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  Kate looks at me. “That must be the origin of the werewolf stories Tricia told us.” To the others, she says, “She said there’s a rumor that the Pack used to live here, and we’re responsible for all the disappearances and deaths. We pointed out that the Pack has only been in America for a few hundred years, and they’ve always lived in New York State. She didn’t seem to believe us.”

  I say, “Also, werewolves wouldn’t carefully remove all the bodies while leaving bloodied paw prints everywhere.”

  “I’m not even sure how that’d work,” Kate says. “Bloody paw prints require walking through pools of blood first. Is that the story, then? Four families disappear, leaving behind only bloody paw prints? No pools of blood?”

  “Wait, I have the answer,” Elijah says. “A mysterious man came by one evening, ragged and starving. They fed him, and he gave them the secret to life in the forest, how to become the ultimate hunters. He bestowed on them all the gift of werewolf blood, and they walked out into the forest to live new and wondrous lives.”

  Kate shakes her head. “Half right. The mysterious man comes by one evening, ragged and starving, and claims he’s a god, so they feed him their own son to test him, and in punishment, he turns them all into wolves.”

  “Lycaon,” Elijah says with a grin. “Nice one.”

  They high-five each other as Holly and Allan stare.

  “According to Greek mythology, Lycaon was the first werewolf,” I explain. “He was a king who didn’t believe that an old traveler was Zeus, so he served his son to the god for dinner because Zeus is supposed to be all-knowing. Zeus figured it out and transformed the entire family into wolves. It’s the basis of the word lycanthropy.”

  “Wait,” Allan says. “This king tested Zeus by feeding him his son?”

  “Welcome to the weird and wonderful world of mythology,” Elijah says. “Is that the story then? The villagers disappeared, never to be seen again?”

  “Of course not,” Allan says. “They’re seen every year on the anniversary of their disappearance, hitchhiking along the nearest highway, trying to find their way home. I thought you knew your urban legends.”

  More high fiving. Holly sneaks an eye-roll my way, a shared look between the two sane people in this group.

  “Anyway,” Allan says. “The disappearing village was just the beginning of the stories. Anyone who tried to settle here either vanished or died horribly, as if torn apart by some great beast. At some point, the land was sold to the mining company. After the accident, stories of the curse got around, and no one wanted to purchase the land. It was passed down a few generations until the Cortez Cabal bought it and gifted a portion to the group running the conference. From what I hear, the Cabal plans to build their own conference and vacation center here.”

  “So we’re the guinea pigs,” Elijah says. “Making sure the land isn’t cursed.”

  “There’s no such thing as cursed land,” I say. “You’ve been mocking Allan’s stories because we’ve all heard them a hundred times. Standard urban legend fare.”

  “Which doesn’t explain the weird stuff in camp,” Kate says. “Or what happened to Mason. Or the fact that both Elijah and I heard whispers near that cabin.”

  Elijah looks at her. “You did, too?”

  “What?” I say. “You never mentioned that.”

  Spots of color blossom on my sister’s cheeks. “You’d have listed all the logical explanations and made me feel silly.”

  Elijah’s gaze knifes my way. Yes, I’m quick with the logical explanations but only to open a debate with my sister, the sort of heated discussion we used to love, the verbal equivalent of our tussling matches. When she says this, I feel the stab of it far more than Elijah’s look. Did she honestly think I’d mock her?

  Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?

  Not exactly, but I am tossing a wet blanket over their fire. They’re having fun, goofing around, and I am indeed that cranky old man rapping his cane. Worse, I actually am interested in these stories, silly as they may be. They’re mysteries to be solved, something else Kate and I used to do together. And now . . .

  My gaze cuts to Elijah, as if he’s an invader on my turf. Which is ridiculous. She just met him, and they’re getting to know each other, and they’ve connected over this shared interest. I need to lower my hackles and stop being such an ass.

