Raised by Wolves(100)

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 thered 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.