Bloodborn (9 page)

Randall's eyes flash gold as he looks at me, and I can't help flinching. “Not everyone in the pack is tough enough for that.”

What kind of pack is this? Criminals who need the comfort of a picnic table?

I snort, and he yanks the leash on my collar.

“I can tie you to a tree for the night,” he says, “or you can cooperate.”

I swallow, my throat bruised. “Like how?”

He grabs a sack from the back of the truck and tosses it down. “Help me set up this tent before it's too close to dawn for us to get any sleep.”

“Right … ” I lift my wrists so the handcuffs jingle. “I can't.”

Randall stares straight at me, his eyes glowing in this really fucking creepy way. Then he grabs my arms and unlocks the handcuffs.

I turn on him, my fists raised. “Seriously?”

He just keeps staring at me.

“You're seriously going to do something that stupid?” I say.

“What's stupid,” he says, “would be you trying to run away when you don't have a goddamn clue where you are.”

“Who says I'm going to run?”

He smiles a thin smile. “What's really stupid would be you trying to pick a fight when you're collared and tired, bloodborn.”

I rub the raw skin at my wrists. “Not afraid I'm going to kill you in your sleep?”

Randall turns his back on me and starts unpacking the tent. He tugs out a crumple of fabric, then carries it to the packed dirt. I stamp my feet, trying to get my blood pumping, trying to wake up the anger inside me.

“You going to help?” Randall says, an edge of irritation in his voice.

“Like hell I'm going to help you.”

“Suit yourself. It's only going to get colder.”

I gnash my teeth. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Pretending like we're not going to kill each other eventually.”

“Yeah, right.”

I advance on him, my boots thudding on the ground. He doesn't even look back. I take a deep breath and cock back my fist.

“You know I'm right.” My voice trembles with rage.

“It's too late for this kind of shit.” Randall fiddles with one of the poles for the tent. “Quit making an ass of yourself, bloodborn.”

I swing my fist. Then—right before my knuckles hit his head—R
andall twists, grabs, and sends me flying. I'm flat on my back before I can even react. He grips my sh
oulders—the claws on his fingers cut through my shirt and prick into my skin—his eyes burning maybe two inches from my own, his breath hot in my face.

He growls, a low rumble that vibrates in my rib cage. “Enough.”

Looking into his eyes fills me with an urge
not
to look, to stare to the side and whimper. I know that's the wolf in me. Submissive. But I'm not going to give in. Randall's claws pierce my skin; hot trickles of blood wet my shirt. He bares his fangs, and my eyelids flinch shut. Finally, he lets go of me and climbs to his feet.

“I've changed my mind,” he says. “You can freeze.”

And so he handcuffs me again and collars me to a tree like a disobedient dog.

I thought I knew why Blackjack howled when we locked him outside in his kennel on a cold night, but I didn't have a goddamn clue. Yeah, I guess he had a fur coat, which made things better, and I'm tied to a tree in the mountains wearing nothing but the clothes I came in. I'm starting to wish I was sharing that tent. Hunched against bark, I shiver violently. My teeth chatter so hard my jaw starts to hurt. I'm long past not being able to feel my fingers or toes. Pretty soon I feel like the rest of my body is carved from a block of ice.

Then, thank God, I drift into sleep.

“ … said he was a tough one, didn't they?”

“Yeah. But he could definitely benefit from being neutered.”

A raspy laugh, which becomes a cough. “Well, he is bloodborn!”

I crack open my eyelids. Randall and the homeless-looking guy are standing nearby. Gandalf after Vietnam. It's not quite registering in my sluggish brain that this guy is a werewolf, that inside the grizzled old hobo is a wolf ready to come out.

He's the one who took Cyn. What did he do to her?

“Winema wants to see you,” the old guy says.

“Sure.” Randall glances at me. “With or without the bloodborn?”

“With.”

Randall sighs.

The old guy laughs again and claps him on the back. “I know how you feel.”

“Thanks, Grady.”

They both advance on me, Grady smoking a cigarette. I set my jaw and stare them down. Grady nudges my shin with the toe of his boot.

