Wolf's Bane Page 13

  “But what about the rest of it?”

  What about the rest? What about the fact that Logan still talks to Brandon. Still hangs out with him and their mutual friends. Still hangs out with the girl and her clique.

  “We’re fine,” I lie. “But that’s the reason I’m not looking for a new boyfriend. I’ll take the fake one, though. Now, speaking of Elijah and totally changing the subject, something weird happened in the kitchen, and I’m hoping you might be able to solve this particular mystery . . .”

  Chapter Twenty

  Logan

  Allan’s room is down the hall from mine, so we walk back together. Behind us, my sister talks with Elijah and Holly, their voices faint. I lower mine when I say, “Have you spoken to Kate? I know she felt really bad about . . . before.”

  He stiffens a little and tries for a smile, but it comes out strained as he says, “That’s cool. I know . . .” He clears his throat. “What happened back then . . . It just happened. If I’d known where it would lead, I would have talked to her first. I certainly wasn’t trying to trick her.”

  “About what you expected in a relationship?”

  He looks over, and his gaze searches mine.

  “That was the problem, right?” I say. “You wanted more than she was ready to give. Relationship-wise.”

  “Is that what she said?”

  “Sure.” I frown. “Did you think it was something else? It wasn’t. She really did like you. Just not as a long-distance boyfriend.”

  He laughs softly, relaxing. “That’s what she said. I just wasn’t sure if she’d heard . . . anything else that changed her mind. I definitely did come on way too strong back then. Your sister is just . . .” He shrugs. “When a girl like that shows interest, you go for it. Gotta take your shot while you can. I overdid it, and I’m sorry she felt bad.”

  We walk a few more steps. Then I say, “About that guy she’s with.”

  “Elijah?” The corners of Allan’s mouth twitch. “You don’t like him much, huh? It must be weird, him being a non-Pack werewolf. He seems cool, though. They make a cute couple.”

  “They aren’t a couple.” I shake my head. “Kate hasn’t been herself lately, especially with guys. She ended it with her boyfriend, and now he’s blowing up my phone because she won’t talk to him.”

  “Better get used to it. Your sister is kinda unforgettable. Guys aren’t going to get over her in a heartbeat. I sure didn’t.”

  Footsteps sound, but it’s only Holly, and she doesn’t see us as she heads the other way to her room. Kate and Elijah’s steps go up the stairs.

  Are they dodging curfew?

  I push back a dart of annoyance and turn to Allan. “If you’re still interested in her, just hold on. This thing with Elijah is only Kate goofing around. It’ll pass.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m looking forward to getting to know Kate again but only as a friend. Kate’s . . . She’s like a flame. Once you see it, you can’t stop looking at it, can’t stop wanting to get closer.”

  “But then you get burned.”

  “Nah, not that. She just isn’t right for guys like me. I’d constantly be waiting for her to find someone more exciting, more high-energy, more like her. Around Kate, I feel like a plodder, as if she’s revving on all cylinders and I’m struggling to keep up, wishing she’d slow down.” He glances over. “You know what I mean.”

  I do. He isn’t the only one who feels dull and plodding in Kate’s company. She doesn’t try to overshadow me, but she does, simply by existing. I cannot help but fade beside the flaming whirlwind that is my sister.

  Is that what bothered me, seeing her with Elijah? He has that same spark, that same energy.

  But this isn’t a competition. Even when she was dating Brandon, she always had time for me. It was after she stopped dating him that the problem started.

  “Anyway,” Allan says. “You don’t need to worry about me being on the losing side of a love triangle. I’m glad to see her again. Glad to see both of you. This camp seems a whole lot more interesting tonight than it did this morning. From what I’ve seen, though, Elijah is far more her speed, and I have no intention of getting in his way.”

  * * *

  I walk into my room and flip on the light. A grunt sounds from the other side, and Mason lifts his head from the pillow. It takes him a moment to find his scowl. When he does, he rumbles, “Turn off the damn light. Some of us are sleeping.”

  “It’s ten thirty.”

