Thornhill (Hemlock) (4 page)

Legs threatening to buckle, I stared into my father’s eyes.

“H
ANK
?”
MY STOMACH DROPPED AS I TRIED TO WRAP MY
mind around the man in front of me.

He grabbed my arm, and even though I had just watched him toss a werewolf across the room, I tried to twist away.

“That name died three years ago,” he said as his gaze locked on my friends.

Jason and Kyle were both on their feet. A trickle of blood ran from Jason’s mouth and he leaned against Kyle as though he couldn’t fully support his own weight. Kyle didn’t look much better. He ducked out from under Jason’s arm and Serena took his place.

Kyle stepped toward me, but at a shake of Hank’s head, three men blocked his path. “Keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t get into any more trouble.” Hank raised his voice so that it reached every corner. “No one touches them. For now.”

He crossed the room, pulling me in his wake. I tried to dig in my heels, but I couldn’t so much as slow him down. “I’m not leaving my friends!”

“I’m not giving you a choice.”

I thought I heard Kyle—or maybe Jason—yell something, but then Hank hauled me through an entrance and a door slammed shut behind us. He forced me down a drab gray hallway and then pushed me through another door.

I stumbled forward and barely caught my balance on a leather chair.

My father glanced at his hand. “I’m used to dealing with wolves.”

I rubbed my arm. The words almost sounded like an apology, but Hank never apologized. “You’re infected.”

He nodded. “Three and a half years. Almost four.”

That meant he had been infected while I was still living with him. That meant that one more aspect of my small, crappy life had been a lie.

I studied the room because I couldn’t look at him. Not for a few seconds, at least. The space didn’t match the rest of the club or the man I remembered. It was all leather upholstery and polished wood and—I looked down—Oriental rugs. The man I had known would never have set foot in a place like this unless he was pulling some sort of con.

Hank sat on the corner of a massive wooden desk, and I finally forced myself to look at him. His clothes didn’t suit the surroundings, but he filled the room like he had every right to be here.

There was a heavy silver ring on his right hand that I didn’t recognize. It caught and reflected the light as he gestured to the chair. “Sit.” I didn’t want to do anything he said—not even something so small—but my legs were still shaking from the fight and the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush.

I sank into the leather and fought the urge to put my head between my knees. “Assume crash positions,” I whispered.

A muscle in Hank’s jaw twitched. Anger or amusement? I couldn’t tell.

“You want to explain what you’re doing in a werewolf bar in Denver? With a Tracker?” Anger, definitely anger.

My father’s voice had always been intimidating. Add the edge of a werewolf growl and it was downright scary.

“He’s not a Tracker,” I said, trying not to flinch.

I pressed a fingernail into the padded arm of the chair. This one piece of furniture was probably more expensive than anything Tess and I owned. Added together, the cost of everything in this room might be more than my cousin made in a year. “Instead of me telling you why I’m here, why don’t you explain what you’re doing in a room like this?”

Hank leaned forward. His hair was longer than he used to wear it and going gray at the temples, but his eyes were the same. Flat and blue like a winter sky and just as empty. “I am not playing games, Mackenzie. Why are you in Denver?”

“Why do you care?”

“You’re my daughter.” He shrugged like it should be obvious.

The muscles in my chest contracted. He didn’t have the right to those words. He’d lost it years before he finally left. I shook my head. “Why did that wolf call you ‘Curtis’? Why did the wolves listen to you?”

“Goddamn it, Mackenzie. Do you have any idea how many wolves the Trackers have rounded up or killed in this city? If the pack had really challenged me . . .” He took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. They still bore spiderwebs of scars, souvenirs from fights that were too old for LS to erase.

I had poured peroxide over some of those cuts when they were fresh. A wave of déjà vu rolled over me and an insistent throbbing started just above my eye socket, like someone was trying to drill through the bone.

“I want to know what you were doing with that boy.”

After a long moment, when it became clear I wasn’t going to answer, Hank said, “He called me Curtis because that’s how they know me. Hank Dobson had too long a rap sheet to be useful.”