Randall looks me over, his face blank. “All right. Get up.”

Yeah, right. I'm hunched with my back against the tree, my muscles cramped and cold, my hands still cuffed behind m
e.

“Probably a little frostbitten,” Grady says.

“Wasn't cold enough for that.” To me, Randall says again, “Get up.”

I glare at him. “I can't.”

He sighs, unties my leash from its knot on the tree, and hauls me upright. “Quit your whining. We're going to see Win
ema.”

Grady laughs again, then hawks some spit on the ground. “Have fun wi
th
that.”

nine

M
e and Randall follow Grady away from our campsite and up the road. Through the gray willows, a stream rushes with snowmelt. No wonder it was so cold last night. Farther along the road, I see one of those bright yellow gates meant to keep people out when campgrounds close for the season, lying in pieces in the grass.

I wonder if the police even have a clue where we're at.

We cross the road and start down a steep slope, crunching dead wildflowers beneath our boots. Head hanging, I stumble on numb feet, then look up.

Holy shit, I don't think I've ever seen so many werewolves in my life.

We're in a meadow beneath a bowl of milky white sky. Jagg
ed pines encircle us, and a hawk wheels low overhead. I see trucks, campers, and tents scattered in the tall tufted grass, and plumes of smoke. All around, men and women mix with wolves. The beasts stand guard, sniff the air, or just lie on the ground, panting lazily like dogs on a lawn. Ordinary at first glance, but completely unreal. A girl walks toward the stream carrying canteens, followed by two trotting wolf-pups with stubby legs and gray lambs­wool fur. The scent of mountain air, sweet pines, and woodsmoke sharpens a craving inside me.

“The Bitterroot Pack,” Randall says.

“Pretty, isn't it?” Grady's cigarette smoke unfurls in my face, and I cough.

Isabella saunters toward us, barefoot. One of the straps on her dress has fallen off her shoulder. There's blood streaked across her cheekbone.

“You two missed a glorious hunt,” she purrs. “Took down a deer right before dawn.”

Randall gives her sad eyebrows. “You know I was busy.”

“Aw, honey, I'm just teasing.” Isabella smiles. “We're going to start eating soon.”

Grady steps closer to her and lowers his voice. “I hear that you and Jessie had a run-in with a policewoman you thought was a policeman.”

“At first,” Isabella says. “But we knew how to handle her.”

Randall looks less than amused. “Did you make a clean getaway?”

“Of course.” She touches him on the shoulder. “Come eat.”

I
sabella leads us to a campfire on the bank of th
e stream. A deer roasts over hot coals on a spit that looks like it came out of medieval times. My stomach pinches at the tantalizing, savory aroma. Winema sits on a nearby cedar stump, gnawing on a haunch of venison, and a hawk-nosed man with long silver hair eats at her feet.

As I watch, the rest of the pack approaches in turn: first the youngest, then the strongest. There must be at least twenty werewolves in this pack. A man with a long knife carves meat straight from the deer. The best parts go first. Finally, Randall drags me toward the deer. I lean in to inhale the smell—Randall cuffs me away.

“You eat last,” he growls.

Of course. I'm on the bottom of the totem pole. Top of the shit list, too.

Randall carves a juicy chunk of meat from the deer's flank, then sits on a stump to eat it, closing his eyes as he savors the taste. My mouth waters so bad it aches. I swallow hard and stare at the ground, my hands useless behind my back. The strong smoky smell of venison fills my nose, and the crunching noises of eating fill my ears. Jessie strolls toward Randall, her hips swaying. She nuzzles his ear, and he cuts her a sliver of his meat and hands it to her. She licks his cheek and walks away, gnawing on the meat. Disgusting.

Finally, Randall thinks to unlock my handcuffs and toss me some scraps.

