Linger by Maggie Stiefvater Page A

Beck’s.
    Pulling into the empty driveway, I climbed out of the car and took a deep breath. The woods here smelled different than the woods behind Grace’s did — here, the air was filled with the sharp, wintergreen scent of the birches and the complex smell of wet earth near the lake. I could pick out the scent of the pack, too, musky and pungent.
    Habit led me to the back door, the fresh snow squeaking beneath my boots, clumping at the cuff of my jeans. I dragged my fingertips through the snow on top of the bushes that grew against the house, as I walked around back and waited again for the surge of nausea that meant I was about to change. But it didn’t come.
    Beside the back door, I hesitated, looking out over the snowy backyard and into the woods. I had a thousand memories that lived in the span of ground stretching from the door to the woods.
    Turning back to the door, I realized that it was not quite ajar, but not quite shut, either, pressed in just far enough to keep it from coming open with the intermittent wind. I looked down to the doorknob and saw a smear of red on it. One of the other wolves, shifting very, very early — it had to be. Only one of the new wolves could possibly become human this early, and even they couldn’t realistically hope to keep that form while ice-slicked snow crusted the ground.
    Pushing open the door, I called, “Hello?” There was rustling from the kitchen. Something about the way it sounded, scraping and scuffling across the tile, made me uneasy. I tried to think of something to say that would sound reassuring to a wolf but not sound insane to a human. “Whoever it is, I belong here.”
    I rounded the corner into the dim kitchen, then stopped short by the edge of the center island when I smelled the earthy reek of lake water. Reaching across the counter to flick on the light, I asked, “Who’s there?”
    I saw a foot — human, bare, dirty — jutting from behind the island, and when it jerked, I did, too, startled. Coming around the island, I saw a guy curled on his side, shaking hard. His dark brown hair was spiked with dried mud, and on his outstretched arms, I saw a dozen little wounds, evidence of an unprotected trip through the woods. He stank of wolf.
    Logically, I knew he had to be one of Beck’s new wolves from the year before. But I felt a weird prickle go through me when I thought about Beck handpicking him, when I realized that this was a brand-new member of the pack, the first one in a long time.
    He turned his face to me, and though he had to have been in pain — I remembered that pain — his expression was quite composed. And familiar. Something about the brutal line of his cheekbones down to his jaw and the narrow shape of his brilliant green eyes was irritatingly familiar, attached to a name just on the edge of my consciousness. In more ordinary circumstances, I would’ve known it, I thought, but right then, it just tickled somewhere in the back of my head.
    â€œI’m going to change back now, aren’t I?” he said, and I was a bit taken aback by his voice — not just by the timbre, which was rather gravelly, and older than I had expected — but also by the tone. Completely level, despite the shudder of his shoulders and the darkening of his nails.
    I knelt beside his head, trying out the words in my mouth, feeling like a kid wearing his father’s clothing. Any other year, and it would’ve been Beck explaining this to a new wolf, not me. “Yeah, you are. It’s too cold still. Look — next time you shift, find the shed in the woods —”
    â€œI saw it,” he said, his voice slipping more to a growl.
    â€œIt’s got a space heater in there and some food and clothing. Try the box that says SAM or the one that says ULRIK — something in there ought to fit.” In truth, though, I didn’t know if they would or not. The guy had broad