Red

  Full dark fell, cloaking me in shadows, covering the sounds of my movement with night noises. And at last I saw a faint glow of firelight through the trees. I made my way closer, picking up the faint murmur of voices.

  “You? You were the one who was supposed to take her?” The horrified tone rang out clear. Nate.

  I’d found them.

  Creeping nearer, I could see Elodie’s dad struggling to sit up, his arms wrenched tight behind him and bound at the wrist. Obviously Patrick had moved on to the hostage portion of the plan.

  Someone shifted to the left side of the fire. “Well yes. It was all very straight forward. I’d take care of Rosalind, and afterward, it would have been so easy to make Elodie’s death look like a case of SIDS. No blood, no mess. An end to all future generations. Simple. Elegant. And this ridiculous war would be over and I could get on with my life like a normal person.”

  Jesus Christ, I thought. He’s totally crazy. The truly scary thing was that he looked like the same, sane rational guy my dad had been working with for the last few years. His face was placid and just like at the cabin, it was only the gun in his hand that ruined the illusion.

  “But it didn’t work. Your mother—yes Elodie, I know you’re awake; your breathing changed a few minutes ago—”

  Frantically I searched the campsite, looking for her. There, on the opposite side of the fire. She lay in a heap, bound like her father, but unmoving. My heart leapt at the sight of her. I could just see the shallow rise and fall of her chest. She was alive!

  “—So her suicide was really easy to fake.”

  What? My brain tuned back in to what Patrick was saying, too late to catch his meaning.

  “You murdered my mother.”

  Oh.

  Elodie’s voice was weak and a little slurred. Drugged rather than weakened from transition. How long until it wore off?

  I circled around the campsite while Patrick kept talking. He’d positioned himself well. The ground here was wide and flat. The creek was several feet to his back, a long drop, which also meant no way to approach. There were no trees within twenty yards, no boulders, nothing to use as cover for a closer approach.

  The packs were behind him. He hadn’t made camp any further than building a fire. No need to make his prisoners comfortable. One of the packs was open. I could see the corner of some power bars and the white plastic top of a water bottle sticking out of a pocket. One mesh pocket held the map, folded neatly into a square as was his way. The other pocket showed the hilt of a knife. Elodie’s knife, I realized with jolt. He must’ve taken it from our packs before he left the cabin.

  He was going over how he had tried to test her, and what the plan was now. That wasn’t good. The bad guy never tells you that stuff if he has any intention of letting you live. If I didn’t do something, she was dead. They both were. “It’s a pity I can’t put you in a lab,” Patrick was saying. “Imagine the genetic breakthroughs your DNA might hold.”

  Elodie didn’t respond to that. But she’d managed to garner some important information. Patrick was enough of a scientist to want to watch. That bought us a little more time. How much, I didn’t know. Hopefully it would be enough that I could come up with a plan to get us out of here alive.

  ~*~

  Elodie

  Even behind my closed eyes, I could feel Patrick watching me. I'd tried to fake slipping back into unconsciousness, but either he didn't buy it or he had the attention span of a starving predator. It was disturbing to begin with, but as time stretched on, it became freaking creepy. He was just sitting there on his sleeping bag, gun in hand. Staring at me.

  "You know that saying about a watched pot?" I said, slitting my eyes so I could see him. "The same is true of a watched werewolf."

  Patrick's lips curved a little, but he didn't take his eyes off me. My skin crawled. Even if I could control my shifting, I wouldn't want to do it under that watchful gaze. He felt like a voyeur. No way in hell did I want to do something so . . . personal in front of him. No. So I did my best to keep my breathing even and my body as close to a Zen state as possible.

  The fever came again anyway. It stole over my body, drawing out a slick sweat in its wake, making me shiver at its touch. I held still. Or tried to anyway. I'd long since lost any feeling in my arms and shoulders beyond the occasional, shooting pain. How long did I have? Hours maybe. But I didn't think it would take that long. Because that would mean that something actually went right, and absolutely nothing about the last few days had established a precedent for that.

