Jennifer Lynn Barnes Anthology by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
“I’m good, thanks,” I said. She waited for a moment and then gave me a look, one I’d seen before on a variety of other faces, telling me that I was different and editorializing on that fact. Out of habit, I held the woman’s gaze, and she made that same hybrid sound a second time. She wanted to look away and couldn’t seem to bring herself to do it. Finally, I let her go, decreasing the intensity of my stare without ever taking my eyes from her face. She looked down, and I turned my attention back to my coffee: too bitter for my taste and so rich in smell that I couldn’t keep from believing that maybe the next sip wouldn’t taste quite so bad.
“Suit yourself,” the waitress mumbled, and I could almost hear the admonition—you’re an odd one, aren’t you?—in her tone. “Mr. Wilson said to tell you he’s on his way.” The emphasis on the Rabid’s name told me that I wasn’t the only one this woman saw as an outsider, and not for the first time, I wondered why humans seemed to trust their eyes more than their instincts when their gut said something was off.
Wilson wasn’t just odd. He was a psychopath, and he wasn’t human. And there I was, playing bait. I steadied my hands on the coffee cup and let the smell of java stave off the shard of fear that wanted to jab into my stomach and my side and the oldest, most instinctual part of my brain.
Did you guys get that? I asked silently, sending the thought out to the others in the hopes of keeping them from noticing the slight acceleration in my heartbeat. The Rabid’s on his way.
From the edges of town, Devon, Lake, and Chase replied in the affirmative. It was killing them to hold off, to leave me in this two-bit restaurant alone, but our target might not come if he knew I had backup, so they had to stay far enough away that he wouldn’t sense them until it was too late. Once the Rabid got here, I’d stall. Devon, Lake, and Chase would get into position, and then I’d let Wilson lead me outside. He’d feel them coming, but we were banking on the fact that once he saw me, once I was so close to being in his grasp, he wouldn’t be able to just walk away.
Protect.
Protect.
Protect.
My pack, as small as it was, wanted to come. They wanted to come now. Their wolves were fighting for control, gnashing their teeth, tearing their way to the surface.
Calm. Down, I told them, and with my words, they settled. Waiting. Soon, they would attack.
I sat there for five minutes, ten, fifteen, and two cups of coffee, before a man with brown hair and kind brown eyes slid into the booth across from me. In the corners of my mind, I felt Chase, Devon, and Lake release, sprinting toward us.
Five minutes.
I just had to stall for five minutes.
“You were looking for me, little one?”
I recognized his voice from Chase’s dreams—Change. Change back. Change. Change back—and it disturbed me that he’d called me “little one,” the same endearment Callum had used the night he’d saved me from this man’s jaws. It disturbed me even more that up close, Wilson didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a man, the monstrous features in my dreams—teeth smeared with blood, sparkling eyes—melding into something almost run-of-the-mill in person. He could have been Callum or Chase or the one I’d once called “Daddy.” He could have been Casey, installing a nanny cam in the twins’ bedroom.
The monster under my bed, the wolf stalking my nightmares, the person who’d changed the course of my entire life in one night—he looked human, and he wasn’t supposed to.
“You hurt me,” I said. This wasn’t how I’d planned to stall, but I was struggling to remember that this was part of a plan at all.
“Hurting you was never my intention,” the man said. “I wanted to give you something. A gift.” He paused. “I would have taken care of you.”
Teeth ripping into Daddy’s throat. Someone laughing. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. The Big Bad Wolf always wins in the end.”
“Liar.”
I’d been in his head. I’d seen Madison through his eyes, felt his satisfaction in the way that children looked covered in blood, and I knew, just by looking at him, that this was a man who had killed long before he’d discovered the key to making new wolves. Maybe his attack on my family hadn’t been his first. Maybe there had been others, and by nothing more than coincidence, one of them had lived. Maybe he’d never planned on anyone surviving, but once someone had, he’d realized that he could have his cake and eat it, too. Kill people and then use them, from that day on, as his personal guard. He could feed his taste for blood and set himself up as king of his own mountain.
I didn’t want to understand him as well as I did. I didn’t want to be sitting at this table with him. I didn’t want him looking at me.
“Why did you want me to come here?” the man asked.
I’d had a story prepared, one that might have distracted him from the senses that would tell him my friends were getting closer and closer to us. That they were almost in position.
Two more minutes, Bryn. Two minutes, and then we’re there. Get him outside of the restaurant, and then get clear.
“I’ve been looking for you because I want you dead,” I said, staring into my coffee. Might as well give him a taste of the truth. “For what you did to me. And Chase.”
“Ah, yes, Chase. Rather ironic name, don’t you think?”
He was trying to be funny. He was trying to seem human. But he didn’t mind that I hated him. I think he liked it.
“Why Chase?” I asked him. “Why me? Why us?”
I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from his lips.
Instead, he smiled. “I’ll tell you at home.”
Home.
The word’s meaning permeated my mind. This man had come to town to bring me back with him.
