Raised by Wolves(92)

I smiled. “My stubbornness is my folly?” I guessed.

“You said it. I didn’t.”

Somehow, I doubted he was joking this time. Rather than reply, I twisted my wrists inward, and the silver blades whooshed in, hidden again.

And then, I went to kill the Rabid.



Devon, Lake, and Chase were all in my head. My senses—human and therefore dulled—confused them and put them at a handicap for fully understanding what was going on, but I trusted that they’d get used to it. I knew the way into the woods as well as the Rabid who lived there did. I’d seen it through his eyes, and even though the glance had been fleeting, I’d discovered that the knowledge behind it stuck in a way that made me feel closer to my prey than I’d ever wanted to be. For better or worse, I knew where to find the Rabid. The only difficulty was staying downwind and keeping to the upper ground. My Glock ate into my back, a solid reminder that from this point forward, we were playing for keeps.

As silently as I could, I moved toward Wilson’s cabin, my path twisting enough that if he did hear or sense me, he might not read anything into it.

Wolf. Close by.

I wasn’t sure which of the little hitchhikers in my head had sent that message, but as soon as they pointed it out, I recognized the feeling in my gut for what it was. A wolf. Not Pack, but a wolf.

Burnt hair and men’s cologne. Baby powder.

I wondered at the additional component to the Rabid’s scent but didn’t let it throw me. Even monsters could pride themselves on good personal hygiene.

I crouched, covering my back with a tree, and I looked. From this distance, I could make out the cabin, which was much larger than I’d realized from what I’d seen inside the Rabid’s head. The difference gave me the illusion of distance, let me forget how close to this man I’d come in my mind.

Settling into my crouch, I scanned the perimeter of the cabin, identifying each and every point of entry. Unless Prancer decided to do us all a favor and take an early evening stroll, I wasn’t going to be able to get a sight on him.

That silent admission had the other three nipping at the heels of my mind, pushing against our bond, willing me to call them in.

But I didn’t. I held my position, and I watched.

Wolf, I thought, feeling it. Baby powder and burnt hair and men’s cologne.

And then there was movement behind one of the windows. With steady hands, I reached for my gun and pulled it out of my jeans. I could almost make out the edges of a person’s form, but given my inferior human senses, it could just as easily have been an armchair. And then, I got unbelievably lucky.

The front door opened.

I moved my arms, aiming my gun at the door, and my finger began to press down on the trigger, little by little, as I waited for my target to appear. A mile away, Lake, Devon, and Chase prepared themselves to converge on me. To protect me.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

The door was almost open. I could almost see … there, a body—

No.

The instinct surged up from my stomach, like vomit in the back of my throat. This wasn’t right. Something didn’t feel right. It didn’t smell right. It smelled …

Female. I eased my finger off the trigger, just a hair, as my intended target cleared the door.

It wasn’t the Rabid.

The realization shook me, but I didn’t lower the gun.

A girl. My age, maybe, or a little older. She had light brown hair and pale gray eyes, and there was something horribly, gut-wrenchingly familiar about the lines of her face.

Madison.

My gun lowered itself. My mind reeled. This was impossible. Madison was dead. She’d been declared dead when she was six years old. The Rabid had torn her so far apart that there was nothing but scraps left to bury.

Nothing but scraps.

No body.

Not dead.

I tried to adjust to that information, to reconcile the waiflike teen in front of me to the little girl, but before I could do that, I was body-slammed with another realization.

She wasn’t alone.

They poured out the front door, one after another, and it finally sank in that the Rabid wasn’t the only person who lived in this mammoth house in the woods.

He had people with them. Children. And every single one of them was a Were.

Retreat wasn’t in my DNA any more than it was in the average werewolf’s, but I couldn’t stay there, not when I’d almost shot a dead girl who couldn’t have been more than a year older than me.

Where had Wilson gotten all of these werewolves?

The answer was obvious. I’d always assumed that the Rabid was killing the targets we’d so painstakingly marked on our map. Hunting them. Feeding his bloodlust with prey more satisfying than a rabbit or deer. I’d assumed that Chase was a mistake, an aberration who’d gotten away and survived.