Bloodborn (14 page)

She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand, and stares at me with glittering eyes. “I know you have it in you to fight through this and come out even stronger. You need to move forward. You need to change, Brock.”

I close my eyes and nod. “I could do that for you.”

Cyn touches my cheek, lightly, her fingertips skimming the days-old stubble. I open my eyes to see her looking up at me, her cheeks smudged with tear-streaked mascara, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Let me help you,” she says.

“I have to do this myself,” I say.

She shakes her head. “You don't have to be alone.”

“But I—”

“Brock?” she says. “Stop talking.”

And then she kisses me. My heart stops beating, I swear. Her lips are so soft. I inhale her bittersweet almond-vanilla scent and slide my hands behind her neck, gently, but she slinks her fingers into my hair and grips tight with a moan. My skin flushes, feverish hot, and I feel the wolf inside me uncurl.

I pull back. “Cyn,” I say, my lips against hers. “Cynthia, stop.”

She withdraws to look into my eyes, her own full of stars. “Do you not want—?”

“No, I do.” I run my tongue along my teeth, feeling their sharp points. “Let's take it slow though, okay?”

“Okay,” she says. “Brock, I've missed you.”

I bend to kiss her again, this time on the forehead. She sighs and leans against my chest.

“We should go now,” I whisper. “Together.”

Cyn looks up at me. “Now? You mean, really try to escape?”

I can barely hear her quiet voice, but I nod. “If we don't go now, we might never make it back to Washington. And after that Paradise Pack … ”

She shudders and presses closer against me. “I don't want to think about that right now.”

“Then come with me. Most of the pack is out running in the hills now.”

“Jessie and Randall aren't.”

I glance around. “Do you see them anywhere? Jessie's bored and tired. She probably just wants you to think she's watching.”

“Go without me.” She says it in such a flat way that all the warmth I felt from kissing her fades away. “You can move faster than me, and they won't miss you as quickly.”

“There has to be a better—”

She looks me straight in the eye. “Go.”

“I'll get help,” I say. “I promise.”

I'm already backing away from her, distancing myself from the temptation to stay.

Cyn makes no move to stop me, says nothing, just stands there and watches me go. At least, that's what I think happens, since I don't look back. Not even once. Because I know that if I stay with her, we might never escape.

And God, it hurts, but I don't know what else to do.

fourteen

O
utskirts. That's where I belong. Here, it's quiet, a damp wind blowing the perfume of sagebrush over the tall blond grass. The spicy-minty smell floods my nose and overflows to the back of my throat. I hike out into the wilderness, away from the warmth and light of the camp, away to where there's no one but me and the stars.

Randall doesn't follow me. No one does. Do they even care?

I laugh when I realize there's no one here to hear me. That was so fucking easy. Just walked away from the whole mess.

Maybe Randall is watching me right now, waiting for me to run.

A prickling grows on the back of my neck until itchy fear spreads through me, and I break into a run. My muscles tighten and release as I plunge down slopes and charge up hills. Sagebrush claws at my legs, but hell, I'm not stopping. I run until my breath is ragged in my aching throat, then stop to pant for air.

I spin around, scanning the horizon, but see nothing but mountains and the moon.

I'm alone.

Now all I have to do is find my way back to the nearest town, call the cops, and tell them where to bust the Bitterroot Pack. Where's the road? I squint into the darkness. The cloudy moon shines weak light on the land, like watered-down milk over asphalt. There are boulders, and some scrubby bushes. That's all I can see.

Okay. Think for a second.

Yellowstone is the most populated place for miles around. That means I should cross into Wyoming and head south. At the very least I'll run into some campers with a cell phone. With a deep breath, I glance at the sky—like that might possibly help me—and start walking in the direction I think is south.

I pass boulders and scrubby bushes. Then some more boulders and bushes.

You know, I kind of wish I didn't skip out on my chance to be a Boy Scout when I was kid. That might have helped me figure out some navigation skills or stuff like that. Right now, all I'm seeing are mountains and trees in the distance, and of course at night, everything looks different than it does in the daytime.

I plod onward through the darkness, time trickling away.

Clouds float past the face of the moon like leaves in a river. The moonlight gnaws at me, whispering to the wolf inside, but I keep my mind empty, my emotions flat. There's nothing else to do but soldier on, and on, and on.

Soon enough, the moon swings low, and dawn glows behind the gray clouds.

I'm stumbling at this point, my feet sore, my throat as dry as dirt. As soon as I get to Yellowstone, I'm going to find one of those campground spigots, stick my head under the cold water, and drink until my stomach feels tight. Maybe that will stop it from growling. I've barely eaten anything in the past twenty-four hours.

