Bloodborn (8 page)

“Your brother,” Randall says.

“What?” My throat constricts. “What about him?”

“How did he die?”

“What do you mean, how? The change killed him. Why do you care?”

He glances at me, his eyes smoldering. “Because I bit him.”

“You bit me too, gick, and I don't care if you get your head blown off. Actually, I'd love to see you get your head blown off.”

Randall makes a noise between a growl and a sigh. “Raging at me won't help.”

“How about you unlock these handcuffs. That'll help.”

He snorts. “You can't go back, you know.”

“I have to. My dad doesn't know I'm gone, and when he finds out, he's going to flip. And I left something important b
ehind.”

“What?”

“Lycanthrox. The only thing that's keeping me from changing.”

Randall glances at me. “You know that stuff doesn't always work, right?”

“It's been working for two full moons.”

“A lot of bloodborn don't transform for the first few moons. The lycanthropy virus incubates for at least a month. That's why I wanted to know what happened to your brother, since you got bitten at the same time.”

Heat drains from my face, leaving my skin icy. “You saying because Chris died, I'm going to die soon, too?”

“No. He was in the hospital, wasn't he? You recovered.”

The silver wolf flings himself on Chris, clamping his jaws around his arm. He shakes Chris like he's killing a rabbit. Chris screams and fights back, but the wolf's jaws crunch his wrist, then close around his neck, pressing his windpipe.

“You didn't bite me like you bit him.” My voice sounds small.

Randall nods, his face masklike. “Either way, you're my fault.”

“That make you feel any better?”

He looks at me, his eyes the color of tarnished gold. Weariness creases his face. “No.”

“You killed my brother. You deserve to die.”

Randall hits the brakes and the truck skids off the road, gravel spraying behind the tires. He yanks the parking brake savagely, then leans into my face, so close his breath dries my eyes. “Listen,” he says in a velvety growl. “You know damn well that you and your brother were asking for what you got.”

“So Chris deserved to d—”

“Shut up. I didn't want to kill him. I just wanted to scare the shit out of you two, but no, you kept coming back. I didn't want to bite you. I had to.”

I'm shaking in my seat, the chain on my handcuffs jingling. “Liar.”

Randall's eyes flame. “You're a fucking moron, aren't you?”

“Get away from me, gick.”

“Sorry. But we're stuck with each other now. And guess what, you're a gick, too.”

“I'm not a gick!”

“You were bitten.” Randall speaks in a deliberate rhythm, his words dropping like spent shells. “You are bloodborn.”

I clench my fists, my nails digging crescents into my palms. “I am who I want to be.”

He laughs. “That's a nice thought.” He lets the parking brake go and accelerates back onto the road. “I wised up a long time ago.”

How was he bitten? I want to ask, but I don't want to hear his goddamn voice.

Rain rattles harder on the roof of the truck. We're driving along a ridge now, and all around us, a dark pelt of forest ripples over the hills. I have no idea where we're running. I hope the police find us soon and shoot every last one of the werewolves.

I'm not sure whether that would include a bullet in my head.

We drive for hours in silence. Every milepost on the shoulder ticks off just how far away from home I am now. Randall navigates one-way dirt roads and hairpin switchbacks though Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. There's around 50,000 acres of trees out here. I've explored the edges of the forest before, while out hunting deer with Dad and Chris, but we were all too chicken to go much deeper.

A memory of Chris cracking a joke drifts into my mind, but his face is blurry, pale, and sickly. I can't seem to see him anymore. I fall into a daze listening to the endless rumble of the engine and the hiss of passing trees. A rhythm of
Chris is dead, Chris is dead
drums inside my head. I glance at Randall, still very much alive and breathing even though he deserves a horrible fate. He's the one who did this …

Where are the police? Why aren't they right on our tail?

Then again, I know how useless they can be. That Benjamin Arrington guy killed at least five gicks in Klikamuks before his next target tipped off the police. But of course, those were all gicks getting murdered. Surely the kidnapping of a human girl like Cyn would make the police get off their fat asses. Come on, Sheriff.

I sink lower and lower in my seat, rattling through my cluttered thoughts as if I'll find answers there, some magic Houdini escape for all the trouble I've gotten myself into. But I just feel too exhausted to think of anything …

My gaze drifts to Randall's hands on the wheel, and the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. He's going to have to stop for gas sooner or later. But around us, I see nothing more than trees, mountains, and more trees. We're deep in the wilderness.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I say.