“I could scream,” I told him. “You wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation in town, would you? If they saw you abduct me, it might bring the police out to the woods.”
“Ah, but if you screamed, little Bryn, then you’d attract an audience, and that would make it so much harder for your little friends to get their sights on me.”
Now, Bryn.
They were ready. They were in position. And he knew it.
“Shall we go outside?” the man asked.
In that moment, I had a choice. If I chose to stay here, I’d be safe, but somehow, I knew that he’d find a way around our plan. A back exit, a human shield, something that would let him waltz off and rob us of the only opportunity we would have to do this right.
So I went with him. He put his arm around my shoulder, and like a caring father, he led me out of the restaurant, leaving the waitress hmm-harrumphing in our wake.
Outside, his grip on me tightened, but I immediately dropped out of his grasp and to the ground, rolling away from him.
A shot rang out, but somehow, Wilson—no, Prancer; he didn’t scare me—feinted to one side, and it barely grazed his shoulder. He dropped down next to me, grabbed my arm, and made a run for it.
I twisted my wrists, and the blades popped out and into his side, causing him to let go of my arm. I pulled them down and out and drove my fist toward his chin.
Bryn, get out of the way. We can’t get a clear shot. You wounded him, now get clear.
He caught my wrist and twisted it, and by some spiteful coincidence, he did it in the exact motion that drew in my claws. I went in with my other hand, and managed to drag my claws against his chest before—having learned how effective it was with my first wrist—he disarmed that one as well.
Now he had both of my wrists, still and immobilized. I jerked backward, trying to give the others a clear shot at him, and silver bullets rained down upon him: some hitting and some not. He pulled me tightly against him, using me as a shield against the gunfire and against the stares of people beginning to stick their heads out of nearby windows.
“Fight,” the Rabid whispered, directly into my ear, his voice high-pitched and giddy, his cadence bordering on musical. “Fight, fight, fight, and everything goes red.…”
His fingers dug into my neck, and they must have hit some kind of nerve, because the next instant—for only the second time in my life—I lost consciousness.
Only this time, I had no guarantees that I’d still be human when I woke up.
Back in Dead Man’s Creek, floating, only this time, the water was red, and the sky was blank, not a single star in sight.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
The sense was vague, and I couldn’t remember what had happened or why I had come here before, but as I sank down into the red depths and breathed through them, the taste of blood filled my mouth.
Not my mouth. Someone else’s—moving and yelling. Chase’s. Then Devon’s. Then Lake’s. One by one, I flashed into their minds and bodies, hopping from one to the other, until I exploded into all three of them at once.
Distance attacks weren’t working. Wilson had the body—me—held too tightly, and they couldn’t get in a shot. Lake cast her gun aside and grabbed a knife. If the long game wasn’t working, they’d bring this up close and personal.
But he was moving too quickly. Running faster than even they could. Chase roared and leaped off the perch from which he’d been shooting, his body changing from man to wolf in a second.
Faster this way. Faster. Save Bryn. Must save Bryn. Bryn-Bryn-Bryn—
The wolf’s thoughts were less clear than Chase’s, and his connection to Devon and Lake was making it difficult for them to stay in human form. All of them ran for Wilson, but in a moment of confusion and what looked to be an explosion of dust, he disapp—
Floating. Underwater. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Have to make it to the surface have to—
End.
I woke up tied to a chair, with the taste of blood in my mouth. It took me a moment to figure out that it wasn’t mine. Wilson had been injured—badly—and he’d been holding me close.
I spat.
I didn’t want any part of him inside of me. But I did want his blood. More of it, anyway.
I looked down at my wrists, which—in addition to being bound—were naked. He’d taken my wrist guards. With a sinking heart, I closed my eyes and a quick survey of my body told me that the rest of my weapons had been removed, too.
And then, there were my clothes.
My bare arms and feet scared me and made me wonder if he’d stripped me of everything, but what little feeling I had left in my body—the ropes were tight—told me that I wasn’t naked.
But I wasn’t wearing my clothes, either.
He must have stripped me to search for weapons, and the clothes he’d put me in afterward weren’t mine. I was wearing a dress.
I hated dresses.
It was lacy and frilly, the kind of dress that a very little girl would wear for Easter Sunday, not the kind that should have come in my size.
“He has them made specially,” a voice said calmly. “It’s what he likes us to wear.”
I looked up at the source of the words. “Madison,” I said, and she flinched at the sound of her name. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I continued, keeping my voice low and gentle, which was ridiculous, considering the fact that I was an unarmed human tied to a chair and she was a weapon in and of herself. “I’m here to help. I just need you to untie me. I know what happened to you, I know what he did, and you—”
“He told me not to,” Madison said, her voice empty and dull in a way that made me wonder what had happened to the girl who liked the color orange and popping bubble wrap and macaroni and cheese. “He told me not to untie you, and we have to do what he says. He’s in our heads.” She paused and when she spoke again, her voice sounded even less like it was coming from a real person. It sounded robotic. Dead. “He just wants what’s best for us. He’s the alpha. He’s our Maker. He protects us.”
