On Fire (10 page)

Stiles made a point of hugging the phone to his chest. “No way are you taking my phone without me,” he said.

“Tell me or I’ll rip your throat out,” Derek snarled at him. Threats like that had produced perfect results in the past—at Derek’s command, Stiles had almost cut off his poisoned arm rather than suffer his wrath. Luckily Scott had arrived with the antidote—a bullet he had stolen from Kate Argent. She had a box of ammo filled with Northern Blue Monkshood—wolfsbane. Derek had used the wolfsbane to cure himself.

Just another reason to hate Kate with all his soul.

“No,” Stiles said. “Scott’s my best friend, and you’re not telling me everything.”

I had a nightmare,
Derek thought, and huffed to himself. There was no way he was telling Stiles that. Werewolves didn’t share information with humans, ever.

Except for him, Derek Hale. He had shared information with a human. He hadn’t meant to.

And the results had been disastrous.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll take your Jeep.”

Stiles huffed. “Why can’t we ever take your car?”

•  •  •

Jackson was lost.

Sensing imminent danger, he had bolted from Gramm’s campfire, and now he didn’t know where the hell he was. He tried to get a fix with his phone’s GPS, but he wasn’t getting a signal. Now he was scrambling over large tree roots and ducking low-lying branches, searching for a path, some partiers, anything. He had no idea why he’d gotten so spooked, and he was trying not to second-guess his decision to leave. Jackson had a gift for reading signals, which was one of the reasons he was so good at lacrosse. Sometimes he just knew which way to run, where the ball would land. It hadn’t taken much to notice the difference in Scott McCall’s performance, but he seemed to be the only person on the team who had figured out that Scott was on some kind of drug.

Or something.

He pressed his fingertips against the back of his neck, where those nasty scratches were. They were tingling or itching or something—he couldn’t quite describe it—and that just added to his sense of urgency. Hell with this. He was getting out of the woods and going to spend the night with Lydia. All he’d have to do was tell her about the note and she would forgive him for blowing her off. Maybe.

If he could find his way out.

The sleepless night at that skanky hotel was taking its toll. Slumping against a tree trunk, he tilted back his head to draw in deep breaths. With all the smoke he smelled, he was amazed he hadn’t run into anybody yet. Some kids partying. Up there the stars were shining in constellations and the moon was hanging low, but none of it would help him find his way back to his car. He didn’t know anything about celestial navigation or any of that Boy Scout stuff. He knew about lacrosse.

Maybe if I call for help,
he thought, but he shook his head. With his luck, some loser from school would hear him whining like a baby. He was resourceful. If he could just get his bearings, he’d be fine.

However . . .

He texted Lydia and hoped it went through. Time to mend some fences, or he’d be spending night number two alone.

S
tanding beside Allison, Scott smelled smoke. His mind rocketed back to his dream, and his wariness made him edgy. But he tried to remind himself that Beacon Hills Preserve allowed campfires. For all he knew, Jackson had built one to keep warm.

He looked down at his phone. The Where’s My Phone app appeared to have failed. The map had disappeared.

“Look,” he said, showing it to Allison.

“Mine’s gone, too.” She frowned.

It was complicated looking for someone he couldn’t stand. He knew Allison wasn’t all that fond of Jackson, either. She had really stood up to him at the bowling alley when he kept dissing Scott’s lack of skills.

Then she’d told me to picture her naked. Like I’m doing right now.

“Let’s call Lydia and ask her if she’s seeing anything,” Allison said.

“We’ll have to use my phone,” Scott said. He handed his phone to Allison. Their fingers brushed and tingles shot
through his body. They’d been kissing for hours but each time he touched her it was like the first time ever.

“Yeah, hi, it’s me,” she said, nodding at Scott to let him know she’d made the connection.

Scott wandered a bit away to give her privacy, or the semblance of it. In reality, he could hear every word of both sides of the conversation. Lydia couldn’t see Jackson on the WMP map anymore, either.

Then Lydia said, “Allison, hold on. He just texted me!”

Allison gestured to Scott. “Jackson’s texting her right now.”

Scott smiled and nodded. Sometimes you could get a text through even if you couldn’t get enough bars for a call.

“I’m going to kill him,” Lydia said, her voice a mixture of relief and supreme irritation.

“What did he say?” Allison asked.

“‘I’m ok. I just needed some space. Home soon.’”

Scott was suspicious. That sounded too nice to be Jackson. At least the Jackson he knew. But sometimes guys acted different with their girlfriends.

“What, Lydia?” Allison said. “I didn’t catch all that.”

Scott heard static. Either his phone or Lydia’s was losing reception. He didn’t suppose it really mattered. Jackson was accounted for, if not exactly found.

Allison shrugged. “Lydia said he’s in the preserve,” she said. “But the call went fuzzy after that. I can try calling her back.”

“How’s my battery power?” he asked.

“Good question.” She looked down at the phone. “Uh-oh. You’re at twenty percent.”

“No big,” he said. “I can always charge it later. If he’s going home, I guess we might as well, too.” He held his breath waiting for her answer.

Her eyes sparkled as she pretended to ponder his suggestion, tapping her chin with her fingertips.

“Well, we can leave the preserve, but if Lydia’s covering for me . . .”

She trailed off, leaving the rest to his imagination. She smiled up at him, and he grinned back, using that imagination to picture her naked some more. They kissed again. But then his conscience got the better of him.

“I’d feel better if we left, with that wolf around,” Scott said.