  “Well, dying takes a lot out of a guy. Now turn it off, and go chase sticks until you’re tired.”

  I flip off the main light . . . after I find and flick on a penlight from my bag.

  Mason groans. “Aren’t you guys supposed to have night vision?”

  “Yes, but I need some small illumination to activate the rods in my eyes. The door closes tightly and blocks what little light might come from the hall.”

  I strip my shirt off. He grunts and flips over, facing the wall. I shake my head at that and then pull off my shorts and climb into bed.

  “I’m decent now,” I say as I slide under the sheet. “And you don’t need to worry anyway. I keep my boxers on.”

  “You better. You also better keep on your side of the room. If I wake up to find you anywhere near me, we’re going to have a problem.”

  “You really have a very misinformed view of werewolves, don’t you?”

  Another mutter. As I see his expression, my eyes narrow. “You aren’t worried I’ll devour you in your sleep, are you? You’re warning me to stay on my side and keep my boxers on.” I shine my penlight at him. “Is this about me performing rescue breathing on you?”

  He turns over, eyes shaded from my light. “I’m just saying—”

  “It was rescue breathing. To save your life. I wasn’t playing Prince Charming, waking you with a kiss. Even suggesting that I was thinking about anything other than reviving you is immature, ridiculous and insulting.”

  “I didn’t say you were gay.”

  “And that’s not why it’s insulting. I don’t care if you think I’m gay. I care if you think I’d take advantage of someone in that condition.”

  His head lifts, his expression in shadow. “So you are gay?”

  “Are we really going there?”

  “It’s a simple—”

  “I have no idea what I am,” I snap. “And it doesn’t matter. I was saving your life, and I haven’t even gotten a thank-you.”

  “You have no idea what you are?” He pushes up onto one elbow. “What kind of bullshit is that? Do you date guys, girls or both? Do you hook up with guys, girls or both?”

  “I don’t have time to date, and I don’t have any interest in ‘hooking up.’”

  “But theoretically . . .” he says.

  “Theoretically, I have no idea because I haven’t met anyone who interests me.”

  “So you’re ace?”

  “I don’t think so, but again—and I’ll keep saying this—I don’t know. I’m certainly not going to hash out my sexuality with you. If you’re homophobic—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I mutter. “I will be interested in whoever I’m interested in, and I can guarantee, with one hundred percent certainty, that I am not interested in you. You are safe from my appetites of all varieties.”

  Three seconds of silence tick past. “So you do have appetites?”

  I groan and flick out my penlight. “Good night, Mason.”

  * * *

  I wake to the click of the door opening. I wasn’t sleeping. Not really. It’s been a roller-coaster day, and every time I start to drift off, I remember something I might have done wrong, something I might have said wrong, and I jolt awake, gut twisted by anxiety imps. So when the door opens, I’m conscious enough to know it isn’t Mason rising to use the bathroom. I can hear his steady breathing in the silence.

  The door creaks, new hinges sticking. Light slips through the opening, and I open my eyes, confirming
that Mason is in his bed, sound asleep. Just as I think that, his breathing hitches and his eyelids flutter, predator’s instinct kicking in.

  His gaze meets mine, and his mouth twists, as if he’s going to snarl something about me watching him while he sleeps. Then he stops, and his eyes slide toward the door.

  Footsteps pad inside. Bare feet, moving as carefully as the intruders can manage, but to me, those steps are as loud as boot thuds. A whisper, cut short as the speaker is shushed.

  Mason’s eyes slit as he watches. I focus on my other senses. Hearing tells me there are three people in my room. Scent suggests they’re all male. None are anyone I’ve met in more than passing.

  Fellow campers, presumably here to play a midnight prank. Put our hands in water hoping we’ll piss the beds. Stick a harmless snake in our beds and stand back to watch the fun. Juvenile stunts, and I’d have hoped we’d be past that at our age, but apparently not.