  “What did you hear at the cabin?” I ask Kate. I try to sound interested—I am interested—but I overdo it, and the lilt in my voice sounds vaguely mocking. I clear my throat. “Whispers? Like Elijah did?”

  She shrugs. “Just that thing where you’re certain you hear someone, but when you turn, no one’s there. I was walking around the cabin, and I thought Nick snuck up on me. I was wrong.”

  “Because Nick and I were still at the car. Yet someone else was there.” I glance at Elijah.

  Elijah starts to protest, but Kate says, “No, I turned fast enough to catch whoever might have whispered. Then I jogged around the cabin. I was definitely alone. I brushed it off as a weird experience.” Her chin lifts as her gaze focuses on something in the distance. “And we’re finally here just as dusk falls.”

  “Perfect timing,” Allan says. “Let’s go check it out.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Logan

  The first time I was here, I didn’t take a good look at the cabin. I’d been focused on finding Kate, and then I’d been distracted by seeing Elijah watching her. Now when I look at it, my gut says there’s something wrong. Kate would jump on this as proof of the otherworldly. But my brain looks for—and finds—logical explanations to that reaction.

  For one thing, the cabin is oddly constructed. On the surface, it looks rustic, the sort of cottage people with a little construction know-how might build from locally sourced materials. Getting back to the land, and all that. The foundation is concrete, though. While that’s common in modern buildings, it doesn’t fit for a cabin like this. Concrete means it’s been erected as a permanent structure, at odds with the homespun and temporary look of the place.

  Yet that homespun look is also an illusion. From a distance, it seemed run down. The wood, while covered in moss, shows no signs of rot or insect infestation. The windows are boarded up . . . from the inside. That’s intentional, someone taking care to secure the building against casual hikers who might yank off a board for a peek inside.

  The porch lists, making the whole place appear to sag. Yet it’s just the porch, which seems like an afterthought, tacked on by a weekend warrior. Even that is an illusion, though. I helped build a deck last year, and whoever did this one understood proper construction techniques, which show in the important places while the rest is deliberately sloppy. Like a false face on a Wild West saloon. Except instead of adding a false face to make the place look fancier, someone’s added one to make this cabin look run down, not worth a second glance.

  “It’s warded.” Holly’s voice comes from around the side of the building.

  I follow to see Kate and Holly in the same spot I’d found Kate this morning when I caught Elijah ogling her. And, yes, the fact he’d just realized who she is explains the staring, but in my mind, I still see ogling.

  Kate had been looking at the cabin foundation, obscured by ivy. Now Kate has untangled part of that, and both she and Holly are crouched examining the concrete. I walk over to see etchings in it.

  “Warding?” I say.

  Holly nods. “It’s witch magic.”

  “Because it’s defensive,” I say. “Historically, defense magic is associated with witches and offense—or attack—magic is sorcerers. That’s not entirely accurate. An energy-bolt, for example, can be used offensively . . .” I trail off, feeling my cheeks warm. “And neither of you need a lesson in magic.”

  “I’m interested,” Elijah says as he walks around the corner with Allan. It’s an olive branch. I realize that. But instead of relaxing, I tense, as if patronized, though there’s none of that in his tone.

  Speaking of defe
nsive . . .

  Holly nods. “The majority of protective magic is witch. Sorcerers believe they don’t need it. Typical guys.” She turns to Allan and arches a brow. “Am I right?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Someone needs to learn witch magic,” she says to us.

  “I know, I know,” Allan says. “To totally change the subject, did I hear you say these are wards?”

  Holly nods. “Witch magic carved right into the foundations.”

  “Are they carved?” I ask as I crouch beside her. “It looks as if they were drawn in while the cement was wet.”

  “I’d say so.” Elijah runs a finger down the inside of a stroke. “See how this is smooth? When we got a pool put in, I decorated the border with our cat’s paw prints.”

  “You have cats?” Kate says.

  “A cat and two dogs. I mentioned my Mom’s a vet, right?”

  “The animals are okay with you being a werewolf?”