“I think that wolf liked us,” Allison countered. “But you’re right. We shouldn’t push our luck.” She dimpled. “I’m going to think of this as one of our special spots.”

Wow
, Scott thought.
Awesome
.

Then she rose up and kissed him again. She curled her fingers in his hair and he did the same. Her hair was so silky. He didn’t want the kiss to ever end, but he ended it first, and took her hand.

He smelled the smoke again, a little stronger, and another little fillip of anxiety tapped at him. Not fear per se, just a reminder to be careful.

They started heading back out of the dense woods in the direction of Allison’s car. He held back a branch for her and she ducked beneath it. Moonlight shimmered on her face.

And something changed.

Something in him.

He felt it, almost like the skin on his face was too tight. His nails were pushing against his fingers.

I’m changing,
he thought.
No!

After she passed, he let go of the branch and dropped to one knee, pretending to tie his shoe. In reality, he was examining his nails. Yes, he’d been right. They were growing, the ends savagely pointed. He pressed the pad of his thumb against his canine tooth. It was definitely longer.

No. No, stop,
he ordered himself.
This can’t be happening.

He peered up through his lashes at Allison’s back. She had just realized he wasn’t right behind her and she was going to turn around. He pulled his head down lower, and forced himself to breathe slowly. His heart was pounding. What the hell was he going to do?

“Scott?” Allison said.

“Tying my shoe,” he managed to say. He clenched his jaw, feeling the jut of his wolf teeth against his lips.
Get it together.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

His sight went red. He kept his gaze downward; in his line of vision, he saw her boots, glowing scarlet, walking toward him.
I didn’t kill with the Alpha,
he reminded himself.
Even if I change, I won’t hurt her. I swear I won’t.

But if she saw him . . .

“Hey?” she said. Her soft voice was like a clanging bell ringing against his eardrums.

He balled his fists. She was close, so close. Could she see his wolf ears? No. She’d have been screaming by then.

“Scott?” she said, with a bit more concern, and he
watched her start to dip down toward him, bathed in red, so she could look him in the face.

And his nails retracted. He checked his teeth with his tongue. Normal human teeth. He touched his right ear. Fine.

He was no longer seeing everything in red. He rose, hoping to God that his eyes weren’t glowing, nearly knocking heads with her. She laughed and brushed his cheek with her lips. He kissed her back, trying to act normal.

Which I’m not,
he thought fiercely.
I’m so not normal
.

They laced fingers and walked on. The sun was nearly down. It wasn’t a full moon tonight; at least he had that on his side.

“I wondered what happened with the detective,” she said. “Poor Lydia. She was so worried about Jackson. He could have at least checked in earlier.”

“Yeah.” Scott couldn’t tell her that he wasn’t convinced Jackson was okay. The fact that Jackson had texted Lydia but she hadn’t actually heard his voice was still preying on his mind. Besides, he didn’t want to suggest that they keep looking for Jackson. All he wanted to do was get her back to her car and keep her safe.

From the wild wolf, and the darkness, and himself.

•  •  •

I shouldn’t have texted Lydia that I’m okay,
Jackson thought, catching his breath,
because I’m not
.

Sure, he’d left Gramm standing in the shadows. He had
just turned and split without saying a word, because Jackson Whittemore didn’t explain himself to anyone. Well, except to Lydia, to keep her happy. It was
so
much easier to deal with Lydia when she was happy. Plus . . . benefits.

But now he was lost.

And things still felt wrong.

He’d thought maybe the detective (if he really was a detective) had brought someone along and he was so mad at himself for taking such a huge risk. It was just . . . the picture of that guy looked so much like him. And not Photoshopped, unless the detective had bothered to make it look like an old picture.

That’s not so hard,
Jackson thought.
Any dork in Graphic Design 1A can do it.

He took the picture out of his pocket and aimed his flashlight at it. His eyes, his jawline. Was it his real dad?

Biological father
, he corrected himself, but something deep down still said “real.”

His parents had made him see a therapist a couple of times during the summer before ninth grade. He had been spending every waking hour at lacrosse practice, and had just gotten back from a private camp, in fact, when one evening, just out of the blue, they informed him that the next day he was going to see Dr. Taggert.

“Just for a checkup,” his dad had said. And his mom had smiled her tight little smile that meant things were not totally okay with her, and given Jackson a reassuring nod. Like he was some kind of moron who wouldn’t notice that they were trying to pass off this “checkup” as something normal.

He spent the entire night tossing and turning, wondering
if he had said or done something that had thrown down a red flag. He went back over every single moment he could remember at camp. He’d hung with a tight bunch of guys he’d known from other camps, and yeah, okay, there were a couple of boys who tried to mix it up with him and he’d set them straight. But that was normal stuff, guy stuff. Guys who played lacrosse were tough—they had to be. Lacrosse was a very aggressive sport. Some people didn’t know that, and sometimes, watching their first lacrosse practice, they got freaked out.

It had to be something like that.

But he didn’t say anything about going to see the therapist because part of him didn’t want to hear that they were somehow disappointed in him. He wondered about it all night—he wouldn’t say that he
worried
; it was just on his mind—and he was feeling draggy when his mom drove him to the office.

They went into together, everyone sitting in big comfy chairs. There was a wall of framed college degrees and a mountain landscape like you’d see in a hotel room. Jackson’s mom kept saying over and over that everything was fine; they just wanted to make sure that Jackson was ready for high school. It felt like the two adults were speaking in some kind of code that Jackson didn’t know. And that they knew he didn’t know it, and were talking right in front of him
about
him and weren’t telling him.