Frostbitten (12 page)

“Wind in the chimney,” Clay said.

I gave a shaky laugh. “A little jumpy tonight, aren’t I?”

“With good reason.”

He moved up behind me and rubbed my shoulders. When I tried to step away, he held me.

“Take a minute,” he murmured. “It’s only me.”

I took a deep breath. It wasn’t easy, being a woman in a werewolf’s world, worrying that they’re watching you for signs of weakness. It meant a lot to have someone in my life who didn’t care if wolves at the door spooked me. If I became Alpha—
his
Alpha—would that change?

I leaned back against Clay and turned my head, cheek against his shoulder, inhaling. When my nerves were calm and the specter of Dennis Stillwell faded, I got back to work.

I didn’t need to sniff around for long before saying, “I’ve got werewolf. And not just Dennis.”

Clay nodded. No surprise there.

Another few minutes of sniffing. “It’s the same two from the museum—the ones who attacked Reese.”

Again, he nodded.

“I’m getting a third scent,” I said.

“Werewolf?”

“Yep.” I followed it, untangling the trail from the others. “He’s related to one of the others—father, son, brother. That’s why I wasn’t sure I detected an older third trail in that clearing. Similar scents.”

“Makes sense.”

He meant both my explanation and the family relationship. It was unusual to find three werewolves together, but far more likely if at least two shared a family connection.

Clay had found a toolbox in the closet and was sanding the rough wooden floor. He couldn’t buff out all the blood, but it would fade the stain, making it look like an old spill. As he did that, I walked to the dinette. The table was covered with papers and books.

“What did Dennis do for a living?” I asked.

“Electrician, I think. I remember Jeremy had him fix up the old wiring at Stonehaven.”

I looked at the handwritten notes. They definitely weren’t electrical diagrams.

“Hobbies?” I asked.

Clay shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Jeremy would know. Why?”

I picked up a book in my gloved hand. “He seems to have been researching folklore and mythology. That must have been what he was doing at the museum.”

Clay brought a lantern over and picked up a notebook as I thumbed through a sheaf of photocopied pages.

“Yeenaaldlooshii, Nagual, Wendigo…” I said. “shapeshifter myths, particularly Native American. I’m surprised he didn’t contact you.”

He took the papers from my hand, reading them more closely.

“I’ll find a bag and we’ll take his work with us.”

He nodded, his gaze still fixed on the papers. He didn’t stop reading until I plucked them from his hand and added them to a canvas bag I’d already filled with the rest.

“What do you think he was doing?” I asked.

“No idea. Maybe a new hobby. Getting older and looking for answers.” He took the bag from me. “We should get going.”

I nodded and pulled back the curtain. The nightscape was empty. Behind me, Clay checked the other windows.

“All clear?” I asked.

“Seems so.”

We stepped onto the porch. I inhaled. I could still smell the wolves, their thick scent hanging in the air, but the forest was still. We walked around the perimeter of the clearing.

“Vanished into the night,” I murmured. “Just curious? They might be used to Dennis, so our scent doesn’t spook them.”

“Could be.”

Clay surveyed the forest, but we heard only the whine of the wind.

“Let’s go.”

When we reached the head of the trail, Clay turned and peered back at the cabin. Following his gaze, I saw a snowmobile parked at the far end of the deck.

“There wasn’t a truck,” I said.

He glanced over. “What?”

“I was just thinking. Dennis must have driven to the snowmobile shed in a truck, but there wasn’t one on the road. Whoever killed him must have taken it, presumably so none of his neighbors would notice. Are you thinking we should do the same with the snowmobile? Put it back in the shed?”

“Good idea, but I was just looking for a faster way out of here. I don’t want to be caught on a trail if those wolves come back.”

On cue, a howl reverberated through the night. Another answered. I tracked the sound.

“At least a mile off,” I said. “With luck they’ll stay there. But if we can take the snowmobile and return it to the shed, we should.”

We went back inside to find the keys. We didn’t. Either the mutts took them for the truck or we’d buried them in Dennis’s pocket.

Clay tried to hotwire the snowmobile. Lucas had taught him how—for cars—but I don’t think Clay had paid much attention. It wasn’t a skill he’d ever needed, so he’d only listened to be respectful.

Clay had taught Lucas a lot and if Lucas wanted to return a lesson, Clay wouldn’t say he couldn’t use it.

Only now he
could
use it, and could only vaguely recall the instructions.

After about twenty minutes, he settled back on his haunches and growled at the offending vehicle. “I remember how to do it with cars and the basic principles are the same but…” Another growl. “Machines. I’m a lot better at disabling them than starting them.”

“Shocking.” I hopped off the edge of the porch. “Forget it. By the time we get it going, we could have walked to the car and back.”

He hated to admit the challenge had bested him, but after another moment of fiddling, he hefted the book bag, and we set out.

We could still hear the distant song of the wolves, so we relaxed, knowing they were far off. We talked about the kids and the school dilemma—a good distraction.

Clay moved into the lead as the moon slid behind cloud cover. “Kindergarten is a waste of time.”

“Says the guy who got kicked out.”

“I wasn’t
kicked
out.”

“No, they just strongly suggested that Jeremy reconsider your readiness for school… and preferably find you another one to attend.”

“Damned private schools. Elitist snobs.”

“True. A public school would never get so worked up over a student dissecting the classroom guinea pig.”

“It was already—”

“—dead. So I’ve heard. Which really wasn’t the point.”

“The point was that they failed to recognize my academic potential, and Logan is going to run into the same problems.”

“We’ll tell his teacher he’s allergic to guinea pigs.”

Clay let a branch fling back. I caught it before it hit my face.