  He shrugs. “At first, my dad couldn’t be around pets, but Mom used a few vet techniques to overcome that. The ones we have now were all born after me, so I’m not some strange guy who smells like a predator.”

  “Same as our dog,” Kate says. “She grew up with our scent. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your story. You decorated the pool cement with cat tracks.”

  “Right. I was trying to freak out Mom, make her think the cat ran around in the wet cement, only she knew it was me. Probably because the prints spelled ‘Mr. Cuddles was here.’”

  Kate arches her brows. “How old were you?”

  “Not the point.”

  “Wait, you named your cat . . . Mr. Cuddles?”

  He mock glowers at her. “Also irrelevant. But I will point out that the name was a joke. No one touched him unless they felt like donating blood. He was not a cuddler.”

  “Shocking, really, when his owner went around sticking his paws in wet cement.”

  “Back to the point of this story. So, when Mom figured it out, she said I’d missed the chance to put my own name in the cement. I grabbed a stick, but by then the cement was almost hard. I spent the rest of the day carving my name in it. All that is to say that this”—he points at the warding—“was done while the cement was wet. Doing it afterward is like chipping away rock. Our pool cement looks like it was autographed by someone named Eliza.”

  Kate laughs and then runs her fingers over the symbols. “What’s this one for, Holly?”

  “I’m honestly not sure,” Holly says. “I recognize it as a ward, but most I know are general alert systems. Like a supernatural security alarm. This is a heavy-duty ward against something very specific.”

  “And it was put in the concrete when the place was built,” I say. “Drawn in this one spot.”

  Kate removes more ivy. Then she starts walking, untangling bits as she goes. She continues around the back of the house. Elijah jogs after her, as if following, but his footfalls pass her and keep going.

  “It’s not just that one spot,” Kate calls back.

  “It goes around the whole house,” Elijah says.

  They’re right. In some places, it’s hard to see the ward with the angle of the falling light. It’s there, though, circling the entire cabin.

  “Keeping something inside?” Elijah says, as he peers at the boarded windows.

  “No.” Holly looks around the forest. “This is to keep something out.”

  * * *

  We can’t get into the house. Or, to be more accurate, we choose not to. Kate or I could break down the door or snap a window board, but that would leave obvious signs of entry.

  “Tomorrow,” Kate says, when we give up on finding an easy way in. “We’ll find tools and come back tomorrow. Pry open the door or a window.”

  “A polite break-in,” Allan says.

  “A fixable break-in,” Kate says. “Cover our tracks, and cover our asses.”

  “Kate’s right,” I say. “This place might look abandoned, but that’s an illusion. Someone owns it, and that warding suggests the owner is a supernatural. I’d rather not be the stereotypical teens destroying property to satisfy idle curiosity.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s idle,” Holly says. “There’s enough weirdness to suggest something’s going on, and this cabin being warded isn’t a coincidence. But I agree that we don’t have a valid reason for breaking down the door. Also, night is falling fast, and those wards tell me we aren’t the scariest things out here.”

  “Agreed,” Allan says. “Let’s get moving.”

  * * *

  We encounter nothing on our way back. I’m not sure whether that’s a relief or a mild disappointment, like hearing the music build in a horror movie and then nothing actually jumps out. We arrive at the conference center to find Tricia and another counselor walking the perimeter.

  “Where were you guys?” Tricia says as we exit the woods.

  “Enjoying nature,” Kate says. “There isn’t nearly enough of that on the schedule. We have a whole forest here . . .” She waves. “And not a single outside activity after dinner.”

  “Perhaps because we also have a camp full of teens who’ve never set foot in a forest. We’re restricting outdoor activities to daylight hours.”

  Kate’s mouth opens to argue. At my look, she settles for muttering under her breath.

  “I’m sorry we were gone so long,” I say. “We were concerned about Mason. Have you seen him?”

  “Get inside,” she says. “You’ve missed the nighttime snack, so don’t go looking for food.”