  I needed more time. But time for what? It's not like Patrick was gonna get bored with this. Whether it was in the next five minutes or the next five days, he was going to be there to see me on the other side and put a bullet in my brain. No amount of pleading or logic was going to change that. I was completely at his mercy as long as I was bound.

  Which meant I needed to get unbound. Somehow. The rope was tight and looped several times around my wrists. Climbing rope, I thought. I tried wriggling my hands against my bonds, but they were stiff and uncooperative.

  Come on, you're a freaking werewolf. You should have the strength to break through even this.

  I inhaled a slow breath in preparation for the strain. And saw Patrick lift the gun and level it.

  "Not thinking of trying to escape, are you?" he asked, making a tsking sound.

  "I was trying to get some feeling back in my arms, actually."

  There was no way I could shift and get free in time to kill him before he could fire that gun. Not as long as he was looking at me. I needed some kind of distraction. But what the hell could I manage like this? Trussed up like a freaking Christmas turkey. There was no way I could communicate with Dad, no way I could do anything without giving myself away.

  The cramp began in my calf, the kind of Charlie horse I used to think was awful until I experienced the full body version. I flexed my foot trying to stretch it out.

  Focus on the breath. I could almost hear Sawyer's voice in my mind, coaching me through this and had to bite back a cry. My mouth filled with the taste of blood from my bitten cheek.

  So not helping the situation, I thought, swallowing the warm taste of copper.

  In and out. Slow and steady. The cramp moved up my leg. Inhale. Exhale through the pain. I tried to focus on the scents around me as a distraction. Sweat hung sour in the air. Mine. My father's. Our kidnapper's. It mixed with wisps of smoke on the bare breeze. I wondered if I'd ever smell smoke again and not be afraid, after this. Or if I'd ever smell smoke again, period.

  The cramp started in my other foot, harder now. I wanted to scream, to scramble up and force the muscle flat. But I held as still as I could and I breathed.

  There were green, growing things around us. Old leaves decaying from last fall. Damp earth. And Sawyer.

  My legs flailed and my breath exploded in an exhale. I hurriedly sucked in another breath and found the scent again.

  No. Impossible. It was the fever. I was hallucinating. Conjuring the one thing that could comfort me in the middle of this nightmare. But it woke my wolf. She shoved at my mind, at the edges of my body. My legs jackknifed again, coming perilously close to the edge of the fire.

  The fire.

  It was the only thing within reach. If I could manage to knock the burning logs into something else, it might be just the distraction I needed. Of course, that meant I had to get control over my limbs.

  Focus. Focus.

  My wolf snarled and strained in return.

  Give me control, damn it. I have a plan.

  My body jolted again, my shoulder slamming into the ground with bruising force that let me know what my wolf thought of that plan. Then there was no more thought to the fire, no more thought to distraction. There was only the pain as I began to buck and writhe. I flipped to my stomach and curled in on myself as my body betrayed me and my wolf tried to pursue a ghost.

  Mate.

  I could still smell the phantom scent. But it was no longer
comfort. Rage sizzled through me, a worthy accompaniment to agony as my back cracked and my ribs expanded. I grabbed for it, tried to latch on to the emotion because fury was better than pain. But it slipped away as I spasmed again, my head flying back. Dimly I could hear my father shouting something, but I was too focused on the pain to make out the words. With a loud crack, my hips broke and realigned. My mouth opened in a wailing howl as my legs reshaped, my joints shifting into canine hindquarters.

  Someone was . . . laughing.

  What the hell?

  It was Patrick. Through the red haze of agony I could see him, delighted in the spectacle before him.

  The rage returned, and with it, my shoulders cracked, slipping out of alignment. Gritting my teeth to hold in another scream, I rotated my dislocated shoulders forward until my bound wrists lay in front of me

  And then . . . everything seemed to stop. Suspended in a moment of exquisite suffering where I was caught between forms. Again.

  No!

