He briefly considered shifting and using the doggie door, but it had an annoying flap that was surprisingly noisy. Carefully, he slipped into the dark cover of night. Even then, he had to exercise extreme caution. He scurried to the hedges at the side of the house and shape-shifted. Bone and sinew twisted and transformed skin to fur. Two legs multiplied to four and his large paws padded on the soil. Belly close to the ground, he crept to the middle of the cotton field, just in case someone had wakened and chanced to look out a window.
His heart beat more rapidly, pulsing with the conflicting emotions of excitement and revulsion. And then he was free—racing into the woods, tongue panting, senses alive with the smell and sounds of the night.
It’ll be okay. I’ll find some small animal again. I can control the blood hunger.
Alabama was a new start. Never again would he kill a human. It was too dangerous for him and for the whole pack. If they ever caught on to his secret, his life would be over. From here on out, he’d content his bloodlust by feasting on small animals.
And so, once more, he was on the hunt.
He sniffed and tracked a scent, only to bungle the catch, as several hares took off when he came within a few feet of them. A lone wolf on the prowl was not the natural way of the hunt. They were pack animals for a reason, working together with patience and intelligence to track prey and target the weakest animal in a group.
He’d been outside for a good while now. Every minute he was out alone, he risked the others realizing his secret. But he couldn’t go back without something to ease the stomach cramps caused by a lack of blood and flesh. He continued hunting, close to the cotton field, reduced to rumbling his snout through leaves to rouse field mice.
Not how he’d imagined his future. But to admit to the pack that he’d been infected by the fever was unthinkable. They’d haul him away to that so-called rehabilitation compound in the barren desert, although—to his knowledge—no wolf had ever been cured. It would be a fenced-in existence with constant surveillance. A werewolf prison where all were condemned to the equivalent of a life-without-parole sentence.
He’d rather die.
Like a dog with a prize buried bone, he circled around to the outdoor memorial decorated with dream catchers. The feathers and ribbons fluttered like agitated ghosts. Just as well the bitch wasn’t present. His chest still smarted from the rocks she’d flung. He’d been lucky not to suffer a serious injury.
A rustling emerged at the edge of the field, to his left. His ears twitched and his belly rumbled. This sounded like a large, clumsy animal. His mouth salivated at the faint whiff of human.
Torture—like a glass of cold water waved in front of a man dying of thirst. He hesitated. No harm in going to take a look. It could be one of the other pack members had also violated the new rule of no roaming alone in the woods. He crept toward the noise and the smell.
A gray-haired man with a long beard tossed dried corn kernels from a burlap sack. A hunter illegally enticing deer.
He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.
One moment he was an observer, and the next, he was flying down the field and taking a running leap at the old man. Teeth ripped into flesh, tearing open the jugular vein at the man’s neck. Warm blood oozed down his throat as he greedily swallowed it. He was dizzy with elation and the hunger in his belly ceased its relentless gnaw.
It was done.
He sat back on his haunches, full and content. Until he observed the dead man, broken and bleeding, his knapsack of corn spilled into the soil like gold nuggets.
Not again. What have I done?
He whimpered and backed away. When this body was discovered, the questions and accusations would begin anew. Disgust roiled in his gut. He hated himself, hated what he had become.
He slunk back to the farmhouse and briefly considered confessing to the pack. That was one way out of this hell his life had become over the last three years.
But shame and fear overcame good intentions. He couldn’t live like a caged animal.
There would be no repeat offense, he vowed. Somehow, he would learn to control the lust for human blood.
Saturdays were the longest days of the week. The Native American Cultural Center, where Tallulah worked, was closed, and that meant an entire day to bide her time with nothing more pressing than housework—which she loathed.
Tallulah loaded the last of the laundry in the washer and looked out the open window. The sky was washed clear of gray clouds and the earth smelled as if cleansed by last night’s storm. Too gorgeous a day to be stay stuck inside the cabin. A nice long stroll, then back home for a shower before heading to Tombi’s for dinner.
She ran outside, eager as a child let out for recess, then stopped abruptly, patting the loose strands of hair plastered on her face. They’d strayed from her messy topknot and she wore an old T-shirt and shorts. Fine for housework but... Tallulah hurried back inside, changed into fresh clothes and ran a brush through her hair.
I am not doing this in the hopes of running in to Payton. She scowled at the mirror before swiping a tube of red lipstick across her lips. This was merely an attempt to avoid looking like a total slob. Since when has that concerned me?
“Oh, shut up,” she mumbled at her reflection. A spritz of rose perfume and she was off again. She entered the woods, walking briskly, intent on exercise. She flung her arms in wide circles, working out the kinks from her pinched shoulders, which were stiff from scrubbing the bathroom and kitchen floors. No need to tote the heavy backpack during the day.
Unless she came upon that wolf again.
Tallulah shook her head. No borrowing trouble this morning. It was her day off, and that meant no shadow-hunting duties as well. Finishing the laundry could wait until evening. A nice day walking in the woods, dinner later with Tombi and Annie, and then she’d curl up with a good book and read until bedtime. She had her Saturday routine down pat.
So why did that deflate her spirits?
She pushed the uncomfortable feelings aside. Ever since she’d met Payton, a vague dissatisfaction with her quiet, predictable life troubled Tallulah. He meant nothing to her. Nothing. He was a damn lumberjack of all things. Part of a transient crew that could be gone anytime.
Her sneakers squished in the woods’ muddy patches and her legs were speckled with mud. So much for trying to look presentable. At a fork in the path, she paused. No point in going to Bo’s resting place. The storm had no doubt spoiled her handiwork and she wasn’t in the mood to tidy up the site yet again.
She continued on until she reached the clearing by the farmhouse. By day it looked quiet and peaceful. No mysterious creatures hovering about. And no sign of Payton.
Not that she cared.
A smell of rotten carcass assaulted her nose. Probably a dead deer. Yet a tingle of apprehension chased down her spine and she shivered. A faint, familiar feeling also stirred her memory. Had the wolf killed the animal? If so, at least the wolf wouldn’t be looking at her with those cagey, threatening eyes. Its belly should be full.
A