Why didn't I bring a canteen? And some beef jerky?

My mouth waters at the thought, and I swallow. Can't waste any water through drooling.

When the sun rises properly, and ragged clouds fall away, the warm light melts dewdrops and stirs bugs from their hiding spots. And then the sun starts to get really hot. I thought my mouth was dry before, but now my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My head throbs with every heartbeat, like my skull is shrinking.

Why does it have to be hotter than hell? I thought winter was on its way.

Maybe it's just the werewolf disease in my bloodstream, simmering to a boil. A fever that's going to cook me from the inside out. My vision's getting kind of ripply, like I'm seeing a heat wave, but I can't tell if it's real.

A white animal stands stark against the shadowy pines. A wolf.

I stare at it, my muscles taut. “Are you a Bitterroot?” I rasp.

At the sound of my voice, the wolf flinches.

“What pack are you from?” I say, louder.

The white wolf lopes into the trees, sparing one backward glance for me, and disappears. What the fuck? I stand there, blinking stupidly. Oh, wait. A laugh breaks free from my mouth. That was a real wolf, not a werewolf. Must have been so damned confused. Is it bad that I was hoping it was a werewolf?

I still have no fucking clue where I am. This doesn't look like Yellowstone, not from what I've seen on the postcards. There are no geysers, for one. I can't even smell them, and I know they're supposed to smell like rotten eggs. But this doesn't look like Paradise Valley, either, so maybe I got completely turned around.

Bristly pine trees stuck between scattered boulders. That's all I see, wherever I look.

God, I'm so thirsty. Maybe I can find a river. There was a river back in Paradise Valley. I'd even fight that psycho werewolf Frost for a drink.

I walk faster, lured by the promise of a cold swallow of water, then slow when my feet complain. I'm not even paying attention to my stomach anymore. It's growling so loud I'm sure anybody within miles can hear it—

A deer. It's standing at the bottom of a hill, one hoof raised, its ears swiveled toward me.

Oh my God, venison.

I'm afraid to blink, just in case the deer is a mirage, or I'm finally crazy, but my eyes sting and I do blink and the deer is still there. Haunches quivering, ready to run. Hot meat on four hooves. My mouth aches. My teeth sweep downward into fangs, full fangs, like they never have before. I taste blood as they prick my lip.

Don't run away. Don't you dare.

That's what I'm saying to the deer in my head, but in my gut I want it—I'm craving it—to bolt into the pines so I can tear after it and take it down. But the logical part of me knows that I'm not fast enough to catch it, as a human.

As a human …

A bird screeches, and the deer flinches. I lunge forward before I can stop myself—claws thrusting through my fingernails—legs twisting. The deer bounds away, white tail held high, and I fall to my knees, too shaky to give chase.

I stare at the claws, black and curved, on my fingertips. More than a little wicked-looking. I'll bet I could take down that deer with one swipe from these. If I got close enough. I grimace, and the claws shrink into human nails. My fangs retreat into dull teeth, and although my bitten lip heals fast, coppery blood still haunts my tongue.

I'd love for it to be the taste of deer's blood. Delicious …

I shake my head hard, ignoring how it makes me dizzy, and keep on walking. South, I hope. I don't even know anymore. Ravens croak hoarsely in the trees, watching me pass. I find no water for the rest of the day, except for a little swampy patch in the shadows of a cliff. I kneel in the mud and strain the muddy water through my teeth, too thirsty to care. By the time I've drained the patch dry, it's already sunset.

How long have I been walking?

A fierce hunger gnaws at my insides. I want to whine at the sharpness of it, to howl for the rest of my pack. No. I'm alone now. Lone wolf.

I can't seem to think straight anymore.

Am I even human? Am I even me? The boundary between Brock and Beast wavers like the sun sinking ben
ea
th the earth. The wolf claws at my insides, and I crumple on the ground, clutching my ribs, panting for sanity. I keep my eyes on the gorgeous salmon pink of sunset. Smoked salmon. Jesus Christ, I'm starving.

And the wolf inside me whispers,
Let me out.

Bile rises in my throat. No. I'm not that desperate.

You?
The wolf circles, his jaws open in sarcastic laughter.
You're weak. You're hungry.

I'd rather kill myself.

Would you? You're so afraid of yoursel
f
?

No. You're not me. You're a parasite. You're a tumor waiting to be cut out.

The wolf gnaws my guts, and I groan, pain erasing my eyesight. When I can see again, the wolf is sitting, watching me from the inside out.

