacks he'd shed when the dogs surrounded him.

The wolf turned her green gaze to him. Her chest heaved as she panted. Long canine jaws open, she looked pleased with herself, almost smiling. And why not? Blood covered her from jaw to forelegs, the blood of a hard-fought victory.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She tipped her head, then strode to his side without any apparent fear. Mason frowned, hypnotized by her gaze. Only then did he recognize a silvery aura shimmering around her body. Not so obvious as with the monstrous beasts. His heart eased its frantic pace.

Tentatively, expecting her to flee at any moment, he reached out and rubbed the silken fur behind her pricked ears. But she didn't run; she leaned into his touch. Her trusting, pleased response made him think of a woman's body asking for more.

He leaped to his feet. The wolf scuttled backward. Rifle in hand, Mason jogged back, looking for a path to climb. Where the hell was she? After finding a gap in the steep treelined slope and pushing through, he used roots and brute power to pull himself up. But level with the rest of the wood, he only saw trees. Limitless trunks and branches and shadows.

No sign of his injured lover.

“Jenna!” Fuck the dogs and the forest. He needed her back with him. They didn't have much time. Darkness awaited... and good-bye. “Sweetheart, where are you?”

No reply. No birdsong. Not even the wind. His heart struck a frantic rhythm against his breastbone. He held his breath, listening, but that only made the blood beat harder in his ears.

Giving up on his five senses, Mason used the only thing he had left. He closed his eyes and pictured her face—not the way he'd last seen her, grieving and wracked with pain. No, he remembered how the tense bow of her lips went slack as the last tremors of her orgasm faded, leaving her face soft and glowing pink. He reached out across time and physical distance, along the connection they shared.

And she was standing right behind him.

Mason whirled. And found the wolf, sitting, watching him. Her fur shimmered as if she were lit from within.

“Go. Get out of here!”

She didn't move, only blinked. After a big, gaping yawn, she settled onto the ground. One paw crossed over the other, a pillow for her bloodied chin.

Mason shook his head, trying to get rid of the buzzing sensation. Something had snapped. He'd stepped into a very wrong place—more wrong, even, than the hell of the last few weeks. That hell had rules, at least. Kill or be killed. This didn't make any sense at all.

But one logical possibility clawed at him. What if there had been another pack? What if she'd let them have her, resigned to her fate? He'd been carrying everything, even her rifle—trying to make the journey easier. Now ...

“Jenna!” The bass harmonics of his bellow rattled underneath the forest canopy. His throat ached, but he shouted again.

The wolf whined. Head perked up, she tilted an ear into the chilly winter air. Listening. Then she stood and walked to him again. With the cold black skin of her damp nose, she nuzzled his injured hand, then started to lick at his wounds. Purposefully. Cleaning. His fingers twitched at the tickle of her slick tongue. He reached around with the other hand and rubbed her glossy pelt, scratching down to the skin. The wolf made a companionable sound in her throat, then tenderly butted her forehead against his leg.

Mason knelt and took her big, sleek muzzle between his hands. Green eyes gazed back.

His heart turned in his chest.

“Oh, no. No. No.” He jumped up and back. Spinning, looking for any other answer, he fought a tide of dizzying black. “Jenna! Come
on
, Barclay. Where the hell are you?”

Seeming restless, the wolf sat and wrapped around herself. She licked at her right hind leg, cleaning just as she'd washed him. Transfixed, his breath pushing in and out, Mason knelt beside her. He gently pushed her muzzle, still expecting her to nip or run away. But she stayed. She let him touch her leg.

Beneath the fur, puncture marks marred her hide. She'd been bitten. Like Jenna.

The wolf nuzzled against the side of his neck. Mason opened his mind and found Jenna there, beside him, a primal part of her soul within the body of an animal.

A cry tore from his chest. He pushed the wolf away and ran. Tears threatened on the edges of his eyes as he found the packs. After loading a new clip in his AR-15, he strapped the heavy, overstuffed burdens onto his back. Black grief layered over everything, but he shoved it into a dark corner of his mind.

A half hour later, he found a path he could navigate with the weight he carried. Mason emerged near the four-foot entrance to a tunnel, where water from a stream disappeared beneath the ground. Judging his position, he guessed this was where the monsters crawled into the earth, strolling right up to the back door of the station's basement.