  I lay there, panting, waiting for my wolf to rouse, to continue to push. But she was in as much pain as I, all but blind with it. And exhausted from the effort to change forms.

  "Well now, that was a disappointment," said Patrick.

  I was beyond human speech, so the only response I could muster was a whine.

  "Ah well. That was enough. Even I have enough heart to put a suffering beast out of its misery," he said.

  "No!" shouted Dad. He was struggling to his knees. He lurched toward Patrick, coming through the fire, his clothes catching, burning.

  No. Oh dear God, no.

  He fell before he could reach Patrick, rolling on the ground to put out the flames.

  The gun that had shifted toward my dad for a moment moved back to me, pointed directly at my head.

  It was over. As I had always promised, it would end with me.

  Chapter 15

  Elodie

  A roar rent the air, a vicious sound, somewhere between a growl and a scream. My eyes flew open to see Patrick jerking the gun toward a new target. He was barely turned before something crashed into him. He went down hard on his back and the gun went off.

  The world went to molasses as the sound tried to catapult me back to the cabin, to the blood. I fought to stay present, to stay in the now. And in that long, slow moment, it was Sawyer’s face I saw shifting, his half-formed muzzle snapping, nearly grazing Patrick’s throat as they fell.

  Hope and disbelief rammed into me like a Mack truck. It wasn’t possible, wasn’t real. Sawyer was dead. I’d seen it happen.

  With a rubber band snap, time sped up to normal again and the scene before me played out in a rush. Sawyer missed. Momentum carried him too far and he hit the ground hard, one of his paws turning beneath him. His leg buckled. He rolled with it, and came up fast, snarling and favoring his leg.

  He was here. He was alive! My brain just froze as I stared, searching for wounds that simply…weren’t there. For long moments, I forgot the pain, forgot to breathe. My mate had survived. And he had found his way back me.

  A sob ripped free of my throat, buoyed by a fierce joy that eclipsed the pain and the danger. Sawyer was alive. With a wrenching shudder that was probably all in my head, my world tipped back to its proper axis.

  Sawyer stalked Patrick, who had gained his feet and was moving slowly backward. Patrick’s eyes were everywhere at once, looking for the gun but trying not to take his eyes off his opponent.

  Where the hell is the gun?

  The question froze the blood in my veins as I, too, started looking frantically around the campsite. Sawyer was hurt, intent on Patrick, moving forward, but limping. He couldn’t possibly be fully healed from being shot, and if Patrick got to the gun first it would happen all over again. And this time he wouldn’t have the strength left to survive it.

  The terror of that wrecked me, hurt me more than the next spasm of pain from my incomplete transition. No. No, no, no. I tried to scream, but the words were all in my head. What came out of my mouth was something horrible, something between a snarl and a sob. Something neither canine and nor human. I clawed the ground, willing myself to change, willing my wolf to rise and finish this. All of this.

  I dug my claws into the dirt and pulled myself forward on my belly. It didn’t matter that I was caught between forms, that every motion was agony. I just had to get there. I concentrated on the action of throwing out my deformed limbs, digging my claws into the dirt, pulling forward toward the fighting. I was not going to lose Sawyer. Not again.

  I could see the moment Patrick’s eyes found the gun in the way his body tensed. Sawyer saw it too. He was already leaping as Patrick flipped over in a dive for the pile of gear and Sawyer’s jaws snapped on empty air as Patrick’s hand closed around the barrel of the gun where it had come to rest against one of the packs. Sawyer turned, coming back for another strike as Patrick swung the gun around.

  I tried to scream a warning. A mistake. My strangled howl drew Sawyer’s attention to me and Patrick smashed the butt of the gun into Sawyer’s head, sending him staggering sideways. His injured leg buckled. He recovered, but Patrick was already on his feet again, leveling the gun on Sawyer.

  My field of vision narrowed. Blood roared in my head. Desperate, I tried to lunge forward, my heart threatening to burst in my chest. But my legs buckled and I fell, too far away to stop him. I screamed again, inhuman, terrified, waiting for the shot.