  Kate’s mouth opens again. This time, I cut her off with, “That’s fine. We’ll just use our cell phones before we go to bed.”

  I say it without challenge, but Tricia wheels on me, as if my voice drips sarcasm.

  “You missed that, too,” she says. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll follow the rules.”

  I hesitate. Then I say, carefully, “If we can just have one of our phones for a quick text—”

  “Or what? You’ll sic Mommy on me? You might be the Alpha’s son, but you don’t get special treatment here, Logan Danvers. Now take you sister and your new”—a dismissive wave at the others—“starter Pack, and go to bed.”

  She stalks off with the other counselor. We watch her go, and then Elijah says, “Starter Pack? Are we collector cards? And does anyone else feel like we just got sent to bed without supper? How old are we?”

  “Not to mention the fact she just outed us,” Kate mutters. “If you guys didn’t know we’re werewolves, you would now. After she was the one who wanted us keeping it quiet.”

  “That was . . . odd,” I say.

  Kate pats me on the back. “You’re just figuring that out, Lo? This whole conference is odd. But Mom will figure we were having too much fun to call. Paige can settle all this tomorrow. Everything seems quiet tonight. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kate

  We split up after that. Logan and Allan head down the center hall. Elijah motions for me to wait, and I do, with Holly, until the other two turn the corner.

  “Anyone up for a kitchen raid?” Elijah asks.

  My hand shoots up so fast he laughs.

  “Figured that,” he says.

  “I do have food in my room,” I say. “In case you’re only suggesting a raid out of necessity. Mom doesn’t send us anywhere without a foot-locker’s worth of snacks.”

  “I’ve got some, too,” he says. “A box of beef jerky.”

  “Beef jerky?”

  He mock-scowls. “No judgment, remember? I’m a Texas boy. Rural Texas, ma’am. I love me some beef jerky and some chewing ’bacco.” He pauses. “Okay, just the jerky.”

  I look at Holly. “See how he did that? Mentioned the chewing tobacco, and suddenly, I’m thinking the beef jerky isn’t that bad. So, how about you? Up for a kitchen raid?”

  Her expression says she’s reluctant to seem like a poor sport, but tonight was already enough rule-breaking for her.

  “We’ll
grab you a snack,” I say. “And we won’t be long. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll be reading for an hour or so anyway. It’s only . . .” She checks her watch. “Ten thirty? They really do think we’re children, don’t they?”

  “Apparently. I will see you in an hour max, then, and I’ll bring snacks.”

  * * *

  Elijah reaches for the lock on the kitchen door, and I put out a hand to stop him.

  “You can’t keep snapping those,” I say. “It’s like breaking in to that cabin. Not the subtlest way to trespass.

  He lifts his hand, revealing a key.

  “Ah,” I say. “Carry on.”

  “Hey, I’m a teenager and a werewolf,” he says. “First thing I want to establish in any new situation? Where’s the food, and how do I get it?”

  He opens the door. We’re at the far end, on the other side of the dining hall. Everyone has been sent to bed for the night, and there’s no one even on this side of the building. We tiptoe across the floor—so we don’t alert fellow campers sleeping below—but talking in low voices is safe.

  I survey the pantry as Elijah rifles through the cupboards. When he’s done, he finds me assembling stacks of graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate. I put them in the toaster oven and watch the marshmallows expand. Then I pop them out before the dinger can sound.

  I try to hand Elijah one. He eyes it with suspicion.

  “S’mores,” I say. “An essential part of any camping experience.”

  “If you say so.” He takes one and examines it.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “You must have made s’mores around a campfire. Didn’t you ever go camping?”

  “Camping is a white-folk thing. There’s a reason God invented mattresses, and I don’t question His wisdom.”

  “Uh-huh. Didn’t you tell me you’d been to summer camp before?” I hop onto the counter and settle in next to the bag of s’more fixings, building another between bites of the one I’ve already baked.