  Mason stays still, watching and waiting. I almost pity the pranksters. They’re just hoping for a fun gag to laugh at over breakfast, and Mason is going to make them wish they’d never opened that door. I’ll be stuck playing mediator, making sure the situation doesn’t get out of hand.

  I sigh under my breath. Maybe I should have just left Mason for dead. Of course, then he’d have risen as a vampire, and these guys would be in danger of more than black eyes and bruised egos.

  They start to close the door only to discover it would plunge them into darkness. They leave it open a few inches.

  One whispers, “The blond,” and all three creep to my bed. I try not to sigh again. At least if I’m the target, Mason won’t interfere, and we can just get this over with.

  I might be rolling my eyes, but I’m accustomed to the immaturity of teenage boys. I learned that when I found myself somehow assimilated into the popular clique at school. It wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it saved me from dealing with the jocks. I’ve always had trouble with jocks. They used to mock me for being small; now they harass me to join their teams. Dad had the same thing—if you start looking like an athlete, suddenly you’re an asshole because you won’t support your school by joining a team.

  One good thing about being at a private school is that the jocks and the popular guys are not necessarily the same people. So, while some people in my clique can be juvenile and self-absorbed, it’s a safe place for me. Which means I know guys like these, and now I just have to suffer through their prank.

  They step up beside the bed. My eyes are open the barest crack.

  “Anyone bring a silver bullet?” one says.

  I tense so fast I’m surprised they don’t notice.

  According to the lore, you only need a silver bullet for one reason: to kill a werewolf.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Logan

  “A regular blade will work, right?” one asks. “It doesn’t actually need to be silver.”

  “So I hear. Anything that can hurt us can hurt them.”

  The second voice comes from the other end of my bed. I feel a tug, as if he’s lifting the sheet from that end. Cool night air slides over my foot and calf. I force myself to stay perfectly still even as my heart pounds.

  “You know what you’re doing, right?” the first one says.

  “My dad’s a doctor. I’ve had to work for him since I was twelve. Padding my pre-med application. One nick to the Achilles tendon should do it.”

  Did he say cutting my Achilles tendon?

  This is a nightmare. It must be. I have actually drifted off, and everything from today is whipping through my mind, spinning crazy scenarios where the other campers find out what I am and decide to maim me while I sleep.

  The blade nears my skin. It doesn’t touch, but I feel the chill of it. Every cell screams for me to leap up. What the hell am I doing? Even if it is a nightmare, do something.

  What if it’s real?

  All the more reason to get off your ass, Lo, and kick theirs.

  No, because if this is not a nightmare, then I need to be sure they’re going through with it. I need to feel that blade, let it cut my skin, proof of what they attempted.

  Are you crazy?

  No, I know how guys like this act. If I leap up, they’ll say it was a joke. They’ll make me feel paranoid, the new kid who’s overreacting and trying to cause trouble.

  I know this because I’ve seen it. Some of my so-called friends have done it to other classmates, and I didn’t participate, but nor did I say anything, and that makes me just as guilty, doesn’t it?

  Kate would have said something. She always says something.

  And you know what, Lo, that’s an awesome moment of self-revelation, but now is not the time for epiphanies. Get off your ass!

  The blade presses against my skin. My attackers have gone silent, but I swear I smell them salivating. There’s something unnatural here, something dark, a tension and a predatory anticipation.

  I remember what Elijah said.

  Then there’s the actual aggression—the shouting matches and fistfights. People snapping over anything. It’s as if everyone’s looking for an excuse to fuck or fight, you know? I can feel the tension. My hackles go up and stay up for no reason I can tell.

  My hackles are up. They’re up as high as they go.

  The blade presses and—

  There’s an oomph, the blade skating across my skin.

  “What the fuck?” Mason roars. “A knife?”

  I scramble up. He’s got the guy in a headlock and has given him a bloody lip. It’s Hayden, the blond prep-school guy Kate told off earlier. I register that as his two buddies rush Mason. I leap in front of him, facing them.

  “You don’t want to do that,” I say.