“Guess,” he says.

“You're high-tailing it so far into the trees that the police will never find you. But eventually you're going to have to go back into town for food and supplies. No, probably not food, because you're hunters. But you'll go back one day, and the police will be waiting. If they don't send bloodhounds up here first.”

Randall snorts. “You've put a lot of thought into the life of a fugitive.”

“I just want to know how you've stayed alive for so long.”

He grunts and turns onto another gravel road. We're jostled and bounced all the way to a mercifully paved highway. We pick up speed and pass a few cars. I crane my neck as we overtake them, wondering if they're from the pack. Through the trees, I glimpse milky green flashes of the North Fork of the Stillaguamish River. This must be the Mountain Loop Highway. It curves southeast around the Boulder River Wilderness Area, then backtracks west, which means it's going to spit us back out into civilization eventually. Unless the werewolves plan on taking some forest service road to God-knows-where.

I keep my eyes on the fuel gauge as the needle droops lower and lower.

My salvation appears in the form of a Texaco gas station so old that it can't possibly be pay-at-the-pump. That means Randall will have to get out of the truck and go inside. That means I will be alone for long enough to fight back.

eight

R
andall exits the highway and pulls into the Texaco. We're not really in a town, just near a few tumbledown cabins hiding in the trees. Beneath the gas station's rusty roof, a cherry-red '70s convertible sits parked outside.

“Looks like they beat us to it,” Randall says.

“They?”

Then I see a dark-skinned woman in a flowery dress that clings to every curve. Her wavy black hair snakes past her high cheekbones. She lights a cigarette, and her eyes—light apple-green, shot with yellow—lock with mine.

Shit, I've seen those eyes before.

“That's Jessie,” Randall says. “But you've already met.”

So this is the black wolf who chased me and bit my leg so savagely. Pretty, if I didn't know that those red lips of hers were once a bloody muzzle. She doesn't blink. I don't blink. She curls her lip, then gives me the finger.

“Bitch,” I growl.

“Well, yes,” Randall says. He drives up to one of the pumps, kills the engine, and looks me in the eye. “Stay.”

I bare my teeth at him.

Randall hops out of the truck, slams the door, locks it, and saunters to the werewolf woman. “Jessie! Where's Isabella?”

“Inside,” Jessie drawls, with a Southern accent that oozes molasses-sweet.

Another woman clicks out of the Texaco in ridiculously spiky heels. She looks a lot like Jessie, only she has sleek, short black hair and dark eyes. Sisters, for sure. “Jessie, honey, I told you they wouldn't have any mentholated cigarettes here.”

Jessie sighs a puff of smoke. “Damn.”

Randall's eyebrows arch skyward. “You stopped for
cigarettes
?”

“You wouldn't understand,” Jessie says.

He mutters something under his breath that I can't hear through the window, then strides into the gas station. I hunch lower in my seat and yank my wrists against the handcuffs. Shit. I need to get them off, but I have no idea how.

I glance at my door, which has one of those push-
button locks. Jessie and Isabella still aren't looking my way—too busy talking to each other—so I twist in my seat, bite the push button, then yank it upright and unlocked. Yes! I twist the other way, so my handcuffed hands can reach the door handle, and grope to get it open. With a loud clunk and rusty squeal of hinges, the door swings open. I tumble onto the ground.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream. Time to get the hell out of here.

Before those two werebitches can even glance over at me, I'm lurching to my feet and sprinting for the trees, head down, breathing hard. I'm halfway across the highway when I hear a laugh. I don't look back. Only when my feet hit the pine needles do I risk a glance over my shoulder, ready to fight that black wolf who—

Jessie and Isabella stand by the Texaco. Smoke ribbons drift from their cigarettes.

What the fuck? I keep running, but can't stop looking at them. A root catches my foot. I stumble and hit the dirt. Air knocked from my lungs, I cough, spitting pine needles. I try to get up but fall again, bruising my ribs. When I look back at the Texaco, both of the werebitches are gone. Shit. They were waiting for me to fall.

“Pity Winema won't let us kill him,” Jessie says, her voice much closer now.