  My dad crashed into Patrick. I hadn’t even seen him moving. Injured, his hands still bound, his rush was unbalanced. Patrick sent him flying backward with an elbow strike. But the distraction was enough for Sawyer to clamp his jaws around Patrick’s gun arm. Another shot exploded, splintering a tree on the other side of the clearing.

  Sawyer lunged forward, wrenching the arm like a bulldog, but Patrick used some kind of judo throw, turning Sawyer’s momentum against him, flinging him away and scuttling toward the packs. Sawyer tumbled, skidded to a stop and scrambled toward him. Patrick, one hand wrapped around the bite on his arm, fell into a fighter's crouch, a knife in his other hand.

  My knife.

  They circled. The knife was not Patrick’s natural weapon, and he was wounded. He gripped it in his fist, making awkward slashes that Sawyer mostly avoided with ease. Sawyer feinted left and dodged, coming under Patrick’s guard to nip at his leg. The deadly dance went on, neither of them gaining ground. Sawyer couldn’t go in for a killing strike without the risk of being stabbed. Lunge. Nip. Slash. Again and again. As their stand-off continued, Sawyer started to slow. He couldn’t go on like this much longer.

  Sawyer’s leg gave, causing him to stumble. Patrick charged, swiping wide. The knife flashed. Sawyer danced back, but not before the blade caught him across the chest. Blood spilled, bright and hot, soaking his fur.

  And I went mad.

  My wolf rose above the tangled snarl of rage and pain, growing, pressing up and out, until my body, my mind, was filled with her. The limbs that were stuck at improper lengths tore into shape with a crunch. All along the length of my skin I felt the prickling sprout of fur. I did not take a backseat to the beast. I became the beast. The gut-wrenching agony faded, replaced by a steadying strength.

  I rose to my feet—all four of them—no longer weak, no longer defenseless. And I fixed my eyes on Patrick.

  He continued to brandish the knife at Sawyer, driving him back toward the drop off to the creek. Sawyer was weakening, slowed by blood loss. Even as I watched he took another edging step in retreat.

  No.

  I sprinted toward them and leapt, landing claws extended on Patrick's back. As he staggered under my weight, I sank my teeth into the meat of his shoulder. His scream echoed off the mountain and his blood burst warm and sharp into my mouth, like some kind of exotic fruit. I bit harder, teeth tearing through flesh and muscle.

  Patrick whirled, trying to fling me off, but my jaw was locked on his shoulder, my claws digging deeper into his back. With a roar, he raised the knife to slash at me. I
saw the glint of the blade coming at me and my stomach clenched with fear. Sawyer sprang at him, mouth closing around Patrick's knife hand, his bulk and momentum driving us all to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  We landed hard, and the impact loosened my hold. Patrick scrambled away from us, bleeding, frantic to find the knife or some other weapon. But we were between him and it. He turned to run only to realize we had him caged between us and the edge of the drop off to the creek.

  Gotcha.

  Patrick faced us, eyes now wide and white around the edges as he looked from me to Sawyer, hands raised in a universal sign of surrender.

  We stalked forward, shoulder to shoulder. I couldn't help but lean over to rub my head against Sawyer's shoulder, just to feel that he was really real and not some figment of my fevered brain. But I met with muscle and fur and heat. Life. It was real. He was real.

  "Look, let's talk about this," said Patrick backing up a step..

  I cocked my head in a gesture I hope he took for Really?

  "You don't need to do this. I know you don't really want to hurt me or you'd have done it already."

  I wished I had my voice to ask him how he thought that was gonna work. How we could let the hunter live and not expect to be tracked again, constantly looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives. Been there, done that. This ended here, with me, as I'd always said it would.

  My lips curled in a snarl and I paced forward.

  Patrick retreated another step.

  Beside me, Sawyer faltered. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, still keeping Patrick in my sights. As we got even closer, I could practically feel him weakening. He shook his head as if to clear it and continued to step forward.