So he had cut the name loose. Just like he had cut me loose. “And you came to Denver.”

“We lived here for a few months when you were a kid. Even then, it had more werewolves than anywhere else in the country.”

“Strength in numbers,” I muttered. It was part of the reason Jason and I had assumed Kyle had come here. I couldn’t remember ever having lived in the city—nothing over the past few days had seemed familiar—but when you never stayed in the same place for more than a couple of months, everything became a blur.

“When did it happen? Exactly?” I don’t know why it made a difference, but I suddenly needed to know.

“The day I wouldn’t let you go back for your bag.”

Sometime around age eight, I’d started keeping a backpack of anything that really mattered. A teddy bear. A picture of some woman Hank claimed was my mom. A plastic figure of a knight on a white horse and a handful of small bills pilfered from Hank’s wallet. As I got older, the cash increased and the contents of the bag changed, but it was always packed and ready. No matter what Hank was running from, there was always time to at least grab the backpack.

Until one day there wasn’t.

That had been at least six months before he ditched me in Hemlock. Six months when he had hidden the fact that he was infected. “You always were good at lying,” I said softly.

The office door creaked open and Eve walked in without knocking. She didn’t hover on the threshold, she just crossed the room, her heavy boots muffled by the thick rugs on the floor. Like Hank, she didn’t match the surroundings but looked completely at home.

“I told you to wait in the bar.”

The glare Hank leveled at her would have made hardened criminals crumble, but she just shrugged. “Figured you’d want to know they put the Tracker and the two wolves in the storeroom.” A strand of scarlet hair fell over her face and she absently pushed it aside. “Heath was worried some of the wolves might challenge your orders.”

“Orders I wouldn’t have had to give if you hadn’t let them inside.”

A blush darkened Eve’s cheeks. “Sorry. I thought you’d want to see her.” But she didn’t sound sorry, and the look Hank shot her made it clear he thought she should be.

Sorry.
Sorry for letting us inside. Sorry for making me his problem.

My eyes burned. I wasn’t his problem. I wasn’t anyone’s problem. All I needed was for Hank to hand over my friends and show us the door. After that, he’d never have to see me again.

“Do something useful and take her back to the house. The wolves can stay with the Tracker until I figure out what to do with them.”

I was on my feet in an instant. “You’re not doing anything with them. Jason and Serena were with me. All we wanted was to find Kyle and get out.”

“You expect me to believe a Tracker is friends with two werewolves?”

“I told you: he’s not a Tracker. He left them before going through with the initiation.”

Eve’s gaze ping-ponged between the two of us as she twisted the leather band over the scars on her wrist. She stood close to Hank—closer than he let most people get—and I realized she knew his history. She knew who he really was. “That’s why you let us in,” I said, staring at her. “You recognized my name.”

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t have if I’d realized you were with a Tracker.”

“He’s not—”

Before I could repeat myself, a shrill ring tone cut through the air. Hank hauled a phone from his pocket and glanced at the display before answering. “What?”

He listened for a moment, then, “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He hung up and stood. To Eve, he said, “A group of Trackers caught a wolf out near Elitch Gardens. The wolf’s alive. Barely.”

Eve swallowed. “One of ours?”

Hank walked around the desk. “They’re having trouble identifying him, but they think so.”

He took my arm and steered me to the door. Eve trailed us out of the office and down the corridor. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

“No. If it’s a hunting party, they might still be in the area.” Hank paused and turned to pull open a steel door that I hadn’t noticed earlier. He pushed me over the threshold and I caught a glimpse of Kyle, Jason, and Serena before I whirled back to face him.

Hank’s eyes flickered to Jason, then locked on mine. They were cold and impossible to read. “I’ll be back soon.”

Eve suddenly reached around him and went for my pocket. Before I could jerk away, my phone was in her palm. “Can’t let the Tracker call anyone,” she said as she handed it to Hank.

The door slammed shut.

I tried the knob. We were locked in.

I don’t know how long I stared at the closed door. Long enough for Kyle to stand. Long enough for him to cross the room and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Mac?”

I barely heard him over the roaring in my head.

