Hot Blooded (Wolf Springs Chronicles #2) (19 page)

“Guess who I just met,” she said. “The Inner Wolf guy. Jack Bronson.”

Her grandfather’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. He looked as if she had hit him in the stomach. “How? Where?” he demanded.

“Just in town. At the coffee house. I think he was in to sign some more of his books or something.” She had no idea what insanity had prompted her to bring it up. Maybe because she hadn’t told Trick she’d met him. And she’d never told her grandfather about the run-in with the two drunk guys.

“That man is crazy. He’s ruining Wolf Springs. Don’t ever go near him or talk to him again.”

They passed the rest of the evening knocking around in the little cabin. Her grandfather finished cleaning his gun and then he read a hunting magazine. Feeling contrite, Katelyn emailed Beau and told him she was sorry she’d been so standoffish, telling him she had “family stuff” and when she’d taken care of it she’d be back to investigating the history of Wolf Springs with him. A small white lie. He’d written back that he was sorry for her troubles, but glad he hadn’t caused them.

When she finally went to bed she couldn’t relax. She lay staring at the skylight, then over at the bust of her mother that Trick had sculpted. There were things of her father’s in the garage. Photographs of him as a little boy, probably. His school papers. But most likely pictures of him and her mom and Katelyn, too. All kinds of things that she’d thought were lost.

Her grandfather had said he’d bring some boxes in for her to go through, told her not to go in there, but Katelyn wanted to look now. Her parents had always laughed on Christmases when she’d forced them to get up at three- and four-o’clock in the morning, unable to wait another second. “So impatient,” her mother had chided her, but her dad had said she was driven.

Maybe if she nosed around just a little, opened a couple of boxes, she’d be able to get to sleep. Her grandfather would understand, right? He’d made the offer. She was just taking him up on it a little sooner than he had intended.

She got up and a minute later, flashlight in hand, she hurried down the little path to the garage and went inside. There was his canoe, and there, the tower of boxes of food, antifreeze, and other supplies he had purchased for the winter. He had his workbench; on it lay more weapons in various stages of disassembly.

And then she faced dozens of boxes — a garage full. Most were cardboard, sealed with packing tape; others had just been folded closed. She ran her flashlight along them and read off labels gracefully written with a black marker: her grandmother’s handwriting, she guessed.
Sewing Room
.
National Geographic. University Files
. There were just so many. Sighing, she wandered between two tall stacks, telling herself that if she didn’t find anything in half an hour or so, she’d go back to bed.

Cookbooks. Taxes
.

The life of an elderly married couple. Her parents would never have such a life. She wondered if she would, herself.

She kept poking around through dust and cobwebs, getting a little grossed out. She really shouldn’t be doing this. Then the beam of the flashlight passed over a single word:

Sean
.

Her heart skipped a beat. She stood in front of the box and placed her hand over her father’s name. Then she lifted the boxes from on top of it and set them on the floor.

The packing tape along the seam was yellowed and dried up, so that it wasn’t really holding the box together. Katelyn picked at it with her fingernail, wincing guiltily when the brittle tape crumpled away. Slowly, methodically, she peeled it off, keeping the strip intact as best as possible so she could at least position it back over the seam. Then, with a deep breath, she opened it.

Sheets of gritty tissue paper made crumpling noises as she pushed them out of her way, revealing a carefully folded blue and white crocheted baby blanket. Her heart tugged as she unfolded it and put it against her face. It was as soft as rabbit fur but she smelled no trace of anything but dust.

She shook it out, refolded it reverently, and held it against her chest. There were more baby clothes inside — little shirts and booties. And photographs of her dad as a baby. She saw her own light blue eyes staring back at her. Her own small mouth, pulling a smile.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

She went through the box slowly, gently, unfolding each item, admiring it, refolding it. Then, finally, knowing it was getting very late, she made sure everything was put back as she’d found it, picked up her flashlight, and turned to go. One box wasn’t enough, but she should wait. And besides, there was a knocking little hollow place where her heart should be, and it hurt.