But he lacked the time to investigate, and he couldn't get trapped underground while burdened, tired, and alone, especially not carrying the supplies. Instead he'd go overland, back across the clearing as they'd planned. More than ready to see this journey ended, he pumped his legs like pistons. No feeling. No stopping. Every thicket of underbrush gave way to momentum. Tree branches, snow, freezing cold—none of it mattered anymore. He didn't even try for stealth.

The clearing loomed ahead of him, but he kept his eyes on the station door. He discharged one shot in the air, whether to catch someone's attention in the tower or to incite the pack, he couldn't decide. But he wouldn't go out like Bob. Instead he'd fire until snapping jaws ended this nightmare.

Monsters prowled in from the edges. Mason kept moving. Ice broke beneath his feet, while fresh powder crinkled along the surface. The setting sun glazed the snow with cold yellow light.

The front door opened. Welsh poked his head out. Then came Tru, rifle drawn, just like the last moment Mason had seen him. Except now he walked. No haste. No Jenna.

With perfect detachment, he admired Tru's stance. The kid leveled the rifle with easy readiness. In his head, Jenna asked,
Who's going to teach him what he needs to know to survive?

He flinched. Then he picked up the pace.

The boy shaded his eyes, squinted, and signaled a warning. Mason turned to look. The wolf. She followed at a respectable distance, her shining coat catching the last rays of sunlight.

“Hold fire,” he shouted to Tru.

The wolf closed the distance with a few uneven strides. Her wounded back leg must hurt like hell. But the beasts wanted dinner. They wouldn't let the best chance for meat in weeks stroll back into the station. There were fewer monsters by half, but they were all fatter. More cannibalism to stave off death. Mitch's idea—
Evil is adaptable, survival at all costs—
reared its head again. Mason wondered how many prisoners had taken refuge in these woods.

The wolf brushed her tail against him. She growled at the incipient threat, then settled into a coiled stance. Ready for battle. Mason kept the packs on his shoulders. His certainty shifted.
Fuck it.
Not one of those bastards would get a single taste of him today. They'd devoured enough.

“Tru? Cut left! I'll take right. I want a clear path down the middle.”

“Got it!”

One after another, their rifles furrowed through the charging beasts. After a few shots to discourage the nearest attackers, Mason took a deep breath and sprinted for the door. Every ounce of energy and grief and grit poured into his limbs. He pumped his fists. Brittle air stung his raw lungs. The wolf matched his stride. That almostsmile shaped her muzzle.

Twenty yards from the station, one of the monsters broke Tru's line and pounced on the wolf. Mason kept running. He slid past Tru, just inside the door, and tossed the packs onto the concrete floor. He turned back to the clearing.

Tru raised his rifle. “What do I do?”

“No change. Just keep them off my back.” He snatched the nine-millimeter from his holster and strode unencumbered into the snow.

The kid laid down cover fire, cool and brave, like he had been born for the changed world. And the wolf? She was unbelievably gallant, fighting with heart and skill. But the injury to her back leg slowed her movements. She wouldn't make it, not without him. No matter what she was—no ordinary wolf, he sure as hell knew that much—he needed to return the favor. A life for a life.

One beast sank its fangs into her other leg. She spun and fell, sliding on her side. Her paws scratched the slick snow but found no purchase. Snarling, blackened teeth bared, the dog lunged. Mason fired three shots in close succession. A cold smile crossed his face as the dead, perforated monster hit the ground with a crack.

The rest of the clearing quieted. Tru's silent rifle meant the fight was over. For now. Mason turned to check on the wolf, but she was gone.

Instead Jenna lay sprawled naked on the icy ground.

Tru had seen a lot of shit in his life, but this ... this—

His brain couldn't wrap around it. He knew what he'd seen, but ... flesh didn't reshape itself, at least not without killing the victim. Fangs couldn't just disappear.

But they had. And it looked like it hurt. No wonder Jenna had passed out.

Staring wouldn't change anything; it just made him look like an asshole. Tru sprang to help Mason, who carried Jenna in his arms. Seeing her naked made him feel weird, as if he'd been lurking around outside the shower—which he never did. Still, those were the first tits he'd ever seen in person, so he couldn't help but look.