“These your little ones?” Mitch asked, his eyes going to the twins.
Ali nodded. “Kaitlin and Alexander. They’re almost four months.”
“Little girl likes her wolf,” Mitch said with a smile. “She’s growing faster than her brother.”
Ali blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes, and Katie, as if she knew exactly what the adults were talking about, arched her back, her pupils dilating.
“Oh, no, little missy,” Ali said. “You wait until Mama’s got you out of these clothes and—”
Katie’s body trembled with the pre-Change, and Mitch came to Ali’s rescue.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll take her.”
Katie went to him willingly, and for a moment, it was like she’d forgotten about changing altogether, which was a minor miracle that wouldn’t last. Since the day she was born, Katie had never been this long in human form, and now—with the wilderness spread out before us—her urge to Shift would win out, without question or doubt. It was only a matter of time.
“Bryn,” Mitch greeted me. He didn’t look twice at my battered face. He didn’t seem surprised that we were here.
He knew.
I felt like I was back at the Crescent in front of the pack, stripping down my mental defenses, letting them in just so they could beat me later.
Screw that.
What had happened was no one’s business but mine.
“Hey, Mr. Mitchell,” I said.
“Mitch,” the man corrected gruffly, but he had to have known it was useless. Something about him always kept me from calling him by his preferred name. Maybe it was the fact that though he was a part of our pack, he visited the stronghold rarely.
Or maybe it was because he was Lake’s dad.
“Is Lake …?”
“She’s out back,” Mitch said, his voice a low, rumbling hum. “No idea what she’s doing. Pretty sure I don’t wanna know, but I suspect she wouldn’t mind some company.” Mitch paused, for a fraction of a second. “Don’t let her shoot you,” he grunted.
With Lake, chances were that was pretty good advice. Maybe she would loan me a gun. At the moment, I kind of felt like doing some shooting myself.
“Should I cut through?” I asked, gesturing to the door of the Wayfarer.
“If your mother don’t mind you taking off before you four are settled—”
“It’s fine,” Ali said. At this point, she was probably glad to be rid of me.
“Go on, then,” Mitch said, jerking his head toward the door. “Git.”
I got.
The restaurant was nearly empty. There were a couple of people sitting in a corner booth, and there was a towheaded woman in her mid-thirties or so behind the bar, wiping down the counter. When I walked in, she leaned forward on both elbows, with a look on her face that told me that she was probably the kind of bartender that people poured their hearts out to.
I wasn’t buying.
The bartender caught me staring at her, and I turned my head away, averting my eyes and slumping my shoulders. The reaction was completely reflexive, but foreign, and I found myself wondering when I’d become a good little pack girl who averted her gaze and didn’t cause trouble, and—for that matter—when I’d started submitting to humans, even as I silently wished they’d take their prying eyes and quiet sympathy elsewhere.
I had to get out of there.
The back door of the Wayfarer was only about twenty feet away from the front, but I found that despite all efforts to the contrary, I couldn’t walk toward it quickly. I’d heard so much about this place over the years. I knew which boards in the floor I could remove to find packets of gum and stashes of childhood treasures, I knew that the whiskey behind the counter was sometimes watered down because a certain someone occasionally snuck a glass and replaced it with water, and I knew that the pool table leaned slightly to the right—a fact that helped if you were the type to hustle the clientele.
By the time I made it to the back door, I felt like I’d been inside forever. The need to get out and away and to be by myself was overpowering, but the moment I stepped outside, the fresh air hit me in the face, cooling my bruises, and the muscles in my stomach loosened enough to remind me why I’d come this way in the first place. About fifty yards away, there was a wooden fence, and on top of the fence sat a girl with long legs, long hair, and a double-barreled shotgun. The legs were tanned, the hair was wheat-blonde, and the shotgun was aimed directly at my left kneecap.
Sora’s blank face. Ribs popping. Flying backward.
I physically shook the memory from my head. Lake wasn’t Sora. Sora wasn’t the Rabid. Nobody was going to shoot me here.