Then, as she replaced the tape, she dropped the flashlight. She crouched down to pick it up and a smell hit her. Metallic. Like tin foil. She shone her flashlight over an untouched row of boxes and sniffed the air. Her eyes began to water.

Silver, she thought.

But the side of the box read AMMO.

Weird, she thought. But it was time to go. She straightened and was about to leave when the smell drew her back, and she decided to have a look. As she moved a couple of cartons out of the way, dust lifted, ghostlike, and she sneezed. Then she opened the box and peered in.

Inside sat a rectangular metal olive green box. It really was an ammo box. Her grandfather had carried out a few of those when he’d taught her how to shoot. But there was definitely silver inside.

She unthreaded the black strap wrapped around the box, then opened the lid and aimed her flashlight at the contents.

She gasped. Her heart triple-hammered in her chest, then skipped beats as her pulse roared in her ears and she staggered backwards into another stack of boxes.

There were dozens.

Gleaming in the light.

Silver bullets.

11

“It can’t be!” Katelyn blurted aloud, but she knew she was right. She covered her mouth with both hands. The boxes behind her teetered, threatening to fall, but she could do nothing but stare at the bullets. In her grandfather’s garage. Silver bullets.

Before she knew what she was doing, she bolted. Still clutching the flashlight, she flew out of the garage and across the road, into the forest, as if it was safe. Branches tore at her pants, at her hair.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning crackled above the treetops, lighting up the forest, and she saw a shadow thrown against a trunk that was not hers. It was black and thin, the hands elongated, unearthly. She couldn’t make sense of it. Her heart was beating too fast and she staggered left, right, as the rain bucketed down on top of her head.

There are silver bullets in the garage.

There is something out here with me.

The shadow slid along the tree trunks in strobe-like flashes of light and she threw herself away from it in a half circle and slammed hard against a tree. The flashlight rolled away and framed a face beneath a cowboy hat.

Justin’s face.

“Kat?” he asked, hurrying toward her. “What’s wrong?”

“What — what are you . . .” She couldn’t talk. She was terrified. Maybe she’d imagined it and they’d only been normal bullets — her senses were off-kilter because of all the changes and the stress.

He put his arms around her and she burst into tears. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t let him see; but she couldn’t stop herself.

“Did something scare you?” he asked her.

“Why are you here?” she asked shrilly, pulling herself back out of his embrace. There was so much rain everywhere, and she could barely see, and nothing was making sense. Had she gone crazy?

Justin’s face glowed through the sheets of rain, white like a phantom. As she blinked at him, the forest came alive. There was a squirrel on a branch above his head; an owl still higher, preparing to dive at it. Farther on, there was a beautiful tawny wolf. Justin was not alone.

She began to run as fast as she could, pushing past branches and slipping in the mud. Lunging at ropes of Spanish moss, grabbing onto pine branches, she scrabbled and struggled. All she saw was a field of red and blinding white as her werewolf senses kicked in. Everything was giving off its own heat. It was like the other night trying to come back from having seen Cordelia, only five times more powerful.

Then Justin grabbed her and held her even though she flailed at him. She panted hard.

“Let me go,” she said.

“What the hell is wrong?” he asked her.

“Nothing,” she said. “I — I just got spooked in the garage.” She jerked as he took off his cowboy hat and put it on her head. Then he picked up her flashlight and started walking her out of the woods toward the cabin.

“Spooked, hell.”

“I — I’m so emotional.” She threaded her hair away from her face. “I’ve been really short-tempered.” She tried to peer through the trees. “Who’s with you?”

“No one. I came alone.”

She slipped, and he grabbed her hand. She was galvanized by his touch. “I saw a wolf.”

“Then you were seeing things, darlin’, because we’re the only wolves here.”

They stood at the edge of the road. The garage door hung open, and Justin headed toward it.

“No,” she said quickly. “I found some things of my dad’s, and it just freaked me out. But I’m not supposed to go in there. My grandfather asked me not to, but I did anyway.”