Callum had brought Chase into the Stone River Pack and taught him how to fight the Rabid in his head, but Madison had never had another alpha to protect her from Wilson. She couldn’t disobey him. Arguing with her wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “What exactly did he tell you?” If anyone knew how to maneuver around orders and dish out half-lies, it was me.
“He said, ‘Don’t untie her, don’t help her, make her pretty.’ ” Madison curled her arms around her waist, hugging herself and taking a step back from me. “He said it’s your birthday tonight.”
“That’s right, Madison. Tonight, Little Bryn will be reborn. She’ll be your sister. Exciting, isn’t it? If things had gone right the first time, she could have been the one teaching you the ropes.”
That voice. Gone was the pretense of being a harmless man. Though his words were friendly enough, the tone was sinister. Creepy.
Insane.
“Go tell the others to get ready,” he told the girl. “Our distraction will only keep her little friends in town for so long.” He paused, and the girl turned to hurry out of the room—like she was trying to escape hearing what she knew he was going to say next.
“When they get here, kill them. Tell the others. It’s an order.”
For a moment, a familiar expression settled over the other girl’s face, and I might have been looking at myself, or at Chase. She wanted to say no. She wanted to rebel. She hated him, but her wolf wouldn’t let her disobey, and in the back of her mind was the reminder—always present, never quiet—of the years and years and years of being told that he’d made her. Being taught again and again what happened to you when you tried to fight the impulse to obey.
And then she was gone.
Kill them. Tell the others. It’s an order.
I didn’t know how many others there were exactly, but I knew they had my friends outnumbered and that no one on my side of this little war would attack to kill—not when Wilson’s soldiers were his victims, too.
My brain rebelled against the idea that the Rabid had issued an order for his wolves to kill my friends, half because I didn’t want it to be true, and half because it didn’t make sense. I would have pegged this psycho for trying to bring Chase to heel and reclaim his mind, or making a stab at claiming Devon or Lake. Then again, as far as Wilson knew, Lake and Dev were still Callum’s. He could reasonably kill them for invading his territory, but trying to claim them as his own would be the equivalent of declaring werewolf war. The Senate might have voted to make this man a deal, but if the Rabid stole Callum’s wolves, it wouldn’t be a matter for the Senate. It would be a direct personal challenge, and Callum would be free to handle it however he wished. In other words, it would be suicide, and I was beginning to suspect that this psychopath was smarter than I’d given him credit for being.
Unsettled, I cast my own mind inward, looking for the others, for my pack. I had to warn them that Wilson’s wolves had orders to kill. Their voices crashed over my inner ears like a tsunami—she’s okay—Bryn awake—son of a—these people are—crazy—run—can’t hurt them—can’t Shift—they’re … human.
Great. The townspeople must have reacted to the gunfire and fighting, but somehow, Wilson had slipped away with me, leaving my friends to deal with the fallout.
“You must be wondering where your friends are,” Wilson said, pulling up another chair and sitting directly across from me, like we were going to have a nice chat over cookies and tea. “You see, after we made our little exit—dirt bombs do wonders for compromising werewolves visuals—your erstwhile protectors got a little caught up in town. People in Alpine Creek don’t like me, but they like outsiders even less. Especially the type who come in armed and start shooting up Main Street. I mostly keep to myself. Your friends, on the other hand, well, you can see why someone might think they were dangerous. I can only imagine that someone must have called the sheriff. He’s easily bribed, but unfortunately for you, he’s more of a shoot-first-demand-money-later type of guy.”
An image flashed into my mind. Devon, hands in the air, poised to make a run for it, men closing in from all sides.
“Don’t worry,” Wilson said. “The sheriff doesn’t shoot silver.”
&nb
“Good thing we got out of there when we did,” Wilson said, bringing one hand up to touch my cheek. I jerked back, and he smiled. “I imagine that’s something you know a little about. Escaping against all odds. Coming out of a fight without a scratch when you should be dead.”
He searched my eyes, and if I hadn’t already figured out that the children in this house were like me, it would have occurred to me then.
“A few of your Callum’s wolves tried to kill me once. You were there. I doubt you remember, but suffice it to say, I lived to hunt another day. Some people are just born survivors. They hang on, they get through, and they never give up. You’re one of them. So am I.”
He caught my chin and forced me to look up at and into him. At first, all I saw was his wolf, lurking below the surface, giddy with the anticipation of the hunt. But then, after a moment, I saw something else.
Felt something else—a flash of recognition. A twinge of familiarity.
We were the same.
“No,” I said out loud. “We are nothing alike.”
But it was still there. Something. There was no connection between us, but there was a pull: like to like, the same magnetism that had brought me to Chase in the basement.
“Werewolves and humans aren’t so different,” he said. “We share the vast majority of our DNA. Growing up in a pack, you probably haven’t been exposed to many humans with gifts, but they’re out there, and just like some of our human cousins are gifted, some werewolves are born with a little something extra as well.” He smiled. “Most of them become alphas, like your Callum.”