I get the gristly bottom of a leg, hoof still attached, but I'm drooling over it anyway; I haven't eaten in forever. I rip strips of tough-as-jerky meat away with my blunt teeth. Around me, the werewolves in human form have grown fangs. A scrawny werepuppy trots up to me and whimpers, its blue eyes fixed on my meat. I growl at the little cur. It flattens its ears and paws at my ankle, then licks my shoelaces. I snarl, but the werepuppy jumps on me, whining, and tries to snatch my meat. I knock the vermin away.

A swift blow to the head sends me sprawling. Ears ringing, I look up.

Winema stands over me, staring me down. Again I try to meet her gaze, and again I fail. Power steels her eyes. “You will not hurt the children of this pack.” Her voice rumbles like a distant storm. “Is that clear?”

My fingernails bite into the deer leg. “But it tried—”

“Give your food to the child.”

The werepuppy stands between Winema's ankles and wags its tail hopefully.

Child? You've got to be shitting me. It's just a gick that hasn't grown up yet.

What I was going to say sticks in my throat. “Didn't want it anyway,” I mutter, and I toss the deer leg to the werepuppy.

The vermin, the blue-eyed rat, grabs the bone and drags it away in triumph. My stomach growls in complaint, betraying me. I want that meat so bad. And my face burns to realize it. God, I've been fighting over scraps like a beast.

Winema lowers her voice. “It will be hard, bloodborn, for you to learn your place.”

I grit my teeth. Learning my place is the furthest thing from my mind.

“It's a shame your brother wasn't strong enough.”

Now I look into her dark eyes, trying to figure out where the hell she's coming from, but I don't see anything taunting or spiteful. I can't think about Chris for too long; the longer I do, the stronger the sadness rises inside me.

“Why do you care?” I say, looking away.

“Because all of us—nearly all of us—used to be you. Bloodborn.”

I swallow hard. “I'm not bloodborn. I haven't turned into a wolf yet, not even after two full moons. I've been taking medicine.”

“Delaying the inevitable.”

“Well, fuck it. I'm going to find a cure.”

Winema laughs softly, and I want to strangle her.

“You think this is funny?” My voice sounds tight. “You think I want to be what
you
are?”

“Do you think all of us wanted to be bitten?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“You should be grateful,” Winema says, “for the second chance we're giving you.”

Before I can reply, she walks away.

I get off the dirt, my ears scalding. I can feel the pack's stares prodding the back of my head. The werepuppy lies on the ground, so close I could touch it, slobbering on the deer leg that was supposed to be mine. I'm such a dumb­ass.

A laugh flies across the meadow. My throat tightens. Cyn?

I jog through the pines, fight through a tangle of brambles, and s
tumble into the open—and there she is, sitting on the stunted grass, three wolf pups prancing around her. She glances up, laughing, her hair shading her face.

Just like nothing ever happened, and this is a walk in Wilding Park.

When she sees me, her laughter dies in her throat. “Brock!”

“Cynthia.” My heart's thumping so fast. “Are you okay? Did that werewolf—did he … ?”

“What?” She brushes her bangs from her eyes. “I'm fine. They haven't done anything.”

A werepuppy spreads its front legs on the ground, wiggling its butt in the air, and yips, just like Blackjack when he wants to play. I stare down at them, my face stony. Another werepuppy marches up to me, a twig in its jaws, and growls at me. I nudge the werepuppy with my boot, and it shakes the twig as if proving its strength. Cyn grabs a battered hedgehog chew toy and tosses it for the werepuppies to maul.

“Don't let them bite you,” I say. “They can still infect you.”

Her jaw tightens. “Yes, I know. Are you okay, Brock? You look horrible.”

I realize I'm shaking, from sheer nerves and starvation. “What do you think?”

She strides across the distance between us and looks up at me, frowning. Her fingers linger on my neck. “They collared you?”

“Yes. I got tied to a tree last night. By Randall, that piece of—”

“Randall?”

“He's the one who killed my brother,” I say hoarsely. “He's the one who bit us.”

Cyn grimaces. “Oh.”

A werepuppy trots up, the stick clamped in his jaws, and
whines, his ears quivering. Cyn bites her lip, trying not to laugh
.

“I can't believe you're playing
with them,” I mutter.