“I’d agree,” I said. “If Logan wasn’t the one wanting to go to—”

Clay spun fast. I jumped, hands flying up, thinking he was goofing. Then I saw his face, rigid, as he stared out into the forest. A pair of eyes appeared from the darkness. Then another. And another.

“Shit,” I said. “But we just heard them miles—That was another pack.”

Clay stepped back toward me, my nylon coat whispering against his leather. I counted eleven pair of eyes, and a couple more dark shapes farther back. A huge pack.

“Hear anything?” Clay asked.

He meant a growl or snarl, some warning of impending attack. But the wolves were silent, pale statues against the night, eyes glinting where the moonlight pierced the canopy.

“I think they’ll leave us alone,” Clay said.

“Just curious?”

He nodded and slipped behind me. “Keep walking. I’ll keep a watch on the rear. No sudden moves or loud noises.”

He knew I knew this—it was just his anxiety talking. For the first ten paces, the wolves stayed where they were. Then their eyes disappeared as they turned and started gliding along, still silent, keeping their distance, flanking us as we walked.

I’ll never forget what that was like, the squeak of snow under my boots, adrenaline pumping so hard I didn’t feel the cold, my breath coming in puffs, tiny clouds hanging in the air, the moonlight through the trees casting slices of light, the wolves gliding through them, then vanishing into the dark.

A wolf stopped in one of those moonlight slices. Its head swiveled as it looked the other way, deep into the forest. Another wolf stopped, then another, their gray shapes all turning.

One let out a low whine. Another growled. Clay tugged me back against him, his chin lifting, eyes searching, but the wolves paid us no attention. Then, on the wind, a scent whipped past, heavy and musky, the stink of it clinging to my throat.

Clay’s face lifted, nostrils flaring. “What the hell is that?”

I took another sniff, but smelled only clean air now. The wolves hadn’t budged. I swore I could feel their anxiety thrumming through the air.

The same wolf growled again. A bigger one twisted and snapped, like a grown-up telling a teenager to shut up. The younger wolf’s ears lowered and his grumble vibrated across the air, but didn’t rise to a growl again.

And then, as if in reaction to a command I couldn’t hear, the wolves all turned and started to run, tearing back the way they’d come, paws pounding.

Only one remained—the wolf farthest from us, a dark shape I hadn’t noticed hidden behind his lighter brethren. He stood his ground, hackles up, and even from here, I could hear the low warning growl.

The moon slid from behind wispy clouds, beaming light into the dark pockets between the trees, and I got a good look at him—not a black wolf but a dark red one, nearly twice the size of the others. It was the one I’d seen at the window. The wolf that I’d been sure, for a moment, wasn’t a wolf at all.

Before I could say anything to Clay, a smaller gray wolf ran back, lunging and dancing in front of the dark wolf, then darting behind him and nipping at his heels. He looked out into the forest. The smaller wolf bumped him, whining. He snorted and turned toward us, green eyes meeting mine. Then he took off after the others.

“Did you see…?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Was that…?”

“Think so.”

A werewolf with a wolf pack? I took a step off the path, but Clay caught my arm.

“I want to check his scent,” I said. “See whether he was one of the mutts who killed Dennis.”

“We’ll come back. Right now, we need to get to the truck before we find out what scared them off.”

“Whatever it was, I think it’s gone. I only caught that one whiff.”

Clay kept his fingers on my arm, guiding me along the path.

“Did it smell like wolf to you?” I asked.

“Wolf?” He pursed his lips, considering it. “I thought it might, but I was picking up the wolves following us. With that stink, I was going wolverine. If it made the wolves run, though, I’m guessing bear.”

“A pack that size running from a bear?”

He prodded me forward when I slowed. “Did you see that stuffed one in the hotel lobby? Damn near eight feet tall. I see anything that big, I’m running, too.”

The moon passed behind thicker clouds and I slowed again, blinking hard as the path went dark.

“Get behind me,” he said.

Clay’s night vision beat mine, so he led the way, slowly but sure-footed. As we walked, I swear it got darker, even the glow of the cloud-covered moon erased from the night sky.

I was about to say we definitely needed to invest in flashlights. Then a scent wafted past my nose, that awful musky smell coming from downwind meaning it was right beside—

Clay spun, his fist in flight, eyes widening as he realized he’d led with his bad arm. He checked himself, his left punching as I wheeled. Something plowed square into my back, knocking the wind from my lungs. My feet flew off the ground and I braced myself for a fall. Instead I jerked up short, legs windmilling, suspended in the air, that stench washing over me, held aloft by the back of my coat. As I twisted to see what had me, Clay pile-drove the beast. It grunted in surprise, and I went flying, my jacket ripping.

I slammed into a tree. Pain exploded. As I tumbled into a heap at the base, I blinked, barely able to see. Clay’s face appeared over mine. He gave a whoosh of relief, seeing my eyes open.

Before I could speak, trees crackled, branches snapping. A snarl. Then a snort. Clay spun, fists sailing up. The crashing continued, growing distant. Clay waited, poised for a fight. When he was sure the beast was gone, he scooped me up. My head throbbed, hot blood trickling down my neck. Clay broke into a jog, carrying me.

When we reached the SUV, he bundled me inside and tried checking my injuries, but I pushed him away.

“Drive,” I said. “Even the extra vehicle insurance isn’t going to cover a bear attack.”

He swung into the driver’s seat and had the tires spinning before the door slammed shut. He tore to the end of the trail. When we reached the end of the next one, he pulled over.

“The blood is from my nose,” I said, holding a handful of tissue to it. “It’s not even broken.”

He said nothing, just came around to my side to assess the dam age for himself. He cleaned me up and when he was done, he checked for other cuts and found two scrapes.