Isabella laughs. “You're going to scare that poor bloodborn shitless.”

I roll onto my side and stare at the trees. Pine branches wave gently in the breeze, masking the monsters behind them. Cigarette smoke prickles my nose. I wriggle on the dirt, trying to haul my ass up, as helpless as a worm.

Jessie runs between the trees, her eyes glowing. She sighs a cloud of smoke, then flicks her cigarette butt onto the ground and grinds it beneath her sandaled foot. Her toenails have sharpened into black claws.

“Bloodborn,” she says, “you were safer with your sire.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl.

Isabella appears from the shadows, her hair less sleek and more like a pelt now. “Randall. He's your sire. You have a lot to learn, honey.”

Jessie curls her lip. “Learn? We sure as hell need to teach him a thing or two.”

“You're going to regret that, bitch,” I say, still trying to get on my feet.

Isabella laughs. “Silly thing. Play nice, bloodborn, and we might help you.”

“My name is Brock.”

Jessie paces around me, her eyes burning, her fingers tipped with claws. “Brock.” She spits the word. “You shouldn't even be alive.”

“Fuck you,” I say.

“We don't have to help him,” Jessie says, flashing a glance at the other woman. “We can just tell Winema he got lost, and—”

“And?” Isabella narrows her eyes. “We were all bloodborn, in the beginning.”

Jessie growls, her arms and legs shadowed by the start of a pelt. “But not this stupid.”

My heartbeat thuds inside my ears. This is going to be two werewolves against one human who was never very badass to begin with. Oh yeah, and I still have no fucking clue how to get these handcuffs off.

“Really, honey,” drawls Isabella. “We all remember the time you tore up that trucker. Lord, that was a lot of blood.”

“That was different,” Jessie says. “He was—”

“Isabella! Jessie!” Randall jogs into the clearing. “What the—”

“Your dog got lost.” Jessie's lips thin into a smile.

Now that Randall's back, at least I don't have to face the werebitches alone. Even if he is giving me the kind of glare that can melt steel.

“Get the hell out of here,” he says. “The cops are right on our tail.”

Jessie rolls her yellow eyes. “They're always right on our tail.”

“Grady reported a patrol car less than ten minutes away.”

That wilts the smirk on Jessie's face. “Shit,” she whispers.

The two women sprint toward the Texaco, amazingly fast in their high heels. Randall grabs my leash and yanks me to my knees. The collar tightens, choking me, and I gasp, staggering to my feet to stop the pressure.

“Where's Cyn?” I rasp.

“Safer than we are right now. Move!”

By the time we make it back to the truck, it's too late. A state patrol cruiser idles outside the Texaco, and I can see someone talking to the clerk inside. Randall swears under his breath and shoves me into the truck, shutting the door so that it doesn't slam. He glances at Isabella and Jessie. Both women stand taut and ready to run.

“We'll take care of him,” Isabella murmurs.

Jessie rummages in a tiny purse and flips open a compact mirror to check her makeup. She slides a fresh stain of blood-red lipstick over her lips. Isabella smoothes her hair, and I can see her face hardening into a calm mask.

“You sure … ?” Randall says.

Isabella nods. “Take the bloodborn and get out of here.”

Randall walks back to the truck and opens the door, just as the cop exits the Texaco. It isn't Sheriff Royle or Deputy Collins—it isn't even a him. Isabella and Jessie share a glance, and I can see the
oh, shit
pass between them.

I almost laugh. No way in hell are they going to flirt their way out of this one.

The state patrol officer—a middle-aged, iron-haired lady—zeros in on Randall. I'll bet he's got the longest criminal record of all three werewolves. She starts advancing on him, but Isabella flutters into her path like a butterfly.

“Excuse me, ma'am!” Isabella says. “You're just the person I was looking for.”

Jessie smiles shyly. “We're a little bit lost, officer.”

Distracted, the officer's stare moves away from Randall. “I'm sorry?”

Now's my chance. “Hey!” I shout. “Police lady!”

The officer glances at me. Can't she see the dog collar around my neck? Or does she think it's some sort of punk thing?

“Don't mind him,” Isabella says. “He's a little … disabled. Mentally.”

Hands cuffed behind my back, I lurch against the window. “Fuck!”