You know why you're such a failure?

Shut up.

Because you're a coward. And a liar.

Shut the fuck up!

Nobody believes you.
The wolf advances on me.
Nobody believes you're not a monster.

I struggle not to cry out. Cyn doesn't think I'm a monster. She cares about me.

She pities you. She knows you're killing yourself slowly.

I bare my teeth at the wolf. This isn't my fault. You're the one tearing my body apart. I'm not the one who decided to die t
his way. I—

You have a choice.

I don't have a choice! I can't go backwards in time and—

Curl up and die, then. Nobody's here to see you now.

Then why does it matter?

A twisted sense of calm settles over me. Nobody gives a shit. Myself included.

I watch the sun slide away. The moon pivots to her place in the heavens. I figure that if I don't make it, at least I will die looking at the sky.

I wonder how long it will take people to find my body.

I shove that thought from my mind and start to undress. There goes the shirt Mom bought me, the hand-me-down jeans from Dad, the boxer shorts Chris teased me a
bout. When I'm done peeling away layers of myself, my heart feels empty, and big. I wonder why I'm not afraid, wonder if I will be. This is it. There's no other reason to keep standing here, naked and alone. I poke the wolf sleeping inside myself and try to stir it to life.

Come on, Beast. I'm going to let you out.

But I just feel a sharp ache inside, as if the butte
rflies in my stomach have razor wings. I know I should be able to do this. I have to. All those earlier times, I almost couldn't stop. I flex the muscles in my thighs, tighten my abs, clench and unclench my jaw. How does this work? Is there a secret button to press? Stupid.

Wolf
. I don't want to say it out loud, but I make myself. “Wolf.”

My back aches, my spine cramped. I stretch skyward, trying to work out the pain, then get on my hands and knees.

“Wolf. I want to be a wolf.”

I clench handfuls of grass, curl my toes into the dusty dirt. My back still hurts, and so does my chest, my throat, my eyes. How painful will this be? I draw a shaky breath and stare at the moon, feeling her silver light on my face.

“I want—to—be—a wolf.”

But I know I'm lying. And she knows it, too.

Did I want any of this? No. Do I want to be myself? No. What am I going to do?

A fat tear rolls down my cheek and slides over to my nose. I shake my head to fling it away, but another follows, and another. I stay on my hands and knees, buck naked, because I don't know what else to do.

The moon swims, blurry, in a soup of clouds.

I tell her, “I don't want to change. But I've got to. And you've got to help me.”

I bend double and hug myself against the pain. A shudder, a sob, ripples through me. I fall onto my side and lie limp, not fighting anymore. I let out all the hurt I buried inside myself so nobody else could see. My breathing steadies.

“I'm a bloodborn,” I say quietly, to no one in particular. “I'm a werewolf.”

A tingling shiver washes over me. I rub my arms, feeling the hairs bristling. My skin feels exquisitely tender, feverish, but worse than any fever I've had before. My stomach muscles tighten against the hollow ache building inside.

Oh. Is this … ?

I crouch on my hands and knees again as the ache builds inside me. I focus on it, imagining it pooling, overflowing, spreading throughout my veins. My limbs wobble beneath me. I watch as the bones in my hands swim beneath the surface of my skin, fascinatingly disgusting. Gray fur sprouts on my knuckles, sweeping over my skin, submerging it beneath a rough pelt. Claws poke from my fingernails. I hear a grinding, gristly sound, followed by a sharp throbbing in my knees as they reform.

Oh, man, I don't think I'm ready—

Pain scythes through me, shredding my body, and I black out.

Blinking hard, I clear away the dark. I'm lying flat on my stomach, a sprig of sagebrush poking my nose. The sweet-green scent overwhelms me, and I sneeze. It's not evening anymore, but grayish overcast day. Above me, the moon hangs in the same spot in the sky. I wrinkle my nose. How much time has passed?

I climb to my feet—start to—but my limbs feel wrong. I stumble face-first, getting a mouthful of dirt, then I spit and look down.

Paws. Huge gray paws. Mine? Of course—nothing else can be true—and yet …

I shuffle one paw forward, then the other. Slowly, muscles shaking as if I'm sick, I haul myself to my feet. I glance down at my rangy long legs and silver fur flecked with cinnamon, then back at my haunches and plumed tail.

Wolf.

I skitter back, almost tripping over my paws, new to walking on all fours. A muffled yip of excitement escapes my throat. I wag my tail, and watch myself doing it—man, is it weird to have a different body. It feels like fitting into a hand puppet you've never tried before, but you kind of know what to do with it.