“See what comes from not listening to your elders,” he chided her gently. “Your father is partly why I came. I didn’t know your pa was murdered. I didn’t know much about you at all, except that you were new in town and Cordelia liked you. I did a little digging, and then I got to thinking about you being changed and all, without a hell of a lot of guidance.”

He straightened the hat on her head. It was miles too big, and she could barely see beneath the brim. She clenched her fists, sure that she was about to burst apart — which was his point, she supposed.

“Digging,” she said. “Digging where?”

“Girl, you’re all over the internet,” he drawled. “Your daddy’s murder. Your mother’s death. Didn’t they teach you how to be careful about your information back in L.A.?”

“I can’t talk about this now,” she said tensely. “I’m supposed to be in my room. If my grandfather finds me out here, he’ll ground me. And then I won’t be able to come over for my ‘guidance.’”

He was silent for a beat. Then he said, “Being a female werewolf’s different from what I know. You were smart to stay away for a few days. That’s our rule, too. I think my uncle’s forgotten that we’ve got an extra complication here.”

If she could have spared any more emotions, she would have felt embarrassed. But she was already overloaded; she wanted him to go away. She wanted to go back into the garage and make sure she hadn’t been seeing things.

And . . . she didn’t want him to go away. She wanted help. She didn’t want to be so alone right now.

I can go to Trick
, she thought. But she could tell him even less than she could tell Justin.

Cordelia. The right answer. Her friend. She pressed her knuckles together beneath her chin and exhaled, as if to get rid of how much she missed her.

“If we brought someone in to guide you — a female — she’d have to be high-ranking,” he continued. “Which would mean someone like Arial or Regan . . . or Lucy.”

She shook her head. “No way.”

“But—”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said hotly. She let her hands fall. “I have to go. Stop stalking me.”

“I told you to get used to being watched,” he said. “And don’t talk to me like that.
Ever
. Not even when we’re alone.”

“Or what?” She raised her chin. “You’ll hurt me?”

He pressed his lips together, and she wanted to slap that scowl off his face. Who put him in charge? Who could decide he was high-ranking?

“Go in the house,” he snapped. He handed her the flashlight.

“I have to straighten things out in the garage. By myself,” she added pointedly, taking it. She couldn’t leave the bullets out. Her grandfather would know she’d found them.

So what?
she thought hotly.
He doesn’t know
.

Does he?

She quaked. “All right, then,” he said. “But this isn’t over. We need to talk.” He took his hat, and the rain blasted at the crown of her head.

Katelyn used that as her excuse to duck into the garage. And shut the door in his face.

The bullets.

Most of them were tarnished, but some were still shiny. She stared at them queasily, trying to convince herself she was in some kind of waking nightmare, then she picked one up, turning it over in her palm, studying it. Finally she dropped it back into the box, reached out and closed the lid.

Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and thought about the scratch marks on her grandfather’s back, her fears that they had been made by a werewolf.

She thought about someone shooting at her in the forest.

“No way,” she said aloud.

After she stowed the bullets and tried to replace the tape, she hovered on the threshold of the garage and tried to pick out Justin from the shadows. It weirded her out that he was there.

And I did see a wolf
, she insisted.

The storm pushed at her as she hurried back inside the cabin, then closed and locked the door. She stood for a moment, her back pressed to it, listening for a sound, any sound, that would let her know if Mordecai was awake.

The house was silent. Her head spun, and her stomach churned as if she were going to throw up. Fear and revulsion collided, and also the tiniest flicker of hope. If her grandfather knew about werewolves, then maybe she could actually tell him, confide in him.

With the very next heartbeat, she knew that wish was foolish and suicidal. Mr. Fenner had been clear that if she told her grandfather anything, he would kill them both.

Not if Grandpa kills him first
.

She trembled as the thought took hold of her. Her grandfather was a hunter and he had a whole box of the right kind of ammunition. He could shoot Mr. Fenner and then . . .