She arches her eyebrows. “Honestly, Brock, they're just babies.”

The werepuppies do move kind of like little kids do, all floppy feet, their big heads bobbing as they run.

“They don't know any better,” Cyn says. “Besides, you have to admit they're cute.”

“Cute?” I curl my lip. “That's like calling baby spiders cute.”

“Baby spiders
are
cute.”

A werepuppy lifts its leg on my boot and pisses a tiny stream of urine.

“Hey!” I yank my foot away. “You little bastard!”

This time, Cyn does laugh, and I can't help laughing in return. It fades fast, though, and coldness seeps back into my bones.

“Brock,” she says, serious again, “I'm worried about you.”

“Thanks,” I say flatly.

“I'm worried that you want revenge so bad you're going to do so
mething crazy.”

I meet her eyes. “I don't have anything to lose.”

Except you. But I can't make myself say it out loud.

Cyn glares at me. “You think life is a movie? A video game? That acting cocky is going to get you anywhere except dead?”

Dead. Like Chris.

The muscles in my shoulders and back tighten. I speak through gritted teeth. “Not if I kill them all first.”

“That's ridiculous.”

I shake my head, hunger making the world spin. I fall to my knees and grind my knuckles against my closed eyelids. Got to keep it together.

She kneels before me. “Are you going to kill the werepup
pies, too?” she say
s.

I ignore the sniffling by my ankle, one of the pups checking out my boots. “Why?”

“Why not?” Her voice is icy. “They're going to grow up. They're already gicks.”

The pup yanks on my bootlaces. I open my eyes and grab the brat by the scruff of his neck. He squirms and whimpers until I put him down. His gray fur shrinks away to reveal pink skin, his stubby limbs reform, and his tail worms away to nothingness. A fat baby sits in the dirt, staring at me with big blue eyes.

My mouth drops. “They can change already?”

“When I said they were babies,” Cyn says, “I wasn't joking.”

The werepuppy-baby drools and keeps staring at me. He seems confused.

“Fine.” I glare at Cyn. “You win. Now stop playing devil's advo
cate.”

She studies my face like she can read answers there, like I'm some sort of multiple-choice test she can ace. I want to grab her shoulders and tell her to stop being so damn cocky—she can't outthink everyone.

A shrill whistle makes me flinch. I look back and see Randall with his fingers in his mouth. I growl. Do I look like a dog?

“You'd better go,” Cyn says.

And so I do.

“I can't let you starve.” Randall shoves an opened can into my hands. “Unfortunately.”

I crouch in the grass and sniff the contents of the can. Beef stew. I pour it into my mouth, guzzling the chunks of meat, licking the leftover juices. Randall watches me, his nose wrinkled, his mouth curved in a half-smirk.

“Stuff tastes like shit,” I say. “Only a little bit better than dog food.”

“Hey,” Randall says, “I don't see any four-course meals lying around. And you're not going on any hunts until you prove we can trust you.”

Hunts? My eyes glaze over at the thought of wolfing down blood-hot venison …

I blink. Don't think that way.

Near the campfire, Winema stands on a stump and cups her hands to her mouth. She looses a keening howl that sends lightning down my backbone. All the other werewolves throw their heads skyward and howl in reply—deep baying from the men, high singing from the women, shrill squeaks from the werepuppies.

My heart drums against my rib cage. Human fear? Wolfish excitement?

Winema silences everyone with a slice of her hand. “I have called this pack meeting to discuss our current situation. We all know how serious it is.”

Mutters and nods.

“We are being hounded even more closely by the police, especially Sheriff Royle. He blundered upon our guards at Klikamuks exactly when the bloodborn and his girlfriend went looking for us. This resulted in a standoff.”

Grady marches forward with Cyn, who's smiling a lot less than she was with the werepuppies. He trots her around like a dog in a show, displaying her to the pack. They look at her with narrowed eyes.

“Unfortunately,” Winema says, “we had to take this girl host
age.”

Jessie strides closer and crosses her arms. “Alpha, if I may spea
k?”

Winema nods.