“Tourette's,” Jessie says.

Randall strolls around to the driver's side of the truck, his steps carefully casual. He climbs in, shuts the door, and buckles up.

Barely moving his lips, he murmurs, “If you fuck this up, you're as good as dead.”

The officer glances at me again, flips out a notepad, and scribbles something. “All right. You said you were lost?”

Isabella purses her lips. “We're trying to find our way to—what was it called, again?”

“Wallace Falls?” Jessie says.

“Wallace Falls.” The officer's forehead creases. She flips out a notepad from her shirt pocket. “Your names, please?”

“My name's June,” Isabella says, “and this is my sister, Eve.”

“Last names?”

“Montgomery. With two O's. Officer … what was your name?”

Randall twists the key in the ignition. The truck sputters but doesn't start. He keeps glancing at the officer without moving his head. I hunker in my seat, my armpits wet with sweat. Think. There has to be some way to escape.

“I'm Officer Downing,” says the cop. “Have you seen anything unusual in the area?”

“Unusual?” Jessie's eyes round, oh so innocent. “What do you mean?”

Randall twists the key again. The engine hiccups, then rumbles to life. He shifts into drive and pulls away from the pump. Officer Downing takes a step toward us, looking right between Isabella and Jessie, but they block her way. Randall pulls onto the highway and revs up to cruising speed.

No shouts. No flashing lights. The patrol officer lets us go.

Aren't the werewolves fugitives wanted for attempted murder, mauling, firearms violations, and a shitload of other crimes?

“Jesus,” I mutter. “I don't fucking believe it.”

Randall grins at me, his teeth too sharp. “This answer your question about how we've been able to stay alive for so long?”

“What about our plates?”

“Plates?”

“Our license plates. Don't they have them on record?”

“We change them every few states or so. Isn't easy, but Winema knows some faeries who can glamour them to look different.”

I shake my head. “Haven't the police caught on?”

“Faeries won't talk.”

I heave a growling sigh, my body trembling as the tightness in my muscles relaxes.

“For future reference,” Randall says, “if you try to pull another stunt like you did back there, I'm not going to save your ass from Jessie.”

“I don't need it.”

His eyes go cold. “She would've killed you weeks ago if you weren't my bloodborn.”

“
Your
bloodborn?” I grimace. “That makes it sound like we're related.”

He laughs, a humorless bark. “We are.”

We drive a good ten to twenty miles per hour over the speed limit, depending on how deserted the road is, and cruise out of the Mountain Loop Highway within an hour or so. Spiky pines give way to flat, muddy farmland carpeted with the stubble of old corn. Puddles in the furrows flash silver as we pass, mirroring the clouds above. A string of trumpeter swans hunts for leftover grains, just like in Klikamuks.

Chris is dead.

Randomly, the thought rides in on an unwanted wave of sadness. I take a deep breath and shove it away, but my throat still aches.

“We're making good time,” Randall says.

“For what?” I mutter.

Randall doesn't say any
more, and I don't bother asking again. Clouds smother the sun, and then darkness smothers the last bit of light. We zoom through towns: Sultan, Goldbar, Index. Highway signs blur to
gether. I start to wonder whether we're driving in an endless loop on the same damn roads past the same damn trees. Unless you count being knocked out last night, I haven't slept in forever. I feel like cement is being pumped into my veins, starting at my fingertips, oozing into my arms and legs, dragging my eyelids down. I bite the inside of my cheek and dig my fingernails into my hands, but it's so hard to stay awake.

I want to sleep … but I can't … sleep, can't … sleep …

My eyelids jerk open when the truck rolls to a stop. Randall yanks the parking break, then hops out. I squint at the glare of the headlights. Is that a picnic table? What the hell? Randall opens my door and I'm dunked in icy air.

“Awake?” he says.

Teeth chattering, I nod. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Get out.”

I step onto numb legs and fall to my knees. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Where we're sleeping for the night.”

I scrape together the energy to glare at him, then stagger to my feet. It looks like we're at a campground, if it can even be called that. Just a picnic table on some packed dirt, a fire pit full of leaves, and the sound of rushing water in the distance. No lights anywhere. No sign of life. We're alone in the black forest.

I frown, my thoughts still slow. “Why didn't we just pull off on some logging road?”