I’d had so many fantasies about confronting my father. But in not one of them had Hank saved me from a pack of werewolves only to dump me in a locked room while he took care of things that were more important.

I squeezed my eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath.

An apology. That’s what he had wanted from that girl. “For having to deal with me,” I whispered.

“Mac? Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Kyle’s voice became increasingly insistent as the touch on my shoulder fell away.

I wanted to answer him, but my throat was clogged with all of the things I should have said back in the office. A cold black wave rose up as my hand curled into a fist. I lashed out, aiming for the door even though my eyes were closed.

The impact came too soon and was too soft.

My eyes sprang open. Jason stood in front of me, his palm a barrier between my hand and the metal. His lip was split and swollen, but other than that and the torn shirt, he looked all right. Better than seemed probable.

“If you’re going to hit something, hit something a little softer.” He closed his hand around mine, cradling my clenched fist. “Trust me. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

He glanced at Kyle and then quickly dropped my hand and put some distance between us.

Kyle shot Jason a look I couldn’t decipher, before focusing on me. Gently, he tugged the shredded fabric of my shirt and jacket aside and ran his fingers over my neck and shoulder. Relief flashed across his face. “Back in the pool room . . . I couldn’t tell if you had been scratched.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, voice stretched thin as I rubbed my sleeve over my eyes. “Plenty of wounds. None physical.”

“The guy who dragged you out of there,” said Serena, “Curtis? You called him ‘Hank.’”

I turned. She was sitting on a cot in the corner, surrounded by boxes and busted bar stools. A ripped futon mattress hugged the opposite wall. The only source of illumination was a bare bulb screwed over a stained sink, and the room’s one window was boarded up tight.

It was a junk room, filled with things—and now people—that weren’t important.

I shoved my hands in my pockets, reasoning that would stop me from lashing out again. “His real name is Hank, not Curtis. Hank Dobson. He’s my father.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it shook on every word. “I didn’t know he had LS. He hid it.”

Jason turned to Kyle. “Did you know?”

“Of course not,” snapped Kyle, surprise warring with anger in his voice. “It’s not like Mac keeps pictures of her dad around.”

He reached out to touch my arm and I moved away. “It’s not you,” I said quickly as hurt flashed behind his eyes. “If you hug me or touch me right now, I’ll cry.”

And I really didn’t want to cry.

Kyle nodded, then walked to the cot and sat a few feet from Serena. “He goes by Curtis Hanson. Eve introduced me to him when she brought me here a few nights ago. He’s the leader of the Eumon pack.”

“Pack leader?” I echoed just as Jason said, “Eve was the one who brought you here?”

Hank had always hated responsibility. The idea of him leading a club full of werewolves didn’t make sense.

“I met Eve my first night in Denver,” explained Kyle. “She tried to tear a chunk out of me before realizing I wasn’t local.”

Serena frowned. “Why? Everything I’ve ever heard makes Denver sound like the be-all and end-all for wolves. What difference would it make whether or not you were local?”

He shrugged. “Turns out there are three separate packs in Denver and they all have territories. I wandered into Eumon turf and she thought I was from another pack. She’s small, but strong.”

There was a strange note of respect in Kyle’s voice that made my stomach do a small flip. I told myself that I had nothing to be jealous of, but why had Eve lied about knowing him? What could she possibly have had to gain?

“Anyway,” continued Kyle, “she felt guilty so she brought me here. Introduced me around. Found couches for me to surf on. Eumon is the only pack in the city that takes rogues—people not infected by someone already in the group. It was come here or try to go it on my own.”

“You could have come home.” I shook my head and corrected myself. “You
can
come home.”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t just—” Kyle checked himself and flexed his hands. “You guys are safer without me around.”

Serena snorted. “Richie Rich joined a right-wing hate group and Mac’s legal guardian was dating a mass murderer. Compared with that, you’re about as dangerous as a carton of two-day-expired milk.”

I walked to the cot and crouched in front of Kyle. A knot formed in my chest as I rested my hands on his knees, and when I spoke, my voice came out high and a little unsteady. “Don’t you want to come home?”