  Mason lets out a hiss of pain behind me, and I look over to see a gash in his side. Hayden’s still holding the knife, blood painting the blade. He goes to slash again, and I kick, hitting his right arm. The knife clatters to the floor. I scoop it up and hand it to Mason.

  “First step,” I say to Mason. “Disarm your attacker.”

  As I release the knife, it flies out of my hand before Mason can take it. I grab it again and turn to the other two.

  “Telekinetic half-demon, I presume?” I say.

  They both charge at me. One grabs me, his fingers cold as ice. Mason yanks him off me. I drop the knife and stomp on it as the telekinetic demon tries to pull it to him. I knock him flying with a right hook, the dull thump of my fist hitting flesh seconded by the crack of a rib. Hayden casts a knock-back spell. I dodge and grab both his arms, effectively killing his ability to cast.

  When Hayden spits curses at me, I say, “Next time, learn witch magic. Otherwise, it’s far too easy to shut you down.”

  More curses. Sadly for him, they aren’t actual curses.

  The telekinetic demon stays on the floor, doubled over, gasping for breath.

  “You’re winded,” I say. “Give it a minute. If you still have trouble breathing, that rib may have pierced a lung.”

  “What the—what the fuck?” the half-demon says, voice rising.

  “You attacked a werewolf,” Mason says behind me. “Did you expect him to rap your knuckles and call you a naughty boy? Stop whining and be thankful you can still breathe.”

  Under my foot, the knife wiggles, but the guy can’t summon the power to wrest the knife out.

  Mason has his target—the ice demon—against the wall, wrists pinned. One of Mason’s forearms presses against the half-demon’s windpipe. “How about you? Can you still breathe?”

  The guy gasps.

  “Good enough.”

  Blood streams from Mason’s side, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He holds his target easily. While vampires don’t get extra strength, Mason’s big, and he’s muscular, and he had the sense to avoid those ice-wielding fingers.

  “This doesn’t concern you,” Hayden says to Mason.

  Mason sneers. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do? Next you’ll be calling me a meddling kid. Vowin
g revenge on me and my dog.” He jerks his chin at me.

  Hayden sniggers. “Is that why you’re defending him? He’s your pet dog? Do you hump him? Or does he hump you? One of the counselors saw your intake form. He said that’s why you went off on Mackenzie when she hit on you. You don’t like girls, do you?”

  “Fuck you.” Mason makes a face. “No, on second thought, I’d really rather not. But if guys like me make you nervous, you might want to watch your buddy here.” He jerks a thumb at one of the half-demons. “He was definitely checking me out.”

  Hayden throws off a few homophobic slurs, followed up with threats.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mason says. “You gonna come after me with a knife next? Might wanna rethink that. I can’t change into a wolf but . . .”

  Mason throws the ice demon aside. Then he runs a finger through the blood dripping from Hayden’s busted lip. He licks it off and then bares his teeth. He doesn’t have fangs, but the meaning is clear, and Hayden’s eyes go wide.

  “What the fuck? Vampires and werewolves?”

  “Yeah, it’s such bullshit, being forced to associate with the sub-races.” Mason looks at me. “Right, Logan? All these half-demons and sorcerers and necromancers. Call themselves supernaturals, but they piss their pants when we come around. Like rabbits freaking out over wolves crashing their party. Guess what?” He grins again, that flash of teeth. “The predators are in the building.”

  He gives Hayden a hard shove. “Now go run back to your rabbit hole.”

  “This—this is—”

  “Unacceptable? And you’re going to tell your daddy, some middle-aged nobody with a fancy job title? Skip the tattling, little boy. Send Daddy straight to me. I’ll show him how important he is. Doesn’t matter who you are. Blood tastes like blood.”

  I should mediate here. Sand the edges off Mason’s threats. Tell the guys we won’t bother them if they don’t bother us. But blood pounds in my ears, the thrill of an easy takedown fading under the outrage at what they’d tried to do, and I’m afraid if I open my mouth, what comes out will be the opposite of mediation. So I settle for shoving the ice demon toward his friend with “Help your buddy up and then go.”